#a ship you were supposed to like but then abandon halfway through | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thesugarclubs-blog · 8 months

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Sunrises - Nikolai Lanstov x OC

warnings: Sturmhond Nikolai, post season 2, sweet, soft fluffy Nik, new Grisha OC

word count: 7.5k

WP: https://www.wattpad.com/1382079816-sunrises-zrina

Masterlist

Zrina stared up at the imposing ship and swallowed thickly past the knot of nerves lodged in her throat. Her excitement at being chosen for this commission had soon faded to a nervous dread at the enormity of her task. It was only thoughts of her parents that finally encouraged her to set a foot on the wooden ramp that led up to the deck. She hoped they’d have been proud.

The Volkvolny was a mighty vessel and Zrina shook herself once more at the realisation that not only had she been chosen for Sturmhond’s fleet, but that she was on his flagship, her, a brand new squaller with barely a week of experience driving a wind through a sail. No, she thought to herself, you can do this! A stern voice brought her back out of her thoughts and she hitched her large bag up onto her shoulder as she turned to see who had spoken.

“You’re late,” the Grisha huffed once more, rolling his eyes in disparagement.

“I…I’m sorry,” Zrina stammered, feeling her cheeks flush. “There was a queue at the entrance to the docks and…”

The Grisha cut off her explanation with a wave of his hand and jerked his head towards the other end of the ship.

“Your bunk’s that way. Stow your gear and then come to the foredeck. Be quick though, you don’t want to keep Sturmhond waiting. Again.”

Below deck men, women and Grisha moved around stowing their belongings and readying for departure. Zrina had never been on a ship of this size and she wasn’t sure she even belonged now, gripping tightly to her pack, huddled deep into the collar of her kefta. She studied the other squallers, moving toward where they had formed a corner of bunks and set her belongings on the floor near the wall, earning a few dirty looks from who were supposed to be her peers and friends.

“Did you finally figure out how to use your wind, otkazat'sya?” One of them sneered, pushing past her one by one they slammed into her shoulders to remind her of her place.

Orphan. They had started calling her that at school, when her powers seemed fizzle and crack. She was a Grisha, born from two powerful squallers and placed on a pedestal she would never belong on. But she had not been abandoned, or refused like the other squallers seemed to believe. The power was there, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was her fear.

“You look as though you might be sick,” a voice called out as soon as the hull emptied.

Zrina spun to follow the sound only to find a lanky body resting haphazardly in one of the dirty canvas hammocks, a hat pulled down over their face.

“I will be fine, thank you.” She spoke, pinning her shoulders back she attempted to push away the nausea that churned in her stomach. There were a thousand ship hands like this one, mean and abrasive to newcomers. He was probably drunk on last night's whiskey and had just been looking for a quiet place to nap.

“There is candied ginger in the barrel behind you, place a piece between your teeth.” He said.

Zrina turned to look at the small barrel, perched atop a pile of others and popped the lid to find a stock of sticky, amber candy that smelled spicy but instantly quelled the rolling waves in the pit of her stomach. She grabbed a few, tucking them into her handkerchief and into her pocket before turning back to thank the man only to find him halfway up the stairs.

“You better hurry, the Kapitan is coming.”

Sturmhond.

She watched as the helpful, slightly irritating deck hand stripped from his dusty moth eaten jacket and hat, parading into the sunlight. The tight brown suspenders dug into his shoulder blades and rumpled the white tunic that was tucked into his trousers as he spun to stand next to Tolya and Tamar. The most famous Shu twins in Grisha legend. Zrina could barely believe she was sharing a deck with them, let alone the sky.

She found an open spot towards the center of the deck and walked towards it. She stood tall, chin up, shoulders pinned back as her mother would always tell her to do. No matter how in awe she was that she was in fact part of something this magnificent. No matter how hard her heart was beating in her ears, and Saints now it was looking for a way straight out of her chest. She stood tall. Like she belonged wherever she was, because she did.

As she fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve in an effort to focus on something other than the nerves going haywire in her body, a ruckus of boots stomping and whistles from the crew broke her way sending the focus of her vision forward where she was met with a pair of curious, iridescent eyes looking back.

It’s him.

At the ship’s bridge stood the illustrious Sturmhond. A tall man whose broad shoulders were squared in a commanding presence but his face held an entirely different air. Not that it commanded any less attention but he had a calm, almost serene look in his blue eyes and a satisfied smile accompanying it. She took a deep breath as he held Zrina’s gaze softly almost like he was studying her.

After lingering on her eyes for a while, his eyes, which were the same color of the water surrounding them, wandered further down until halting on the muted cherry color of her lips.

"Tell me, fair one, what is your name?" His voice carried through the winds as he addressed her.

"Z-zrina, K-apitan." The tremble in her voice broke the words apart as it wreaked over the rest of her body with a visible shiver that didn't go unnoticed. A small semblance of a smile formed on his lips.

"Kapitan Nikolai Lantsov." His arm stretched out and moved with fluid motion as a sign of welcome.

“Zrina’s our new squaller, Kapitan,” the snarky grisha from before interjected.

“Thank you Delyan, but I’m sure she’s more than capable of speaking for herself,” the Kapitan smirked, throwing a wink towards Zrina.

She nodded and kept her tall stance but inside, Zrina’s stomach roiled and she wished she could sneak another piece of ginger.

“We weigh anchor in ten minutes,” Kapitan Lantsov commanded and then fixed his intense gaze on Zrina. “Our new squaller can take us up.”

As he turned and stalked off towards the stern Zrina stared numbly at the platform where the squallers stood when steering the ship. She could do this, at least, that’s what she tried to convince herself.

Ten minutes seemed like no time at all before Zrina found herself standing on the wooden platform fighting the urge to pick at the cuffs of her kefta. She felt as if every single pair of eyes on the entire ship were upon her and she clenched her toes in her boots in an attempt to stop her knees from trembling.

She caught the piercing gaze of the Kapitan, who nodded once, and so she raised her hands and opened her palms. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, raising her palms higher. At the sound of whispers and even a few titters she opened her eyes again. The ship hadn’t moved.

“Saints,” she swore under her breath, her eyes dropping from the limp sails to the toes of her boots as she wiggled out the tension in her fingers before taking one more deep breath and readying her hands again.

When she looked up her eyes connected with his but this time she didn’t close them, instead she let herself get lost there. The blue in his eyes reminded her of the open sky on her face, swirling and brushing around her like she was a bird in the clouds.

Just as the wind tickled her fingertips and rushed through her kefta whispers of mockery floated around her, “razrusha’ya,” they said. And maybe they were right, maybe she was ruined. She couldn’t even lift a sail, she could barely muster enough wind to ruffle her hair.

“If you can’t do it, otkazat'sya, get down and let a real Grisha try,” Jadran hissed from his station below her, his dark brown eyes looked at her with disgust until Toyla spun, accidentally, slapping the Grisha in the back of the head with the hilt of his sword. The commotion giving Zrina enough time to climb down from her post and offer it up to the next willing.

She stared down at her hands with tears in her eyes, “why don’t you work?” She breathed out the words in a feeble attempt to stay quiet and calm.

She could feel the stare of Korol Rezni on her as the ship raised through the air and joined the clouds. He watched her carefully as she moved around the ship, helping with tasks and struggling to fit in. Lanstov studied her with knitted brows and a tender smirk as she got down on her knees to help scrub the deck.

All the while Zrina waited for him to throw her overboard for being useless. What good was a squaller who couldn’t summon the wind?

She tried so hard but his presence, although not menacing, intimidated her.

"Zrina." She heard him call. Her back stiffened as she got up from her knees to address him.

"I think we start you slow so you can learn the ropes. Finish the deck, get you some food and once the sun sets, the night shift awaits you." that playful, boyish smile returned to his lips as his eyes lingered on her face a little while longer.

She didn't quite understand the softness he presented to her but she would be lying if it didn’t make her a little glad that she is getting to stay on the ship.

Zrina pressed her lips into a thin line, and nodded once, “Thank you, Kapitan.” She kept her eyes on him as she took two steps backwards before turning on her heel and heading over to help with ensuring everything on deck was secure.

She was in a battle with herself in her head, cursing her abilities for proving the other grisha right about her. Embarrassment at how she looked in front of the crew and her new Kapitan. The bustling bodies around her as everyone worked didn’t phase her in the slightest. All she could focus on was the fact that night would come soon enough, and then it was all up to her.

With an exasperated grunt, Zrina tied a tight knot in the last lifeline, tugging tightly and subconsciously taking out some of her anger. The words of the other Grisha danced through her head and it wasn’t until a heavy chuckle came from beside her that her eyes finally looked up from where she was working. “What did that rope ever do to you?” Tolya teased, crossing his arms over his chest with a playful smirk on his lips.

Zrina cleared her throat and shook her head, “I - I was just making sure it was secure,”

“Don’t let them get to you,” Tamar chimed in, hopping up on a barrel and rolling her eyes, “Some crew members like to forget that they were new to this too at one point.”

Zrina felt a little of the tension drain from her shoulders and she let out a sigh. They were right, she knew that, but hearing those words that she’d heard all her life thrown at her in such an important moment had shaken her badly.

“Look, you interviewed for this commission, right?” Tamar asked and Zrina nodded her head in confirmation. “Exactly, so you were chosen out of all the others who interviewed too. You’ve got something that they didn’t have and I think you’re right where you’re meant to be.”

Zrina felt the smile that twitched at the corners of her mouth and Tolya didn’t miss it either.

“Is that…is that a smile I see?” He teased, making Zrina chuckle. “There she is. Look, new girl, you’re on the night shift so take that as a grand opportunity. There’ll be practically no-one around so you can practice to your heart’s content, build your confidence. You’ll be back on the day before you know it. Might even be given your own ship.”

He nudged her shoulder with a twinkle in his eye and Zrina managed a laugh.

“That’s the spirit,” Tamar joined in, “and if anyone says anything else just remember you have as much right to be here as they do.”

Tamar slipped back off the barrel and clapped Zrina on the back before turning with Tolya and the pair of them sauntered off to the aft of the ship, leaving her alone with her thoughts once more.

After a meal of biscuits and stew, Zrina returned to her bunk and tried to rest before dark but sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned, her anxiety rising yet again, and she found herself staving off tears more than once. She was almost relieved when darkness finally fell and so she slipped from her bunk, refilled her stash of ginger pieces, and headed up on deck.

“Don’t ground us, otkazat'sya,” Delyan hissed as she stepped up to take his place on the platform.

Zrina threw him a blank look but it was hidden in the dim light from the few lanterns scattered about. The deck was blissfully quiet, although she knew there must be lookouts aloft, and she waited until Delyan was below deck before she raised her palms and felt for the wind.

It came easily this time, that tingling rush of power, and a breeze whipped around the bottom of her kefta. Zrina raised her face to the sky, beaming in relief and she twirled on the spot, laughing breathlessly as her wind played through her long dark waves, lifting the strands in a chestnut halo around her head.

Someone clapped softly from behind her, “marvelous.”

The Kapitan stepped forward into the long wispy strands of the moonlight, his eyes turned up toward the billowing sails in awe. “I knew you had it in you.” He said.

“Thank you sir,” Zrina nodded, all of the confidence rushing from her the moment his glassy eyes flickered down to her.

“Ah,” he huffed with a nod. The corner of his lips curling to the side, “under the scorching heat of the sun I am Kapitan, King, Sturmhond, handsome, daring, brave,” he laughed into the empty night sky with a smile on his face that warmed her cheeks. “But here with only the stars as my audience, I am simply Nikolai for they do not care that I am handsome and charming.” Zrina nodded uncomfortably with the idea of not addressing him by his title. “I must apologize for this morning, I suppose the nerves took hold of me.” She said, still concentrating on her fingers and how the power vibrated through them, calling to the wind so naturally.

“I would like a word with whoever taught you that you are less than magical,” his smile fell but his eyes reflected the constellations back at her. He stripped from his jacket, letting the cool air nip at the bare skin that lay beneath his loose white shirt as he walked toward her. He carried the air of a Saint, suffocatingly impressive but all the while, still just a man in awe of science and magic. “I have always been jealous of Grisha.”

“You, jealous?” Zrina scoffed before she could stop herself from being so impolite to her King, her Kapitan.

“Such an undesirable trait, I am aware.” He rolled up the sleeves of his billowy shirt and put his hands on his hips, staring at the sails again. “I used to stand on the balcony that overlooked parts of the little palace, sneaking away from my studies,” he looked at her over his shoulder. “I stood there until my tutors caught me, waving my hands around like a fool trying to learn the magic that could not be taught.”

"On this ship, your magic is a blessing. I won't tolerate anyone that tells you otherwise, Zrina." Nikolai took a few sure steps towards her, the heat in her cheeks coloring them in a rosy tint.

Even under the few stars and the moon shining onto them he noticed the way she reacted to his compliments.

"Look at that, I like that beautiful blush on your skin, milaya."

Zrina felt the heat spread through her body, failing to distinguish if this was her being intimidated by his presence or something else entirely. Something she never felt before.

She felt the wind drop a little and shook herself, reaffirming her grip on her power despite the Kapitan’s distracting presence.

“Sorry,” she grimaced, knowing he’d noticed the change in their flight.

“No apologies necessary,” he smiled warmly. “We’re in no rush to get to our destination, and night flying is designed to be a little less…taxing.”

He reached upwards, rolling his shoulders and stretching out his neck before doing the last thing that Zrina would ever have imagined. With a boyish twinkle in his eye he plopped himself down on the edge of the platform and leaned back on his hands with a satisfied sigh.

“You don’t mind if I stay here for a while do you?” He asked, tilting his head back to look up at her. “It’s a nice night but I don’t want to disturb your work.”

“I…I mean…” Zrina flushed as she fumbled for words. “It’s your ship Kapitan. You may do as you wish.”

Nikolai raised his eyebrow and his lip quirked up in a cheeky smirk.

“No!” Zrina answered quickly. “No, I do not mind.”

With an amused hum, Nikolai turned his attention back to the skies, kicking his legs like a satisfied child as he sat on the edge of the platform.

They stayed in silence like that for a while and slowly Zrina grew used to his presence. The slight shuffling noises and quiet sighs he let out became a comfort to her as she worked, although it no longer felt like work to command the wind to propel the ship. It was there in her mind, as if it always had been, and she found she no longer had to concentrate on that one task. As her mind began to wander she maintained that hold on her power and the ship continued to fly ever onwards.

“Ahem,” Nikolai cleared his throat in an unsubtle way of getting her attention and Zrina barely hid her smile.

“Yes Kapitan?”

“Are you due for a break? From the passage of the stars across the skies I am sure that you have worked long enough for a respite.”

“Perhaps,” Zrina replied. “But I’m trying to make a good impression.”

“Shut up and sit down here,” he laughed, patting the platform next to him.

She smiled fully then and when he saw it his face lit up with joy. Zrina clambered down and perched next to him, her hands in her lap and her crossed ankles swinging gently. Nikolai turned and sucked in a breath as if to speak but then paused. Tilting his head to the side he stared at her curiously, and then up at the sails that were still full of wind.

“The ship’s still flying,” he observed.

“Yes.”

“But you’re sat here.”

“You noticed that hmm?” She teased a little.

“Clever little squaller,” Nikolai said with amazement. “I knew there was something different about you.”

Zrina giggled, and turned her gaze up to the sky with a wide smile on her face. It was still a little surreal to her that she was actually on this ship as one of the main squallers, and now in charge of flying them through the stars. It was something her little self had only dreamt of when she started training. The words of the other crew members drifted from her mind as she let herself take in this moment and enjoy the view before them. She sighed happily and shook her head once, “Saints, it is beautiful isn’t it? I mean, I’m sure you’re used to it by now but -”

“Believe me, I can still be amazed by beauty,” Nikolai replied, quieter than she was expecting. Turning her head, she caught his blue eyes glancing over her with a soft smile tugging at his lips. A swarm of butterflies fluttered deep in her stomach as a blush took over her cheeks. Zrina thanked the Saints that it was dark enough and hoped he couldn’t see how his words had gotten to her. She felt a little embarrassed assuming it was her that he was talking about, but the slight twinkle in his gaze held her there in hope for a moment before she looked back down to her hands in her lap. “I’m sure you can, Kapitan,” Zrina finally replied, smiling over to him, “Can I ask you a question?” Nikolai hummed, looking out onto the deck as a playful look took over his face, “I suppose so,” he teased.

"What was your first journey like?" Her words came out with a little stutter as the reaction he evoked in her body was distracting her train of thought.

"It was terrible. Let's just say I had a similar experience to you. As a Kapitan you have so much responsibility and I wanted to prove myself to this crew. It got the best of me."

His voice got quieter towards the end, making Zrina search his eyes in the imminent darkness of the night.

"It's hard to believe with the ease that you command this ship, Kapitan Lantsov."

"Ahhh, milaya. Thank you for the sweet words."

He watched her for a second longer, surely observing the reaction his words caused in her and his face lit up, almost delighted to find that beautiful rosy color returning on her fair skin. It filled him with a sense of pride that he has the honor of watching this beautiful woman flustered with his words.

They must have sat there for an hour or more, each of them sharing stories with the other. Zrina had never felt more comfortable with someone and gradually the charming Kapitan broke down her defenses and she found herself sharing more of her childhood than she ever had before.

It was during a lull in their conversation that Zrina’s stomach let out a loud growl and Nikolai burst into peals of laughter at her flushed cheeks as she clutched an embarrassed hand over her abdomen.

“I see I am failing in my duties tonight,” he chuckled, “for I have allowed you to go hungry and the great Sturmhond has a reputation to uphold. He may be fearsome but he always makes sure his crew are fed, watered, and warm.”

Nikolai patted Zrina’s knee in a comradely gesture meant to comfort.

“Wait here but a moment.”

She watched curiously as he hopped off the platform and, with a wide grin over his shoulder, disappeared down one of the staircases that led off the poop deck. She heard a door close and then, not five minutes later, it opened again and a voice called up to her.

“Hie little squaller, I’ve secured us a feast!”

Zrina smiled and pulled her bottom lip through her teeth as she remembered what Nikolai had said about magic. With a deep breath and raised palms she searched for her power. Straight away she felt the draw on it from the wind in the sails but she ignored that part and focused on a single tendril which she encouraged to grow stronger and thicker, forming a net of air. In her mind’s eye she envisioned the net being cast and wrapping around the Kapitan, who was now setting foot on the stairs back up to the poop deck. She wrapped that net around him tightly and tugged, so hard that he lost his grip on the railing.

She laughed out loud at the very un-royal squawk that left Nikolai’s lips as he found himself being raised off the ground supported by a cushion of air. His consternation did not last long however, for he caught sight of Zrina and knew it was her doing. To her surprise and delight the dreaded Sturmhond spread his arms wide and leaned back into her net, trusting completely that she would not let him fall.

Something twisted then, inside her heart, and she lifted him further, bringing him level with the deck. She bounced him a few times and the giggles that left his mouth sounded so innocent and fun-filled that she could not help laughing alongside him. When his boots finally found the deck she was met with the biggest smile she had ever seen.

“That was incredible,” he looked around in awe. “And it just comes from you,” he rushed to her, cupping her face in his hands, “do you understand how incredible you are?”

Zrina swallowed tightly her only thoughts on how close Nikolai’s face was to hers and how his fingers felt against her skin. Being incredible was the last thing on her mind as the smell of sweat and cinnamon filled her nose.

“I apologize,” he whispered, his mouth so close to her face that she could feel his sweet breath on her bottom lip. “Toyla tells me regularly that I am too much for the common person to handle and I fear that I have overstepped by touching you.” He peeled his fingers away.

“Tell me then how can I be incredible and common?” She teased staring up at him as he straightened his posture.

“Perhaps not so common then,” he brushed a piece of her hair behind her ear and collected the food that he had dropped. He piled the bread and fruit between them, showing it off with the utmost of pride.

“Apples,” she gasped, grabbing the red fruit and bringing it to her nose to smell it.

Nikolai watched her, his blue eyes growing big with happiness as she savored the fruit, “had I expected this reaction to an apple I would have brought the barrel up.”

“I believe it would have gained you points on being the most thoughtful Kapitan,” she said shyly.

Zrina took a bite out of the fresh apple, some of the juice escaping down her mouth. Nikolai stepped closer and slid his thumb over her chin picking up the remaining apple juice, “I am not just Kapitan to you, milaya. Or, at least, that’s not what I want to be.”

She stared at him, looking a bit confused, “Then what are you, if not that?”

Nikolai shrugged and continued to move his thumb in a lazy circular motion. Gazing into her eyes he said, “That remains to be seen, little squaller.” He said, with a small smile and a knowing glint in his eyes, as if he knew something she was not aware of.

Zrina wasn’t expecting the sweet gesture, so instead of reacting like any normal person she startled and let the control of her magic slip. Suddenly Nikolai is knocked down and she is standing there, not knowing if she should laugh or apologize. She didn’t anticipate her magic reacting that way. Usually, her magic doesn’t react at all when she is presented with situations where she can get easily flustered or anxious.

As she was debating what to do and what to say, she heard Nikolai say, “I see I overstepped once again,” laughing as if she didn’t just knock him down unintentionally, that is.

“Saints! I didn’t mean to do that,” she said with a giggle while trying to help him get up.

“Intentionally or not, it was rather funny. I don’t get many opportunities to laugh and be carefree anymore,” he said with a far away look in his eyes. In that moment she wondered what made him think that he can’t laugh or feel joy, when everyone should have that in their lives.

“Well, I hope to be bearer of more joyful moments lapushka Nikolai,” her last words came out but a whisper and she swallowed thickly, hoping she was not overstepping at the use of them towards the King of Ravka, “if you so wish, of course.” Zrina let her gaze fall to the wooden deck below them unwilling to hold his gaze out of fear of what his answer might be, whether it be a positive response or a negative one because she truly didn’t know how she would handle either.

She once more felt the tingle of his skin pressed against hers as he tucked his forefinger under her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his. His blue eyes shone brightly under the moonlight more than the stars themselves, a content look in his eyes as he smiled tenderly. “Moya milaya, I think you know the answer to that. I can only beg the Saints to let me have as many as I can, for as long as you’ll allow me.” His voice drew goose bumps all over her body and his honest admission flowed like molten heat, setting her ablaze from the inside. Her breath hitched and a small whimper whispered into the dark sky peppered with a million and one stars as he lifted his other hand to carefully move the loose strand of hair from her usual tidily made braid and tucked it behind her ear so delicately, like she was made of the most precious material he ever seen.

“What is happening here?” She whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

“Something that I hope will continue,” Nikolai whispered back, a soft smile on his lips.

A light breeze picked up and swirled gently around them, lifting up more tendrils of Zrina’s hair, which Nikolai tried to tame as he had the first. His efforts were in vain though, for the more he tried, the more strands the breeze took hold of.

“Milaya I think that is all you,” he chuckled.

“Sorry,” Zrina replied lowering her gaze as a bashful flush painted her cheeks.

“There is no need for apologies,” he countered, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his chest. “The fact that you can do that at all is a marvel and I feel blessed that I am that much of a distraction to you,” he chuckled quietly.

To Zrina’s surprise she felt him press a gentle kiss against her hair and warmth blossomed within her chest. Again a warm breeze brushed through their coats and caused Zrina to shrink within the warm fur collar. Nikolai turned a set of bright blue eyes on her, his smirk producing the most devilish of dimples.

“You are like the mood rings they sell at the market, the wind changes with your smile.” He brushed the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip and it made every muscle in her body warm. “Curious,” he laughed leaning forward.

“Don’t keep secrets,” Zrina was brave enough to chirp.

“I just wonder how the wind would react,” he brushed his nose against hers and his breath fanned over her upper lip. “Zrina, would you be greatly opposed to a kiss because knowing how you react when I do feels pivotal to our adventure and of course for science.” He added like it might quell the nervous fireworks that seemed to fire off in her chest.

“For the science,” she mumbled as he brought his lips closer.

Nikolai wasted not a second for her to change her mind before he cupped her face in his large hand and pulled her chin to meet him. Their lips slotted together with delicate care as his fingers tangled into her wild hair and the wind pushed them up from the bench they were seated on. Nikolai giggled against her mouth as he deepened the kiss, needy for more as she let herself feel every spark of excitement he created.

“I very much like science Nikolai,” Zrina giggled as he reluctantly pulled away.

“Perhaps as much as I like your lips,” he stole another kiss and Zrina leaned into him as he pulled back. “Would you mind?” he laughed, looking nervously to the deck they floated above.

“Oh!” Zrina looked around them and noticed that they were in fact floating and it wasn’t just her imagination. “If this happened because of a single kiss, I wonder what would happen if it’s more than that,” she said with a nervous laugh. Her abilities were acting strange. She didn’t remember the wind being this powerful. Interesting development, indeed.

“Let’s see if I can bring us down,” she mumbled while trying to concentrate on not just snuffing out her wind all together and making them fall.

“What do you mean?” Nikolai asked nervously.

“Well, I’ve never done this before and I need to concentrate on not letting us fall. It looks like it will hurt if I do,” Zrina was trying not to laugh at the situation they found themselves in.

Tilting his head, Nikolai smiled, "I trust you.''

Zrina closed her eyes, a small smile on her lips. Thoughts of her Kapitan’s kiss stained lips moved like a film through her mind; calming it and bringing her focus back to where it needed to be.

She took in a soft breath through her nose, holding it for a second before blowing it through her lips. Zrina could feel Nik’s eyes watching her as the two of them started descending back down to the wooden deck below. While the whole situation still kept the butterflies fluttering around in her belly, for some reason, with this version of him beside her, she felt like she could accomplish anything.

When they were safely back down on the deck, Zrina took in one more deep breath, focusing her wind back upwards into the sails with a satisfied grin tugging at her lips.

“That’s my girl,” Nikolai whispered from beside her, brushing his fingertips lightly across her cheek.

A soft chuckle escaped her, and Zrina leaned into his hand, bringing her eyes back to find his blue ones watching her carefully.

“Do you think if we tried that again you may be able to keep our feet on the deck?” He teased, the fingers of his other hand entwining with hers.

“Perhaps we should sit first,” she giggled, “just in case.”

They sank back to their previous perches on the edge of the platform although this time there was far less distance between them. Nikolai toyed with Zrina’s hand, turning it this way and that, gently twisting their fingers together before untangling them once more.

“Tell me, little squaller, what does it feel like to hold the power to command the air?” He said softly, his eyes still fixed on their joined hands.

Zrina thought for a moment before raising his hand to face her, steadying it with one hand whilst she scraped a fingernail heavily over his palm and fingers, tracing patterns. His fingers twitched and he instinctively tried to pull away but then settled, watching intently as she continued to draw shapes against his skin.

“Like that,” she said. “A tingle but more, it is an urge, a necessity. I could no more deny it than I could deny…the need to breathe!”

The sails on the ship billowed a little stronger in response to her words drawing both of their attention and Zrina chuckled sheepishly.

“Sorry.”

“That is something else you need to stop,” Nikolai said, retrieving his hand and nudging her shoulder. “There is no need for apologies on my ship.”

“Sor-“ she began but stopped herself at his raised eyebrow. “It is a hard habit to break.”

“Perhaps an incentive might work? For every hour you refrain from saying sorry you can have an extra apple in your rations.” He declared smugly.

“How about a kiss instead?” Zrina blurted before slapping her hand over her mouth and flushing as red as the apples she loved.

“Oh ho!” Nikolai laughed, his eyes twinkling with amused delight. “My bold little squaller. Those you can have for free.”

Her eyes fluttered as he brushed his nose against hers but instead of granting her another kiss, his teeth sunk into the flesh of her apple. She gasped, laughter trickling from her lips as he finally stole her breath and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to her mouth.

“You can have whatever you wish Zrina, just ask,” he said as he pulled away. His blue eyes were more serious than before. She felt the warmth from his words blossom in his chest but he still seemed so sad and she couldn’t help but wonder why.

“Did I do something wrong?” She asked.

“Of course not.” He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s just a feeling that plagues me in the quiet hours.”

“Is that why you are awake?”

“I hardly sleep anymore,” he answered, his brows kissing together. “The war is over,” he whispered to the clouds, “and yet-” he stopped again, choking on the words he meant to say out loud. “Zrina, is it silly to be more afraid of being King than I am fighting or flying?” He turned to her, the confident king gone from his gaze leaving behind the quiet, fearful puppy prince.

“Fear does not care if you are a king, Nikolai.” Zrina whispered, tangling her fingers into the loose opening of his tunic softly.

“Do not tell my advisors that,” he offered her a sad chuckle.

“You are already twice the man that the old king wished to be,” she said, “perhaps he was not afraid enough, too confident in his prejudice and laws. Perhaps what Ravka needs is a king afraid of failing, a king who walks with his fear instead of wielding it to harm others beneath him.”

He stared at her for a moment longer before the corner of his mouth upturned and the dimple returned to his cheek. She thought for a second she may have spoken too brazenly with her king but he leaned in, brushing his lips against hers and drew out a lazy kiss from her mouth as his hand slipped to rest around the base of her throat.

“Thank you,” he whispered in retreat.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Zrina shrugged, “It’s just words, but people often forget how powerful words can be. If I would have been surrounded by people that didn’t make me feel ashamed of feeling scared of doing something, I think I would’ve been a different person now,” Zrina knows how much the feeling of being afraid has influenced her life and knowing that someone so brilliant and strong as him is afraid of doing something makes her feel less alone.

“You speak as you know how it feels like. Tell me little squaller, what are you afraid of?” he asked bemused.

“Everyone is afraid of something, I guess,” she answered sleepily. The excitement of the day had finally got to her. “Don’t let people fool you into believing that they have it all figured it out when in reality they don’t,” Zrina was mumbling at this point. She didn’t even know if she was making sense or not.

“Fine way of not answering the question. Very well, I guess I’ll get that answer some other day,” he said chuckling.

A small smile tugged at her lips, “Do not worry, Kapitan. We will continue this conversation later… after some sleep. I can barely keep my thoughts straight.”

She started to get up, but he held onto her arm, stopping her. Zrina looked back at him, a question written on her face. “Would you stay here with me?”

“What? Sleep outside on the deck?” she asked, a little confused. “What if we get cold?”

Nikolai had a wicked glint in his eyes, “I can keep you warm.”

Zrina rolled her eyes and chuckled, “Be serious! I want to sleep.”

He continued looking at her, the playful glint in his eyes was now gone and replaced with a much softer gaze, “Yes, I want us to sleep on the deck. I want to show you something and I fear that if we go below deck, we might miss it.”

“What is it that you want to show me,” curiosity got the best of her.

“The reason why I like to stay up every night.”

“And what reason would be so important as to keep the great Sturmhond from his bed?” Zrina asked.

“Stay with me and find out,” he insisted as a charming smile bloomed across his face.

A fizz of nervous excitement grew in her belly as Zrina regarded the handsome Kapitan. She had overcome so many of her fears today that she may as well continue with another.

“Alright,” she murmured, nervously tucking her hands up into the sleeves of her kefta.

The beam of joy that came from Nikolai made her heart soar and she was utterly grateful for the courage she’d found that made her say yes. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into his chest as he settled them both against the side of the platform and then bent his head down to give her one more sweet kiss. She could feel his hum of delight as she nuzzled deeper against him. As their breathing grew deeper and more steady, just beginning to take on the rhythm of sleep she murmured against his chest.

“Everything.”

“Hmm?” he responded sleepily.

“I was afraid of everything,” she whispered, but there on the deck, as Nikolai tightened his arms reassuringly around her, Zrina found herself unable to be afraid of anything at all.

A flutter across her cheek and then the softest whisper against her lips pulled Zrina slowly from her slumber. Her mouth curved into a soft smile as her eyes opened and found herself staring into the ocean blue gaze of the Kapitan. He hooked a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to meet his lips, kissing her gently once, and then a second time before returning her smile with his own.

“Good morning, Milaya,” he rumbled, his voice hoarse from sleep.

“Is it?” Zrina asked, for the sky was still mostly dark.

“Almost,” he said, bumping his nose against hers and chuckling low in his throat. “I would like to share this moment with you, if I can.”

Unwrapping his arms from around her he rose to his feet and held out his hand. She took it gladly, allowing him to pull her up and lead her over to the starboard rail. He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her once more as they took in the sky that began to lighten in the east.

“Watch this,” he murmured in her ear before resting his head against hers.

Zrina placed her hands atop his, lacing their fingers together as the sky began to grow brighter along the horizon. The scattering of clouds below them remained dark islands in a midnight sea and then suddenly there was a blinding flash of brilliant white as the sun made its first appearance of the brand new day. The sky flowed rapidly into an ombre of blues, whilst the clouds began to glow orange and the world below looked as if it were on fire.

Zrina could not stop the tears that tracked down her cheeks at the sheer beauty of it all. She tightened her grip on Nickolai’s hands, fearful that she may get swept away by the intensity of her emotions.

“Nikolai,” she gasped in awe, unable to articulate the experience.

“I know, Milaya, I know,” he crooned in her ear, fully remembering how it felt to see this wonder for the first time.

Zrina turned slightly, her eyes darting between his face and the wondrous sunrise. He was bathed in a golden hue, looking every inch the king that he was, but the smile he wore was just for her. He raised his hand to her face and brushed away a tear gently with his thumb and she tilted her face up to him, going up onto her toes to press her lips against his. He tasted of sunshine, and new beginnings. “I have never shared this wonder with anyone before,” he murmured when Zrina finally pulled away, “but I would share each and every other sunrise with you, Zrina.”

“It would be my honor, Nikolai,” she whispered back and he pressed another kiss to her lips before they turned once again to face the growing daylight together.

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badlydrawntransformers · 2 years

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*cocks gun* Ship’s Haunted

Duuuuuuude okay so my friend @cuppajj has an AU where the Lost Light is a titan and the Shattered Glass version has sparked so much horror art and writing it’s great and I love it here’s my attempt at horror I hope you guys like it this isn’t my forte whatsoever

Ever since the Great Cybertronian War came to an end, there’d been no shortage of ghost sightings all across the galaxy. The spirit of one of the former leaders of Cybertron drifting aimlessly through the halls of his former office. Ghostly, unnatural fog over battlefields, where when you walked through, you could still faintly hear gunfire. The Tetrahex Ripper showing up again in their old territory, but far less deadly than they had been in ages past. Part of a duocon desperately searching for their missing half.

But what there had really been an abundance of in the past few decades were accounts of ghost ships.

You were always a little skeptical about the supernatural, but you found an interest in it regardless. The ghost ships were your favorite thing to research. They weren’t the actual ghosts of ships, of course, but rather old, abandoned ships, drifting through the cosmos with hardly any sign of their crews to be found.

Sometimes the explanation was obvious. One account of hearing the voices of the old passengers of a ship was just the security system malfunctioning, resulting in the audio recordings playing throughout the ship. Another ship was abandoned when the fuel ran out halfway between galaxies, prompting the crew to send out an SOS to pick them up, forgetting to turn it off when they boarded the other ship.

But one day, while you’re sitting in Maccadam’s with your fellow ghost hunting buddies, somebody brings up a peculiar case: the Lost Light.

Rumored to have been under the command of the last Prime, there’d been numerous sightings of the run-down space cruiser drifting around in random parts of the galaxy, but if anyone got too close, it would speed away seemingly completely on its own, not letting anyone board.

One of your friends suggests that maybe some of the old crew is still alive in there, but that’s quickly shot down, since nobody’s seen it dock on a planet to restock food and fuel. You make a joke about how people have said you look like the Prime, so maybe you’d be able to check it out. Everyone laughs. Your friend pays the tab, and you all decide to go see a new horror movie that everyone’s been saying is terrible.

That was about five days ago, and now here you were, staring down the Lost Light itself, your little ship absolutely dwarfed in comparison to it. You take a deep intake, and try to send it a ping: ‘Hello, may I come aboard?’

The only response you get is an uncomfortably long radio silence, before you spot a door opening up to the vehicle bay towards the underside of the ship. Steeling yourself, you drive your tiny ship towards the dock. As you park, you see the door close behind you. No turning back now, you suppose.

As soon as you stepped out into the hangar, you very quickly noticed that it wasn’t completely silent. There was the distant hum of something, perhaps the engines, and the shrill creaking of old metal. You figured the ship wasn’t as structurally sound anymore, and watch where you step as you head further into the great ship.

Even though you’re completely alone, you can’t shake the feeling of something watching you through the cracks in the walls. Was your friend right about some of the old crew still being alive? You call out to see if anyone responds, and your voice echoes through the corridors, remaining completely unanswered.

There’s a total lack of any life in this place. It creeps you out. What you wouldn’t give to see some crude graffiti- any sign that someone still alive had been here before you. It’s clear that you’re the first living bot to set foot on the Lost Light in years.

You come across the laboratory, where two of the greatest scientific minds Cybertron had ever known were rumored to have worked, their old experiments sitting scattered on the lab tables. You ignore what looks at first glance to be their grayed forms sitting intertwined in the corner.

The bar, no doubt once full of music once upon a time, was a mess. Tables and chairs were thrown about all over the room, and there were shards of glass smashed on the floor. Some of the energon bottles behind the bar itself were still full, but you didn’t trust the contents enough to drink them. You take a rest here on one of the barstools, and check your comms to see if anyone sent you any messages.

…why did it seem that you hadn’t received any comms since you boarded the ship?

You decide that after you check out the bridge, you’re getting the hell out of this place. This was far more unsettling than you were comfortable with, frankly.

The creaking of metal got louder as you approached the captain’s quarters. You feel like your spark has jumped up into your throat. Was the captain still alive? There had to be someone in there, still trying to manage the decrepit starship.

You slowly open the door…

#transformers #maccadam #transformers fic #tf fic #transformers idw #transformers au #tf au #lost light #shattered glass #psychological horror my beloved #ft mentions of starscream sunder and overlord #I couldnt help myself

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viktorybell · 10 months

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Extra Room

GentleBeard (Stede Bonnet x Edward Teach from OFMD)

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: lil bit of angst (BUT MOSTLY FLUFF), brief mentions of pirate-y (pirate-esque?) violence. It’s Blackbeard, yall know what you’re getting into.

Prompt: 20 Fluffy Dialogue Prompts (created by novelbear) #14 “sad…i have a blanket with all this extra room and no one to share it with.”

“Has anyone seen Edward? We were supposed to go gallivanting in the Republic of Pirates this evening?” Stede calls out to his busy crew that was halfway through the ship's store of liquor. It’d been a long week of escaping the British fleets that still constantly sought after the captains and crew of the Revenge, and they were finally able to go to port after a particularly tense run in with Spanish merchants in cahoots with the king.

“Gall-er-vanting? What’sat even mean?” Wee John mumbles where he’s half asleep atop a pile of ropes.

“I think it’s something to do with horses, yeah? Or a pony? Can’t tell the difference to be honest,” Frenchie muses. He’s curled into John’s side, snatching the rum bottle out of his hand and stealing a swig.

“Nay, I believe tis a species of jellyfish,” Buttons interjects where he’s staring over the railing at the slowly rising moon. Without warning, he spins around to stand directly under Stede’s nose. “If Cap’n Blackbeard is missing, I’ll gladly be your guide. I know many a jellyfish. Personally, even. The moon is ripe and the fish are f-”

“That’s quite enough, Mr. Buttons, but I do appreciate the offer,” Making a quick exit from that particular conversation, Stede addresses the group again. “Seriously, you guys! Have any of you seen Ed at all??”

“Not in a bit, no,” Lucius rolls his eyes, pulling himself from where he was oh-so importantly perched on Black Pete’s lap, staring into his eyes and whispering who knows what into his ear. The same thing they did almost every night. “Don’t even think of dragging me along to the Republic as your sexy, little assistant again. I still have nightmares about Spanish Jackie’s and the way that nose jar smelled when you shattered the thing into a million little pieces.”

“Yes, thank you, Lucius. We all remember! Haha, very funny! You don’t have to keep bringing it up,” Stede huffs haughtily, his nose up in the air as he turns toward his captain’s quarters. Obviously his crew was busy with much more important matters, not that he’d expect any of the bunch to know where Edward was when he didn’t want to be found. Stede would have sought out Oluwande and asked him, but Jim and him had snuck into their private quarters an hour ago. And last time Stede went and knocked on their door out of the blue, Jim had thrown a dagger through it and took an inch off his bangs.

So. That was a no-go.

Pushing aside the heavy door to his quarters, he’s greeted to the sight of his dark and empty sitting room. It was much less lavish than when it was first built, all of his bells and whistles torn and thrown into the sea after his and Ed’s…brief break up. Gilden decorations and lost books aside, Stede rather liked the new vibes. It was a reminder of who he was and who he’s become all in one. A reminder of his new life with Edward, the one he almost abandoned for a wife and children who were far better off without him lingering around their estate like some miserable, half-dead ghost. It was bitter sweet but functional and, best of all, fitted with a bed large enough for him and his co-captain to share.

A bed that was suspiciously more rumpled than it was before Stede left to speak with his crew, Ed’s favorite pillow missing.

While he and Stede were back together and working on better communication, Edward still had his share of bad days. Days where he felt more Legendary Kraken than man. Where there had once been boiling hurt and burning anger, now remained embers of shame. Shame over trashing Stede’s ship, shame over ditching Stede’s crew, shame over letting Izzy get to him so badly that he nearly killed Stede when they reunited. Shame that manifested in Ed hiding himself away in random holes throughout the ship, isolating himself as a form of punishment.

It was something that Stede was trying to help Edward with, but it could be hard to help someone who didn’t want to be found. Luckily for Stede, though, he could at least narrow down his love’s hiding spot to somewhere in his quarters. An added bonus was his lack of lavish decorations left Ed very few spaces to sequester himself away in.

Silently creeping through his room, Stede avoided creaky spots in the wood flooring as he glanced around his cabin. The fireplace was empty, as was their bed, and underneath the couch. It might seem ridiculous to look in places so small, but after the last month, Stede knew that if it could even slightly fit Edward? The man would find a way to hide away in there when you least expected it.

To his left, out of the corner of his eye, Stede noticed the hidden door to his wardrobe cracked just barely open. It was the only place in his quarters that had been untouched, even when Edward was dead set on throwing out any other reminder of Stede. Immediately he ceased his tiptoeing around and walked forward towards the bed.

“Shame that my darling Edward’s up and disappeared on me,” Stede projects, hopefully loud enough to reach into even the farthest corner of the closet. He flops backwards onto the bed, being sure to make as much noise as he can as he kicks off his heavy boots and settles in.

The bed in the ship’s window is the only thing on the ship that has remained a true luxury. Even more so after Edward began sleeping in it as well. Who would have guessed that the most feared pirate of all seven seas had a penchant for fleece blankets softer than you could imagine and plush pillows you could push into just about any shape you wanted. The infamous Blackbeard was stubborn and embarrassed about any other sign of luxury, but the draw of a comfy bed to crawl back to after a long, hard day was just too irresistible.

“It truly is sad…I have a blanket with ALL this extra room and no one to share it with…” Stede laments, grabbing the corners of one of Edward’s favorite blankets and rolling up in it. For a moment, he’s silent. Holding himself as still as possible to listen past the soft crush of waves against the Revenge, so that he might hear any sign of life from in the wardrobe. His answer is the sound of the wardrobe door finally clicking shut all the way. So much for that idea.

Stede slides out of bed, keeping Ed’s thick, warm blanket tight around his shoulders. As much as he’s striving to make things right between them, struggling to make up for his mistakes. It’s always a shot in the dark for him. Never in his life has he had this much to lose, this much to love. It was partly why he had run, it’s terrifying having your heart beat outside of your chest in the hands of somebody else. Even now there was a sickly, frightened voice from the back of his mind. It was yelling at him to head back out to the deck. Edward hates him and he’s only going to make things worse by pushing and pushing until Ed pushes back and they’ll be right back to square one.

Ignoring that small voice, Stede pushes forward and stands outside the hidden door.

What good has running away EVER done him?

Knocking lightly on the door, Stede clears his throat and asks, “Ed? May I come in?”

On the other side of the door there’s silence. For over a minute! Stede’s practically shaking where he stands, the sick voice in his head getting louder and louder. This was a mistake! Of course he doesn’t want to see you! This is all your fault, you weak-hearted, soft-handed, lily livere-

The door to the wardrobe quietly clicks back open.

Letting out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, Stede slumps a little. That had been a tense moment! Probably the most nervous he’s been all week! Which is saying something, he’s a pirate, you know.

He waits for the door to open further, for Edward to say something, make a noise, anything. Nothing goes on beyond the door opening just an inch. It’s small, but it’s enough for Stede.

The wardrobe is near pitch black when he toes the door aside and quickly closes it behind himself. As much as he adores his crew and always maintains an open door policy for any brave soul who might need to talk out their tangled emotions from their latest battle…well, nobody really even came into his room to do that. And right now Lucius whining about something or other or a bizarre bird related rant from Buttons was the last thing that would help him and Edward’s precarious situation.

Not sure he’d be able to make it more than a step or two without falling ass over elbows, Stede sits with his back to the door, blanket still snug around his shoulders.

“I’m not stupid. I know what you were trying to do out there,” Ed rasps after five minutes in silence. Edward could sit in silence for hours, maybe even days when it meant waiting out a particularly stubborn adversary. He’s used to playing strong and sullen and silent, but there’s just something about Stede not running his mouth for longer than a few seconds that just unnerves the man. It has him fighting the urge to fill the silence himself, which he knows is exactly why the bastard does it. Gentleman Pirate, his ass. These were dirty tricks.

“I don’t think you’re stupid, Ed,” Stede says back, matching his love’s quiet tone albeit much gentler. The blonde desperately wishes he could see Ed in here. That he could reach out and tuck his hair behind his ear, pull him close, beg him to forgive whatever he did this time to make him disappear again. “What’s going on?”

From somewhere a few feet to his left, there’s shuffling and a quiet sigh. Then silence again.

“Is it-? Did I-?” Stede begins and is almost immediately cut off.

“Oh, please, Stede. It’s not all about you,” Edward huffs, a sharper rustling noise coming from his direction. Stede can almost imagine the other rolling his eyes and folding his arms across his chest in frustration.

“Fair,” Stede chuckles. That’s yet another thing they’re working on, Stede’s insistence that all things evil and wretched were his doing. Albeit usually Edward spoke about it in a much kinder tone than this, but Stede couldn’t blame him. Not when he was centering himself when Ed was the one suffering. “Then talk to me. Tell me what’s going through your mind.”

“I just-!” Edward starts loud, the noise sounding sharp in the small space between them, but cuts himself off with a strangled groan. It’s always like this, like a physical block in his chest preventing him from saying anything. His throat tight and his face burning, it makes him want to tear down the frilly shirts and jackets he can feel brushing against his shoulders. But same as Stede working on his own self-blame, Edward is working on not letting his fight-or-fight response take hold of him. “Does it EVER get easier?!”

This time it’s Stede that needs a moment to gather his thoughts. He feels woefully unqualified to answer that question. Just ten minutes ago he was internally tearing himself to shreds, contemplating running out to the deck and jumping overboard just to drown out the unceasing thoughts of self-doubt. He was still struggling, what right does he have to comment on if it gets better or not??

“I think it does,” Stede says quietly, surprising himself. “I mean, just look at us! Do you think a month ago you would have even entertained me coming in here while you’re like this? Or even speak to me?”

“Well, no, but…” Edward starts weakly, his half-formed protest dying almost immediately.

“There we go, proof!” Stede is grinning into the dark now, Ed can hear it in his voice. “I don’t think this kind of thing ever goes away, really…but it will get easier. The time will keep passing, and before you know it, you’re surrounded by family you never thought you could have. You’ll find that you haven’t struggled like you used to in a long time.”

It’s quiet in the wardrobe once Stede finishes his little speech. He politely pretends he doesn’t hear sniffling coming from in front of him. Without warning, Edward flops into his side, burrowing his way under the blanket still covering his shoulders.

“Where’d you learn all that, huh?” Ed mutters while Stede happily wraps an arm around his shoulders and tugs him in close. “Certainly not from any bloody pirates.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I read it in a book somewhere, or maybe it’s just a universal truth. Who knows?” Stede sighs happily, feeling like a missing piece of him has been returned to its rightful place.

“Sounds like a crock of shit to me,” Edward teases back, not an ounce of sincerity in his voice.

“Oh, whatever! Seems to have done the trick just nicely,” Stede hums happily as he turns enough to wrap both arms around the other. Returning the embrace, Ed wraps his arms around Stede’s torso, burying his face into the space between his neck and shoulder.

“Sorry for screwing up the whole Republic idea you made,” Edward mumbles into the warm skin just above Stede’s collar. “Would’ve been proper nice to get in and old-fashioned bar fight. Might’ve even got to stab someone.”

“Ah, yes. Well, another time. Plenty of stabbings ahead of us, dear!” Stede’s a little less bummed about missing their evening in the Republic of Pirates now. While he’d done major change after starting his new life as a pirate, it wasn’t THAT much progress. “I think I’d rather like to stay in this evening, anyways.”

Making a soft noise of agreement, Edward sinks fully into Stede’s arms, going limp like a puppet with his strings cut. It makes Stede’s heart flutter almost painfully and it’s like suddenly he understands every trashy romance novel he’d ever snuck onto his bookshelves. For all the struggle and strife it took to maintain an actual relationship, the benefits largely outweighed any temporary discomfort.

“Ah, but maybe not on the floor of the wardrobe,” Sheepishly, Stede tries his best to shift his leg out from under where it’s pinned under Ed. “I think both of my feet are asleep.”

Edward laughs heartily as he sits up and shoves the hidden door back open. Hazey, burning light floods the once pitch space of the closet. It turns Edward’s eyes a honeyed orange that glows warmly as the two pirates stare at each other, positively love sick.

“Alright, old man, to bed with you!” Ed grins as he pushes himself to his feet and holds both hands for Stede to take. While it’s mostly just to help him to his feet when they’re filled with pins and needles, there’s the added bonus of being able to tug the blonde forward. Stumbling into Ed’s chest, Stede raises an eyebrow at him, unable to cut down on the lopsided smile the action brings to his face. “‘Sides, you’ve really sold me on the blanket thing. Looks mighty lonely on you.”

#gentlebeard #stede bonnet #edward teach #blackbeard #ofmd #our flag means death #ofmd stede #ofmd ed x stede #ed x stede #fluff #angst #hurt/comfort #fanfic #ofmd fanfic #i never fucking know how to tag shit #gay little pirates idfk #gentlebeard fic

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clarenecessities · 3 months

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ummmm what about. uhhh those women from the supergirl show. now that i type that im pretty sure one of them is supergirl

oh, buddy. yes, one of them is supergirl.

disclaimer: i have never and will never watch the cw's supergirl, bc i love myself

What made you ship it?

well it TURNS OUT that there's a lot of overlap in Supercorp shippers and Catradora shippers, for some reason. can't imagine why! [puts a blanket over my venn diagram's cage]

so i went a little insane after she-ra came out (you remember) and read about 6k fics, just scrolling through the tag with some filters on & clicking on anything that looked interesting. it was a very interesting time in our lives. a lot of me going "huh? whah?" in call. birth of the scorpia disclaimer.

but eventually i ran out of she-ra fics. and i like... i couldn't stop, you know? and it turns out that some of the best she-ra authors have written a lot of supergirl fics. so it kept coming up when i was on author-specific binges. and i got curious! i'm a curious guy!

and then it turns out they're really cute >:( they're adorable, damn it.

ik i'm never gonna be able to drag you into this hole with me, since you already have a designated CW trainwreck, but if you're ever feeling bored the first one i ever read was really fucking funny and requires zero knowledge of canon. i didn't know alex's pronouns until halfway through bc i'd never heard of her (literally supergirl's sister). initially i clicked on it bc "superhero pretends to date her civilian identity" sounded hysterical but like... kara is so sweet, and so socially inept. and lena is a human disaster who just wants to help. and they both have crippling abandonment issues and no chill whatsoever

What are your favorite things about the ship?

i like that they appreciate each other. the version of them that i've constructed piecemeal from other people's opinions is such that like... they've both been pretty miserable, right? lena watched her mom die when she was like 4 years old and then got adopted by the luthors, kara watched her planet explode & pawned off by clark (who was like 30 years older than he was supposed to be bc of DC bullshit) on some human family and had to pretend to be normal for a decade or so.

and they both hide that pretty well, kara with kindness and lena with unapproachable businesswoman...ness... but they're both immediately fascinated by each other. and they're both sort of genuine with each other, even when they're in 'nice but bumbling civilian' or 'ruthless luthor' mode. so where it gets interesting for me is those moments they reach a mutual understanding of something, or where they trust each other in spite of Every Other Thing.

in like their first meeting lena says she's just a woman trying to make a name for herself outside of her family & asks if they can understand and kara is like "🥺 yeah..." and like they were just kind of fucked from there. sigh. you don't know how good you have it with riverdale polycule man. fuckin CW.

Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?

i have many but the one that comes up most often isn't an opinion, it's a fact.

“khap zhao rrip” is fucking nonsense. it does not mean 'i love you'. it's SVO instead of VSO and zhao is a noun why are you even including kyrptahniuo if you're just going to find-and-replace random words.

listen. listen to me. zhaoivodh khap rrip. it is literally easier than french. nobody fucking does it right logan it makes me feel insane

#answers #hungry-bug #supergirl

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uniquevocashark · 1 year

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The Forbidden Happy End Fic Part 1

Fifteen years out of service, and ten since the death of her Lady, Igraine is reacquainted with the love of her life.

The happy ending sequel to A Good Servant.

Trigger warnings for mild gore, murder, thoughts of cannibalism, child endangerment, child harm, liberal use of canon information, bodily harm, brief mentions of lady dimitrescu

As always tumblr gets this first <3

Cell decoration wasn’t an art. There was one goal: making it as monotonous as possible. To that end there were grey walls, grey chairs and a grey metal table bolted to the ground, with grey cameras in two corners of the room.

Igraine half expected a two-way mirror to fully throw her back into the 70’s.

Redfield sat with a cigarette on his lips, and Igraine kept her face equally bland. Redfield was unhealthy; there was a pallor to his skin that spoke of long hours and little rest, he wheezed gently with each breath and his shoulders were slack and sunken like a bombed ship. Chris Redfield continued to look like shit.

“What happened.”

Igraine didn’t answer, looking at the blood under her nails instead.

The room reeked of cigarette smoke. Redfield was now, by her count, just starting on his fourth in the time they had spent in the room. He had followed a peculiar pattern in his questioning, only when he reached the butt of each did he ask his question. First, he had raged, the lines of his face had tightened, his expression like twisted branches; the whites of his eyes had bulged bug like out of his skull, and he had sweat that beaded from his hairline down his face and disappearing into his stubble. He had savoured the second and it had turned him mellow and conversational; he had breathed out the last puff of smoke with a long sigh and at the end of that sigh he met her eyes and asked again.

Igraine was aware of his game.

Over the years, Redfield had become more stoic and serious; even his questions had, and now they were coated in an unhealthy addition of accusation. The ends of his words curled like snakes and sang with venom, there was such a baggage attached to them. No matter the sweetness coated around it, Igraine wouldn’t fall for it. Too obvious, she chided herself, far too obvious. And igraine was nothing if not principled; he would learn to ask properly, or he shouldn’t ask at all. He was angry to everyone else, but he could not stink more of worry the longer he dragged the conversation on.

Igraine was fine continuing the conversation for as long as she needed, no matter how sick she was of the smell of smoke and regret.

“Alright,” Redfield said, breaking halfway through his current cigarette, “So at 4:17pm you and Rosemary went from the classroom to the cafeteria and then at 5:03pm both left. Then at 5:14pm Rosemary began expelling mold. Walk me through it from the cafeteria to the hallway.”

“Better,” she set her hands on the table, “Let me think.”

…

On a technicality, they were going for what was supposed to be lunch. It was more like a dinner, as Igraine had forgotten to eat entirely and Rosemary, only ten and desperate to find approval, had said nothing until after their lessons hoping to win some. By then Rosemary had not eaten since ten thirty that morning. Igraine, who had found herself with a Rosemary shaped soft spot, had not reprimanded her and prolonged the punishment, instead stopping their lessons and taking her immediately for food.

“Rose,” she said, returning with another serving of lasagne, “You should learn to communicate your needs better.”

Rosemary stuffed her face with another forkful of pasta before Igraine had even set the plate down, her face covered with cheese sauce, humming happily. Igraine’s own serving lay abandoned by her side, the layers stripped and arranged around the plate neatly. (Her tastes were more inclined to other, more bipedal red meats that the cafeteria would not provide and which would revoke her ability to live relatively alone if she admitted her preference.)

“I am being serious, armillaria.” Igraine said, gently wiping her face with a napkin.

Rosemary spat a bit of burnt cheese into it as she wiped over her mouth, and her tone had taken on the beginnings of a pout, “I know, Iggy.”

Igraine adjusted her sunglasses and scoffed gently, more at the nickname than anything, “I’m just saying.”

“I knoooow, Iggy.” She sing-songed, knocking Igraine’s glasses down her nose again.

Igraine pinched her cheek playfully, and Rose giggled. “Eat, thank you. They already think I’m starving you academically.”

Rosemary was always happy, even when there was no cause for it. Even now, she smiled toothily, proudly showing off the gap in the bottom row of her teeth. She had lost it four days ago and was still grinning about it. She swung her legs, taking a smaller forkful while Igraine dabbed the sauce from her face. “Do you think mom is around?”

“I don’t know, armillaria.”

(“Why do you call her armillaria?” Redfield interrupted.

“Does it matter?” Igraine replied and dragged her nails along the edge of the table, causing a horrible screeek.)

“Can you find out?”

“I can ask,” Igraine said, “Don’t expect an answer, dear.”

“I know,” Rose said, scooping sauce up and eating it slowly, “I just haven’t seen mom in a while.”

The answers that Igraine had to that were unsavoury; she didn’t like Mia on the best of days and seeing the long periods of abandonment Rosemary suffered had made her like her even less. Rather than say anything, she changed the topic, “Would you like to go back to the classroom?”

The fork teetered in her hand, “Yeah.”

Igraine scooped up the dish and picked up her own fork, “Container please, dear.”

Rose took the container out of her backpack, a small pink thing that had one big pocket for her food and one small pocket that held her handkerchiefs of varying colours and patterns. Rose toyed with her zipper, setting her bag in her

“Now, don’t fret, armillaria,” Igraine said as she took the container, “Chris just gets a bit heated over silly things. I’ll hold your leftovers, okay?”

Rose zipped up her bag and nodded, “Because you’re a tutor?”

Igraine smiled thinly, “Among other things.”

“That’s not nice.”

Igraine rubbed Rosemary’s head, feeling a twinge of regret for ruining the poor things mood, “Don’t worry so much, dear.”

“I’ll try,” Rose said, sliding her fork and plate away and then, “Do you miss your parents?”

“Me?” Igraine blinked, and then exhaled so forcefully out of her nose she almost laughed in Rosemary’s face. She said the silliest things sometimes, “No, not my parents but there is someone.”

Rosemary leaned into the table, her interest perked so high she could have sprouted wings in her excitement, with that soft awed expression of a child that had just found their next fun fact to bring into every conversation. “Really?”

“Of course.”

“Who’s yours?”

“Mine?”

“Yeah!”

It took all of three seconds for Igraine to cave; Rose’s smile brightened her entire face into a mask of joy so blinding it felt like the wrong kind of cruel to say no, “There’s my sibling, of course,” Igraine started, resting her head on her palm and looking at the door, “And a very special woman.”

A strand of Rosemary’s hair curled on her cheek, like a pangolins claw grasping a branch, and for a moment all Igraine could see was Alcina, from the curve of the cheek to the set of her shoulders. But there was just Rose, too, with the way she smiled and the way her eyes brightened, and even though Igraine wanted Rose to just be a mirror, she couldn’t deny that she would miss Rosemary. “What is she like?”

“Oh, she’s magnificent,” Igraine said, her eyes catching on the way a soldier’s carotid vein bulged for a moment as they swallowed, “Strong, you know. Witty, but also stoic, and very beautiful.”

“Wow.”

Igraine licked her teeth, the phantom taste of copper clinging in the dips of her molars, “She had excellent taste too.”

But Rose was already moving on from the conversation, her curiosity sated for the moment, “You’ll see her again. I always see mom again, even when I miss her.”

Igraine didn’t have the heart to tell her Alcina was quite dead. “I’m sure.”

The conversation puttered out after that, only Rose’s occasional questions flaring it up again, otherwise she scrolled through her phone. Igraine didn’t understand it, but Rose could occupy herself with just the screen for longer than Igraine could hold a conversation, within the limits the BSAA had given her at least. If she could talk about the dissection of the human spine, she could go on much longer. The cafeteria was the only place this deep in the building that was built for outside internet connection, or something like that.

Igraine kept her eyes on the soldiers around them rather than Rose, who was remarkably immobile while tapping away at her little screen. Igraine also found it upsetting to imagine eating Rosemary, while the bland faced guards that surrounded them were much easier to imagine dead. The line of their clothes was smooth and stiff, and their shirt pulled around the waist. Body armour, she would guess, and a hidden firearm. And underneath that, bunching and pulling and contracting and alive, was fresh meat.

Her vision was turning fuzzy, and she turned her head away when one came within grabbing distance of the table. Rosemary looked up at her, her phone sitting limply in her hands, and gave an awkward half smile. Igraine leaned over and dabbed at the burnt bit of cheese at the corner of her lips, which came away long, stringy and cold.

“That’s curious,” Igraine said mildly, folding the mold string out of Rosemary’s sight, “Finished?”

“Yeah,” Rose looked at her phone, “Chris is picking me up today.”

“I am sorry, dear.”

Rose coughed into her elbow and when she turned to face Igraine there was a long string of black dotted around the corner of her mouth. Igraine got up and stood as to obscure Rose from the soldiers view and, patting her pockets for emphasis, pretended she had run out of napkins. “Hold still.” She said sweetly to Rosemary’s leaning away when Igraine licked her thumb and rubbed at the mold growing on her cheek. Rose protested, and Igraine ignored her.

The string was thick and grimy; defiantly not cheese, as she’d hoped, clinging to her fingers and trying its damnedest to sink into her skin. Despite its location, too, it appeared to be seeping out of her skin rather than coming from her mouth. Igraine readjusted her glasses and took a surreptitious look around, glad to see that no one was close enough.

The ethical, correct thing to do would be to tell one of the soldiers. “Why don’t we go back to the classroom? We can do whatever you like until Redfield shows up.”

Rose wiped her cheek with her sleeve long enough that they skirted past security. The walk was a calm, long one, being four hallways away from the cafeteria and lined with detectors, of which Igraine knew the location of only four. They’re barely in the second hallway when Igraine realises that Rose had disappeared from her side (and that the leftovers have burnt a hole in a few of her fingerprints).

“Rosemary.”

Rose was standing still, in front of a broken door that had come off its hinge slightly and sat awkwardly. Igraine caught up to her and found that she was unblinking in her observation of it. The door, she noted, was not supposed to be open, but had run afoul of a stone that had been shoved into the end of the track. The hall was clear, for now, so Igraine bent the door inwards.

The stone was a crystal, longer than Rosemary’s palm, pointed at one edge and broken on the other, as if it had been snapped off from something much larger. It was large too, as Rose’s fingers couldn’t quite wrap around it fully, a discoloured white colour that was cloudy rather than clear.

“This is like me.” Rose said.

“That is a rock.”

Rose clutched the stone to her chest. The dots on her face and turned into oblong shapes that began to droop, like an egg yolk that hadn’t quite broken.

Igraine opened her mouth, and then the door shuddered and jerked sideways, careening straight into her. She took the brunt of the door to her shoulder, crashing into the wall with a loud crrICK, tearing through her lime green shirt and cutting into the meat of her bicep. It left her pinned between the wall and the door, while Rose, blissfully unaware but for the rock, bullied her way past Igraine’s legs and into the hall beyond.

This hallway was different to their usual commute, lined with several doors rather than two, and each marked with a hammered metal plate that had different names on them. The only open door seemed to beckon Rose and she went in without a second glance at the other rooms.

(“You don’t have to explain,” Redfield says, “It’s the specimen rooms.”

“I can stop talking, if you’d prefer,” Igraine replied.

Redfield lit another cigarette and went quiet.)

“Rosemary.”

Rose looked at her, popping her head back out of the room. She was wide eyed, and her mouth pursed slightly; she said nothing and when Igraine called her again she slunk slowly back into the room. In the time it would take a pin to drop, Igraine heard shouts, then screams and then silence.

The door that had rammed her had sharpened some point between her awareness of bending it and her mind diverging from the door to Rosemary as she had shouldered her way past; that point had stabbed through her bicep and snuggled close to the bone. The worst part was that she had ruined her last green blouse, which had handily put all her purple jackets lighter than grape out of her clothing rotation. And Rosemary’s new status as murderer was bad too, she supposed.

(Igraine took care to omit little details from her retelling; no use in telling him that she had opened the door, or that Rose had found a stone, or that somehow she had murdered seven humans, that would be implicating. It wasn’t for Redfield to know, nor for her to give away.)

Igraine never did get to the door proper; after she had peeled the door from its hinges and off her arm, she saw it. An imperfect sphere of sinew and muscle dyed tobacco black, crawling forward on ever shifting arms that disappeared into its mass and reformed as it plodded forward. It made a srrrrrrrrk-k-k-k as it moved, dragging its bone-covered knuckles across the floor and thudding into walls as it scrapped forward unsteadily.

It was new and unrefined and so indicative of Rosemary’s creativity, Igraine couldn’t help but light up as it bundled towards her as mobile as a bloated elephant seal.

It wasn’t smooth but roughly textured; grainy and rough like muscle; sinew piled on sinew, strung together meat and poorly formed skin that rose and faded in patches like the tide. Not perfect but promising, and clearly in need of something fuller bodied than the meal it already had. It was perfect timing, then, when Igraine walked herself into a quartet of clueless soldiers examining her handiwork.

She didn’t recognise any of them, not that she had ever bothered committing any of the faceless minions to memory; they were distinctly different in that their uniforms were attired differently, bearing different marks on their shoulders and helmets that she had not seen before. They did seem to recognise her, though, standing to attention towards her.

But they were inexperienced and really, it was their fault for being so punctual. And Chris didn’t need to know about their deaths; they were just recruits and those died all the time.

The first went done silently; Igraine slid behind them, making all the appropriate noises of a concerned science associate and he, predictably, never saw it coming. Igraine’s best feature, in her opinion, were her claws; which split him throat to belly before he could gather the air to scream. His intestines spilled like freshly made noodles, spraying brightly coloured sauce as they went, and Igraine couldn’t fully suppress her shiver of pleasure.

His companions were busy with the blob as it liquidated, spreading its mass across the available surface, covering the width of the hallway. It wasn’t until they saw him, bleeding into the cracks and feeding the mold as it rushed to cover him, that they even knew he was dead. And there came their inexperience again; one forgot about the mold, the other forgot about her and the last she kicked into the mold.

He fell face first, screaming, his body convulsing and scrambling; Igraine watched as he struggled and failed, his arms reduced to thin sheets of deteriorating bone that melted away. The mold had risen into a wall, spewing mold from the top in thick rivulets that moved like tar. It was, she realised, like watching maggots hatch; squirming and writhing, hundreds of bodies fighting before disappearing into the tar pool that surrounded it.

The last two she took together, stepping into the space of the third before they could fire and grabbing them by the face as she punched directly into the back of the fourth’s neck. Their spine crunched underneath her knuckles and tossed the third in as it hit the floor. Number 3 clawed at her, as if its hands could find her neck just by the sheer force of wanting it. But he was only a human and though it was slower, longer; his screams lasting for fifty seconds longer than his companions, he still died with Igraine’s heel pushing his head into the muck.

Now, she supposed, was a good time to get Rosemary out. She felt the thought like an addiction; the slow pangs at her temple, the itchiness of her teeth, the twitch of her joints. How much of it was her, and how much was Rosemary, was unclear to her; there was just the need, suddenly banking high in urgency.

“I’m coming.” She told the mold, which gurgled in response.

Moving in the mold was like swimming deeper than five hundred meters in the ocean; it pressed in on her closes and skin, melding and fusing to her body to collapse them inwards. It grasped at her ankles, eating through her stockings, and writhing around her skin, leaving of unpleasant sensation of a knife hacking at her skin. Three steps in and the mold reached her knees, and she was unsure of if she was touching the ground or hardened mold.

As the mold touched her hips, and her steps became more like a trek through set molasses, the mold in front of her having to be cracked before she could continue slogging through. And she was sure, if her ears did not deceive her, that more soldiers had appeared and died to the mold, and that Redfield had likely arrive to scowl at her slow moving back.

But that was of little consequence really; all she could think of was Rosemary. Yammering on and on and on inside her head. Rosemary, Rosemary, Rosemary.

The centre of the mold was a long, tall wall that writhed at her touch; it sunk into her nails and her hands and when she pushed, it pushed back. It was hard as set concrete, and wet as fresh glue, and it was acidic enough to eat away at the sleeves of her shirt and the metal of her jewellery. A shame that as well, because this was the only shirt she had of a true lime colour and not faux candy coloured lawn green masquerading as lime.

Finding Rosemary in it was a task better suited for the blind; Igraine dug her arms in to the elbow and flailed until she hit something small and Rosemary-shaped. Once she had her, it was a struggle to keep her grip.

Pulling Rosemary out was akin to a tug of war with a lion; a struggle, even for Igraine. Twice Igraine had fallen over and nearly lost her grip on Rosemary’s small arm, and her only saving grace was that the mold was hard and set and unready to accommodate her body at all. It suckled at her hips, and groped at her waist, but the deeper mold merely slogged out of her way as she reset her stance.

Rosemary was only half out after half an hour of exertion; it was too much for Igraine, who had not eaten since last night and had not taken her dosage of t serum for that day, and who’s attempts to pull Rosemary free had degenerated into limp tugs and clawing at the setting mold that refused to release her. The harder she tried, the more the mold resisted, and the more her beautiful nail polish chipped and suffered.

Between the time that Rosemary’s arm had pulled free, and her shoulder had come loose, a hand had dug into Igraine’s calf. The hand was slimy and made of bone, and it turned its fingerbones into claws, scoring lines of pain on her skin and up her leg like a lightning bolt. Rosemary’s face would not come free, so Igraine wrapped her arms around the girl’s midsection and moved back, yanking as hard as she was able.

She tore skin, and Rosemary’s bag from her back, and hair from her head, but eventually, finally, Rosemary emerged. She was mold covered, slimy and slippery, and Igraine had done more damage to her face and skin than she would have liked, but she was free. Each step away from the centre, which collapsed without Rosemary there to sustain it, she grew more lively. First twitching, then shivering before she gasped herself awake just as Igraine tore her injured leg out of the mold and into the cold air. Rosemary’s arms secreted white sweat, an incomplete replica of hagfish slime and all the more effective for its clumsy earnestness.

She slid Rosemary across the floor to safety, and cradled her close when they were out of range, at the feet of soldiers who had every opportunity to shoot Igraine point blank and live to tell about it. Most of them, anyway.

“It’s me, armillaria,” Igraine said soothingly, throwing her ruined heels back into the mold, “Don’t you worry.”

Rosemary curled into Igraine’s arms, her face streaked with cloudy white tears.

…

“You know the rest.” Igraine finished, tearing off a piece of her fraying shirt.

Redfield sighed long and slow, a puff of corpse coloured smoke trailing out of his mouth like a swarm of pests, “Rosemary almost died. A ten-year-old got hurt because you weren’t prepared.”

“Come off your high horse, Redfield, you look constipated.”

“A child almost died.”

“And so far, you are 0 for 3 in saving her on time, so you needn’t take a snobby tone,” Igraine crossed her arms, “Besides she is a bioweapon. She’ll be fine.”

He clenched his fist, drawing his shoulders up and his chest deepened. But when his mouth opened, Igraine heard nothing but his painful gasps for air and took a mild amusement in watching his face darken into a lush pink. She had heard this lecture many times before, but the answer was always the same to her; Rosemary was a bioweapon, regardless of his thoughts on it.

“Fascinating,” Igraine intoned, cutting into the spot between paragraphs, “But I haven’t eaten all day, so stop talking. It won’t stick.”

He looked plainly at the leftovers she had salvaged, which she had not touched for fear of getting the mold that still clung to her hands on them.

“These are Rosemary’s leftovers.” Igraine said plainly.

Redfield thumped his fist on the table, the chair screeching against the floor as he stood, only for him to deflate and rub the bridge of his nose. That was the most peculiar quirk of Chris Redfield; he could smother his anger immediately after an outburst, as if the small relief was enough for his head to screw on straight and his mind to clear. He turned away and the only thing he said in parting was “Get to decontamination.”

“And then I’m going home.” She called after him. There was no response.

Home was a fifteen-floor building, that doubled as an office block and laboratory for the antiterrorism groupies. The eleventh floor was where her apartment was, barren but for Igraine, and at a height that gave her a brilliant view of the dull main building that stuck out of the ground like a particularly ugly carrot. It was a dull coloured and frumpy building that spider webbed from one corner across the street to the other and back again. Underneath, too, it extended, making most of the leftover facilities from the pharmaceutical company that came before.

Not that it really mattered. All Igraine was doing was taking a long shower and eating a fridge shelf worth of leftovers while she picked at her peeling skin. And then winding down at three in the morning, with a headache pounding between her ears.

#the forbidden happy end fic #the forbidden happy end fic part 1 #lady dimitrescu x oc #igraine wesker chief of castle staff #my writing #lady dimitrescu #rosemary winters #next chapter so much alcina..... so much unhinged alcina i prommy #you can thank lisset108 and delunesnumberonefan for this #literally would not have written it without them #third person perspective #enjoy <3

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jancys-blue-bayou · 2 years

Note

could you talk some more about why you think s3 and 4 are some of the worst written tw

Hoo boy there's a lot. Off the top of my head:

Bottom line their biggest problem is they completely overstuffed the show with way too many characters and locations. This is a basic problem that feeds into so many other problems like the pacing being thrown off (remember how smoothly they cut between different plotlines in s1?) and several characters (mainly Jonathan, Mike, Will) being completely sidelined.

In s3 they focused more on memes (Scoops Troop, Alexei etc) than anything else.

In s1 character moments and character development drove the whole season. Now the character moments we get is only crumbs. As for character development, Steve from s3 and on has been reduced to nothing but a walking meme, Jonathan is completely sidelined, Nancy gets some badass moments but they screw her over by tying her up in the mindnumbingly dumb love triangle writing. If they make Stancy happen in s5 they'll have completely walked back any and all character development for three characters.

Further, especially in s3 think several characters acted very out of character. Like some of the stuff Nancy said to Jonathan when they fought in the car came off as very OOC to me (the Oliver Twist dig etc). Dustin is nothing like the sweet smart boy in s1 who kept the peace and cared more about the party all being friends than anything. But most of all, I hated Hopper in s3, how mean and cruel he was to Mike, Joyce, El. Go back and watch s1, he's so much softer. Also ridiculous that he doesn't flat out believe Joyce right away in s3 after s1-2, esp since he comes around to believing Joyce easier than you think in s1. Also his letter voiceover end of s3 that was supposed to be emotional was just trash.

They can't write relationships for shit. Once a ship is canon all the writers can think to do is "let's have them fight and break up!" which is so cheap and dumb.

The spoopy Russians in s3 and that whole plot was so lame, over the top and bad. It was completely unbelievable (yes it's a show where monsters are real but that doesn't mean the human stuff doesn't have to make sense. The realistic human storylines in s1 was what made the monster stuff work so well against it), incomprehensible and just *so* hokey.

They had a full on Coke commercial in an s3 scene. Yes product placement has been part of the show since s1 but the New Coke scene was another level, completely shameless.

The Never Ending Story musical number broke the Geneva Convention and should be investigated and prosecuted as a crime against humanity.

In s3 they give so much screentime to Billy and give his racist abusive ass a sort of redemption by the end.

In s4 they waste soooooo much screentime on the incredibly one note Jason the jock character while the likes of Mike, Will, Jonathan don't get anytime at all. They're not even in ep 7 and spend the climactic fight watching from the sidelines.

The Byers move makes no sense.

They completely don't give a shit about the Byers family anymore when for me and many other viewers they were the emotional heart of s1. It all started and ended with them. In s3 Jonathan and Will are in the same plot line for a bunch of time but we don't get any Byers bros stuff even then, and at the end of the season we don't even get a family hug, Joyce just hugs Will even though Jonathan is there too (and the Duffers told Winona there "was no time" for her to hug both her sons...) In s4 Joyce abandons her kids to go off on her Hopper rescue mission. We get the Jonathan and Will talk and hug which was great (and completely shocking to all of us that they allowed for that) and a family hug at the end but like... please let Jonathan and Joyce talk at some point?

Nancy and Mike spent a lot of time in s3 in the same plot too but we didn't get any sibling bonding between them.

They straight up just abandoned Will's arc halfway through s3. In s4 they repeat the "Jancy has communication issues" which was their arc in s3, negating that s3 arc. And they refuse to complete the arc in s4 to drag the dead love triangle into s5.

The meat monster in s3 was a super lame monster and s4 revealing the big bad as Vecna aka edgelord 3000 I'm not a fan of.

The cgi looks so bad. Vecna being tossed into the UD/whatever that place is in s4e7 takes the cake.

Them retconning so much of s1 in s4 is trash writing.

The s4 scene of El being bullied at the roller rink was really bad, like completely over the top and hokey.

Overall I'm not a fan of the direction they've taken the overarching plot in, with the spoopy Russian, Vecna etc.

Them repeating the same seasonal structure year after year is so boring. Separate cold open. Checking in on all the characters going about their lives. Supernatural stuff slowly starting to happen. Everyone being split up into different plot lines. Plot lines converging towards the end. El fights the monster of the season. Aftermath epilogue. Rinse and repeat.

The human threat of the US government makes no sense anymore. Owens and his super loyal agent men being some sort of good guys for no motivation, the spoopy Russians being set up as more evil than the Good Americans, together with the Bad Americans now being some army branch it's all just... what happened to s1?

They make cheap, dumb and so easily avoided mistakes like forgetting Will's birthday, having the cops interrogating El (a minor) without a guardian present etc yes these may seem like small things but there's so many small little mistakes like these.

They don't have a script supervisor, the Duffers openly admit they don't watch the previous seasons. Which explains a lot of why later seasons don't make sense with earlier ones.

Basically I just think it's like a completely different show compared to s1, and the writing is the main cause of it. Go back and watch s1 and see how the plot develops organically, character driven, at such a nice pace, Will and Barb going missing and El being found setting everything off and then it's all driven by the characters growing and developing and they cut between all the plot lines perfectly before they all dovetail nicely at the end. Compare it to s3 and s4 and it's just like night and day.

#stranger things #stranger things 3 #stranger things 4

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punken316 · 1 year

Text

A story about Captain Jennifer Knightly.

- - - - -

Before she was a mother, before she was a wife, and before she was a captain, Jennifer Knightly was a Starfleet cadet on a training cruise. She wasn’t the first officer on the training cruise, she was manning the main science station on the bridge. And the training cruise went smoothly, no bumps to test anyone’s mettle.

So how did she become a captain, and how did she gain a ship like the Thunderbird? Well perhaps you will find your answer shortly.

Fresh out of the academy, Ensign Jennifer Knightly volunteers to help with efforts on a newly established colony world. She arrives and does her duty, and then some, as a capable science officer. Whatever scientific assistance was needed she was happy to help however she could. From agricultural efforts to studying the various flora and fauna of the planet to even medical needs she did what she could to help the colonists.

She would have moved on at some point, possibly joined a ship’s roster, but the colonists asked her to stay. They appreciated all of her efforts in building their new home so much so that they offered her a position as the resident lead scientist. And so it became her new home as well and she was welcomed with open arms. She’ll never admit to anyone that part of the reason she stayed was because of a certain artist named Edward.

For three years the colony flourished, and Jennifer with it. She learned more and gained more experience and grew to love the people that lived there, and one in particular even more so captured her heart. Jennifer Knightly and newly named Edward Knightly married on that colony halfway through the second year. All were happy.

Until the mercenaries came.

A sudden aggressive attack struck that left the colony’s security in shambles with few personnel left qualified to keep the colony together.

Jennifer stepped up and took on the mantle, helping the colonists to find their courage and defend their home. Once the colonists started fighting back the mercenaries transported away. The colonists were relieved. They thought it was over. But Jennifer feared the worst and suggested they should move away from the main city. Trusting her judgment they followed her away from the main city as quickly as possible. And as soon as they were out of range an orbital bombardment started raining down on the main part of the colony, but the colonists were safe.

Once help arrived and the mercenaries were taken care of, a captain beamed down with a relief team. He talked to Jennifer and commended her for her leadership and foresight, and he offered her the position of his First Officer after his last left to become a captain. She accepted, the colony was in shambles too broken to remain, and Edward left with her. After some training Ensign Jennifer Knightly became Commander Jennifer Knightly. She was well loved and respected on the old captain’s ship. She served as his first for five years until he retired and gave her command of the ship.

Commander Jennifer Knightly became Captain Jennifer Knightly. She served with distinction as captain of the vessel, commanding them through many exploration missions and battles.

Until the one fateful day.

It was suppose to have been a simple scouting mission, exploring an uninhabited star system. It was suppose to be easy, the ship had a rough week. It was going according to plan, then an anomaly on sensors. Being explorers and scientists they followed up on the anomaly only to be ambushed by five Tal Shiar warships. They called for help then they fought. The ship was old but she held her own until the warp core breached. Jennifer ordered all crew to abandon ship. But as the lifepods left the ship the Tal Shiar showed no mercy and shot at all of them. The captain herself was one of the lucky few to eject after other Federation vessels arrived. She won’t count herself lucky though. She will never forget the sight nor sounds of her crew dying mercilessly at the hands of the Tal Shiar.

Jennifer and the five left of her crew are taken back to Earth Spacedock. Here she reunites with Edward and their children, and she knows his infinite relief that she lived through that, even if she is not proud to when so many others perished. Then she looks at their children, Noah the youngest bundled into her husband’s arms, and the shed tears and worry melting into relief and above all unending love shining in his eye and she thinks that she will live through this, she will make it alright.

She meets with Admiral Quinn, who offers his condolences and apologies and that shouldn’t have happened, the Tal Shiar shouldn’t have been there, voicing her thoughts exactly. The next thing he tells her pulls her from her thoughts and gets her attention. “There is a ship being built. An experimental dreadnought cruiser. The best of the best. One of a kind. She’s yours if you want her. In my opinion you more than deserve her.”

She only needs a moment to consider it, a moment to nod her head. “Yes, sir.” He shows her some of the schematics. “I would be privileged to call myself her captain.”

During the remaining two years of the ship’s construction she lives on Earth Spacedock with her family and spends time with them, and looks through rosters to pick her bridge crew. None of her previous bridge crew survived, though the crew that did will be joining her on the new ship. She doesn’t pick top of the line crew, recommended crew, or top of the class academy graduates. She picks survivors, ones who have beaten the odds, laughed at them even. Ones who stand out, who have faced hardships and come out better for it. Ones who know how to work together, are willing to sacrifice themselves for others.

Jennifer meets her first officer after the first year of residing on Earth Spacedock, meets him overlooking the shipyards. She sees the scars on the left side of his neck, his metal hand, hears his metal leg when he drops to one knee to fix a pant leg. And she also sees the light in his eyes, the bright life there yet to be doused, hears his laugh, commanding and proud like someone who has indeed laughed in the face of death. Indeed she already knows she will be proud to serve with him. And she sees his humility when she says so as they both look out towards where the Thunderbird is being built. “It is my honor, Captain Knightly.”

#my writing #oc Jennifer Knightly #my ship the Thunderbird

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elvendorx · 2 years

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i just dug up your posts about J&S and their dynamic on their own and within the Marauders four and I am simple enamored with everything you say, i would read a whole essay if you had one <333

also can i get 5 and 44 for the ask game?

Ahh thank you so much, I decided a while ago to post what I enjoy so it's nice that it resonates! I have lot of drafts and also some asks that are long overdue responses (my mind's a mess so they take a while to structure coherently but if you’ve ever sent me an ask, I'm not ignoring it I'm just incredibly slow!) so maybe those will do instead of essays?? (although I can’t control my word counts so maybe they’ll feel like essays💀)

Also I just realised you wrote Benefits which I loved! <33

5. What are your fanfic pet peeves? Do they have a huge effect on whether or not you decide to read something?

This is lowkey tough. I don’t have too many pet peeves so much as things I don’t agree with but that I can skim over. Things that I flat-out won't read (mainly ships, and cis mpreg) are things I filter out anyway, I’m good at knowing what won’t work for me by now. It always comes down to characterisation for me, as soon as I stop believing in or recognising the character, I’m out. I do feel like I’m super picky with small things so I try to breeze past things that don’t hugely matter.

Like I often cringe at the way people write house-elves that aren’t in the series, especially house elf names? This is petty of me but “Tippy” and “Tiffy” make my skin crawl. Again, am I just being a mean pedant, but the names of house-elves in the series have harsher consonants - Hokey, Kreacher, Winky, Dobby. I also don’t really like reading about the Potters as having a house-elf because as much as they were rich and pureblood, they were clearly not part of the pureblood elite and I think they’d deviate from the more antiquated, traditional aspects of old wizarding families. In my head Fleamont and Euphemia are old rich hippies but it’s not really a make-or-break.

Dialogue can make or break a fic for me, and dialogue that is just there for the plot and doesn’t take on any traits of the person speaking it is something I struggle to stick with - again that’s characterisation, I struggle with OOC stuff but I also struggle when the characters are like, fine, but essentially blank slates who I wouldn’t recognise if I didn’t know who they were supposed to be.

44. Rant about something writing related.

God, my main writing rants are at myself. Like when I find something I wrote years ago (because I didn't write basically anything between 2017-2021) and I'm like "ooh this is good!" and I've left it halfway through a crucial sentence and because it's been years I can't remember where it was going and I have to abandon it because I don't have the mental room for another WIP right now. But also sometimes these pieces are helpful and fit into other things I’m working on, so swings and roundabouts.

And also just the way I write which is random scenes as they come to me, which I think isn’t an uncommon way to write but I would like it if I made it easier for myself and had a brain that could write chronologically. And I also wish I didn't forget the scenes/sentences I think of on public transport or when I'm in bed about to fall asleep.

More generally, I think the attitude towards writing in fandom needs recalibrating. Writing is a skill, editing is an important part of writing. Within fandom I think you should write for yourself, put what you want to see out there, but at the same time if you rush it and immediately publish it and then get upset that you haven’t had as much engagement as you’d like then maybe just take more time with your work, spend time with it, edit even if it’s just one word or letter at a time. Knowing where you’re headed also immediately makes your work more cohesive because I feel like it’s very clear when a writer has absolutely no idea and just wants to get the first chapter out there for the validation of it, or when a work jumps from one point to the other with no real character journey to get there and like yeah, the release at the end is great but the pay-off is better with the build-up. If it’s for fun and you don’t care, go for it, but I think there’s a lot of entitlement in writing these days that is unsustainable.

#ask #i try so hard to not be salty and mean anymore that i can't tell if this is mean or mild #i think it;s fine

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serpenteve · 3 years

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i feel like there was clearly a split in the writing's room not only when it comes to Alekasander but also Alina's character. It's absolutely nonsenscial to me to have claim you want to give your main character more agency even changing the pivotal intimate scene between her and the suppsoed vilalin and then packpadall and say that he was just distracting her and didn't really want her to be powerful in that deux ex machina scene when it makes no sense in the show wtf?!

There's is certainly a lot of whiplash concerning the Darkling going from being Alina's #1 simp and being in damn near tears whenever he looks at her to.......dramatically declaring "but why would we destroy the fold when it's the greatest weapon we have muhahahahaha!!!" 😂

At least in the books, with the Darkling playing his true feelings close to his chest, the transformation didn't feel like it came out of nowhere.

I am pretty sure there is a Darklina shipper and anti on the writing team and I'm pretty sure Leigh has some authorial weight to throw around as well. I think she might be a little pissed that Ben went and humanized the hell out of him by making the Darkling such an overt simp because it will sway people away from her endgame ship. But I feel that even Ben is frustrated with his character being the villain because in his interviews, he's kind of like "ughh but WHY does he have to be so evil, they COULD HAVE HAD IT ALL"

So even he sees the wasted potential of Darklina ☠️

#viv answers #i just can't understand what leigh wanted darklina to be in the books #like was it a doomed ship?#a ship you were supposed to like but then abandon halfway through?#just 100% bait to up sales??

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babbushka · 3 years

Text

Fathoms Below

Pirate Captain!Kylo Ren x Reader

17.2k ; CW: Graphic descriptions of violence, death, murder, sword fighting, blood & injury, mention of corpses, possessive behavior, NSFW (PIV, oral sex [F receiving] fingering, rough sex, praise kink)

Available on AO3

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

He can still remember it, all these years later.

He can remember the very first voyage, bright eyed and bushy-tailed, flush of excitement high on the bridge of his nose. As Kylo’s crew sails the Silencer through the calm waters of the Atlantic, he cannot help but remember. The crew know better than to question him now, lest they fancy a trip off the plank, so as the deep blue waters of the ocean split beneath the bow of his ship, Kylo climbs up to the bowsprit and straddles the long wooden post, letting out a deep breath.

The horizon is unchanging, as she ever is. Kylo squints into the orange of the setting sun, watching as the waves catch and sparkle in the froth that it makes as it breaks against the wooden hull of the vessel he has commandeered now for longer than he has lived ashore.

“Where are you?” He asks out into the waves, casts his voice as far as it will go, desperate beyond measure, sick with the want of seeing you again, as he remembers.

Oh, I bid farewell to the port and the land

And I paddle away from brave England's white sands

To search for my long ago forgotten friends

To search for the place I hear all sailers end

As the souls of the dead fill the space of my mind

I'll search without sleeping 'til peace I can find

I fear not the weather, I fear not the sea

I remember the fallen, do they think of me?

When their bones in the ocean forever will be…

He had been naught but nineteen, when the maiden voyage of HMS Finalizer sets sail. A crew of nearly three hundred men hoisted the sails of the warship, led by the decrepit Captain Snoke as they embark on a crusade of sorts in the warmer waters away from Liverpool. The old man, a battle-worn scoundrel with a sunken in face and long white beard has given this young boy his first chance of the open seas, and said boy has taken it. On his first voyage ever, the young skipper leaves behind the world of the land to instead live out his days on the sea.

And what a magical world it is! A world of adventure, loyalty and trust, of code and honor – unlike the petty realm of government and policy which he has so quickly abandoned, the realm of his mother and uncle; no, a desk job was never in the cards for him, not for him. He longed for the sea, and now he has her. Much like a sponge that lives on the bottom of the depths, he soaks up knowledge and skill as fast as he can, they will not regret the day they brought him aboard. For weeks he studies and practices and learns the ropes, learns the nature of the Finalizer and how to care for her.

He meets a band of older gentlemen, who take him under his wing. Vicrul was the navigator, he taught the young boy how to read the stars with just his eyes and his compass. Cardo was the boatswain, and he taught the young boy how to seal the ropes so the braids wouldn’t rot, how to swab the deck until the floorboards shone. Ushar was the master gunner, who taught the boy how to load and fire the cannons, taught him to be grateful he wasn’t a powder monkey scampering through the rigging. Trudgen was the carpenter and taught the boy how to repair the holes which inevitably would find their way into the hull of their ship, taught the boy how to repair just about anything he could think of. Kuruk, the surgeon, taught the boy how to fix everything that Trugden could not.

And Ap'lek, why he might be the most important of the gentlemen of all, for Ap’lek was a musician and could play nearly any instrument placed in his lap. It is with Ap’lek that the boy spends much of his time, learning the melodies and harmonies of the sea, for it is by song which the whole ship works, and the ship does not work without it.

It is a song that they are singing now, the young boy in line with a row of far stronger and taller men. The salty spray of the sea splashes onto his face, as the skipper’s muscles are put to good use on the long-haul, as he and his brothers call out in time to the songs that the shanty master belts out with his strong lungs. That had been the one question Captain Snoke had asked of him,

“I’m fast, and strong, Captain, and am an excellent climber – ” He had boasted proudly, puffed his chest up to mask the lank of his limbs.

“Aye,” The old man had cut him off, glanced him up and down, “But can ye sing?”

Even if he hadn’t he would have lied, he supposes.

And even if he hadn’t, he would have learned soon enough. As he hoists himself up the ropes, as he feels the breeze and the sun in his hair, he thinks he might fancy being a shanty master himself one day. The work is hard, the work is brutal, but the songs make it worth it, they pass the time and fill everyone with a spirit that pushes the ship forward.

He had sailed halfway through the Atlantic fighting the enemy, blowing holes in the hull of their ships where he knew they had not a Trugden nor an Ushar to defend themselves, and in those few weeks he felt he had already outgrown this ship. Lying awake at night, he wished for a chance to one day commandeer his own, how he would be a far better captain than the likes of Snoke. If there was one thing he learned all on his own, it was that he would do anything to be rid of Snoke.

Oh, if only he had watched his words.

The storm comes as storms often do – a whipped up frenzy of wind and wave, Poseidon’s fury crashing down around them. Startled awake, his vision shorts out as the ship is illuminated by bright cracks of lightning as the sea churns inky black below. It crept up to them at night, with no warning save for the pressure in the air. That pressure, and the creaking groaning planks of the ship, the rocking of her belly.

By the time the storm was noticed by the rest of the crew, it was too late. Lightning strikes the staffs and catches the sails on fire, alarm bells ring, men shout and shout and shout and pray.

“All hands on deck!” Cardo’s booming voice rises above the thunder, above the shouts of concern that pour from the hammocks high in the rigging where the boys all sleep.

Down down down the shrouds they rush, shrouds which the wind whips and flings about in a panic. The integrity of the Finalizer is tested now, for they have survived cannons, but gunpowder is no match for the fury of the sea. The young boy feels a spike of adrenaline in his chest, this is the first storm he has ever seen, and he has a sickening feeling that it might be his last.

Heave and ho, the winds send the ship headed towards rocks hidden underneath the waves, a gash too large torn through the starboard side, water flooding in. He does not know which way to go – to pump the water out, to hoist the sails, to put the fires out; there is chaos, and he does not know where to begin. Men rush past him as the ship tils and lurches from one side to the next, chests and barrels and piles of supplies sliding dangerously to and fro, knocking crewmen over the sides before the swelling crashing deadly waves have a chance to sweep them off their feet.

Waves some twenty, thirty feel tall curl in on themselves and smash down onto the deck, and now those shouts turn to screams, as they realize, as they all realize there is no saving this vessel. Lightning strikes, and he is pushed, urged towards a small boat, and he does not know how if they cannot survive on the big ship, how a little one would be of much help.

“To the rowboats -- !” Someone calls, the boy does not know who, not in this frenzy. His vision is shaking, as he runs and runs from one side of the ship to another, trying to stay level, trying to stay upright as the Finalizer nearly capsizes.

“There’s no time!” Ushar growls, the pipe he holds clenched between his teeth nearly splitting in two, as lightning strikes once more, as flaming bits of sail flutter around and land on the flesh of men.

“Captain – where is the captain?” The boy demands, because surely Snoke must know what to do, Snoke is the only one who can give orders – except when he sees Snoke, he sees him frantically rowing out in the distance, far greater distance that he should have been able to row in the storm like this. The boy is thrown against the rail of the ship with another lurch from the waves, and he panics, “What is he doing?”

“Don’t be daft son, he’s leaving us to die.” Vicrul sneers, water sloshing in a grand arc behind him, lightning illuminating the mouth of gold teeth he sports, his mouth turned into a grimace.

That was the first time in the young boy’s life, where he truly felt fear. Snoke must have sensed the storm coming, and instead of raising the alarms, he had snuck out like a snake in the night. And in doing so, his captain had condemned them all.

“Will we?” The boy asks with terror in his wide brown eyes, as Kuruk and Ap’lek can only stare at one another (years later, sitting here on the bowsprit, he realizes that they were trying to find a way to say I love you before it was too late).

He does not get an answer, before the cold smack of water carries him off and away, as the body of the ship splits in two, as lightning and thunder sear into his brain. Someone shouts for him, but he cannot hear them, all he can hear is the rushing thrumming sound of the ocean.

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

Beneath the waves, it is calm.

More than calm, it is quiet. He cannot remember a time where it had ever been so quiet. Up above the waterline, he knows it must be hell, but down here in the embrace of the sea, there is naught he can do but listen to the quiet and feel the burn in his lungs. The world around him is black from the lack of the sun, but the flashes of lightning way above him send shimmers of rich emerald greens all around.

The currents are too strong, there is no fighting them. With the burn in his lungs only growing, growing more desperate for air that will not come, The boy sinks sinks sinks, a chest of cannon balls pinned to his stomach, sending him deeper.

He thinks of his mother, he thinks of the look on her face when he told her he would follow in his father’s footsteps for a life on the sea.

He thinks of his father, of the smuggler’s word he had given to come back home.

It looks like neither of the men in Leia’s life would be making good on their promises of return, he thinks.

An impossibly darker blackness creeps up through the corners of his vision, and he feels empty, so empty. The lightning a thousand feet up ahead crackles through the water, as he begins to slip away. A last burst of breath bubbles out of his mouth, the water is cold as his back hits the soft sand of the ocean’s floor.

He stares straight up and takes one final look at the watery world above him, and he resigns himself to his fate – when the last flash of lightning backlights a figure bolting towards him, arms outstretched, fingers spread in a frantic push to grab him.

With the last of his strength, though his body is crushed, he lifts one hand out to meet them.

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

He rests at the bottom of the ocean, as your fingers twine through his. Your hair is long and it flows around your face, a face which he cannot see and yet somehow can see perfectly. Your eyes glow white, so brightly that it illuminates the space like the lightning, but instead of a mere flash, it is a steady glow, much like a lighthouse on a craggy shore.

However it is not your eyes which captivate him, it is your body. For one, he has never seen a naked woman’s breasts before, and so the sight of your chest uncovered is a sight he fixates on, but only for a moment as he realizes very quickly that in the place where your legs should be, is a great and glorious tail.

It is long and glittering as the light from your eyes reflects off the scales, and he has a hard time believing that this is real, that you are real, especially when you open your mouth and speak aloud to him under the water, asking, “What is your name?”

The burn in his lungs is no more, he realizes, and when he breathes in, water does not fill the empty spaces inside of him.

“Am I dead?” He whispers, finding with relative ease that he can sit up, there on the ocean floor.

He looks around himself, sees the fallen sailors with whom he had just been singing not two hours ago, sees the debris of the ship which has sunk in large shattered pieces, nestled all around. The flag of Great Britain tattered and torn, mocking them all as the current creates an illusion that it is waving.

You smile curiously at him, settling yourself around him, your tail draped over his lap as you check him for injury.

“No, would you like to be?” You reply, and he’s not so sure he believes you, for such a thing as this cannot be possible, not in a million years, it cannot be.

“No – I – ” He stutters, watches as bubbles dance up to the surface.

“Your name, sailor.” You ask again with a gentle smile, and he hesitates.

His name, what was his name? He had one of course, but…but was that really his name? No, it wasn’t, he reasons. That was a name he had been given, one laden with expectation and pressure that he never wished to inherit. Even aboard the ship, he was not called by his name – although his nickname wasn’t much better. He makes a decision then, a decision he had longed to make when he was alive.

Because surely he was dead, and if he were a dead man, then at least he would die the man he wanted to be, as opposed to the man the world told him he had to become.

“Kylo Ren.” The name leaves his lips with a certainty that he did not know he possessed, especially for saying the name out loud for the first time. He had called himself Kylo in secret for years, and somehow, it felt good to have that secret come to light, even if it were too late.

“Kylo Ren.” You repeat, and he finds that it sounds even better coming from your lips, the sound almost intoxicating, your voice and cadence of speaking music to his ears. “’Tis a strong name, that one. How many years do you have under your sails, Kylo?”

“I – this is my first time.” Kylo admits, and your white glowing eyes widen, a hand on your chest in surprise.

“First time out at sea and already caught in my storm? You’re either very lucky, or very unlucky.” You shake your head, your hair following in a rippling motion, floating in the water.

“You’re beautiful.” Kylo says, as he feels his heart opening up, as he feels the burn of his lungs returning, the chill of the water a contrast on his skin once more.

“I know.” You grin, too many teeth in your mouth, and it is then that Kylo’s mind begins to catch up with him.

“Did you say your storm?” He asks, air bubbling out of his mouth, air that he didn’t know he possessed, air that he knows now that you’ve given him.

Kylo doesn’t know how, but he knows he is not dead, he knows that you have done something, you wield some power of the deep. He knows that you have saved him.

“Lucky, I think.” You laugh, the sound more melodic than any of Ap’lek’s songs could ever be, the sound filling filling filling Kylo with air. “Yes, I daresay you’re lucky.”

“I – are you an angel?” Kylo frowns, as he feels the chest of cannon balls slip away from his legs, feeling regaining in his limbs once more. The water rushes and thrums around him, but he doesn’t feel afraid, not as you take him by the hand and lead him slowly up to the surface.

“An angel? No, no I’m something far more sinister.” Your scales shimmer and glimmer and glitter in the moonlight, the waves are calm once more as you swim with him up up up.

“You’re so beautiful.” Kylo says, because he can’t think of anything else to say, and this pleases you, and he finds that he would very much like to spend the rest of his life making you happy.

Through the surface of the water Kylo’s face breaks, and all at once lungs fill with real air, salty briny moonlit air, and he gulps it down, coughs and splutters water. Kylo’s limbs are sore, he’s freezing cold, he feels sick – and all of this lets him know he is well and truly alive.

You’re watching him intently, watching him carefully, your eyes no longer glowing now that your face is out of the water. Guiding him to a rowboat which sits empty atop the water, you help him into it.

He doesn’t want to let go of your hand.

“Promise me something, and I won’t drown you.” You tease, although Kylo cannot tell that you are teasing, he’s too in shock of how he is here – of why he is here and his fellow brothers remain at the bottom of the ocean.

“Anything.” The word tumbles easily, quickly, and you tsk against the roof of your mouth, shaking your head.

“’Anything’ is a dangerous word to be said to a mermaid.” You whisper, but Kylo doesn’t care.

“I’ll do anything.” He insists, feeling in his heart, in his very core, that he wants to be with you forever. He’d sell his soul, to be with you forever.

So when you smile sadly at him, and give his palms a tight squeeze, before you slip your hands away and begin to sink back down into the water, until Kylo cannot see your beautiful breasts or your too-sharp teeth, until all that can be seen of you are your eyes which begin to glow once more, he panics with confusion.

“Grow up, big and strong, live long.” Your voice swirls around inside his head, and he rushes to the side of the rowboat to reach for you, even after you have submerged yourself fully, he still reaches, “Come find me when you have commanded the respect of the ocean upon a ship of your own. Find me, and tell me you’ll do anything for me then.”

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

Plot a course to the night to a place I once knew

To a place where my hope died along with my crew

So I swallow my grief and face life's final test

To find promise of peace and the solace of rest

As the songs of the dead fill the space of my ears

Their laughter like children, their beckoning cheers

My heart longs to join them, sing songs of the sea

I remember the fallen, do they think of me?

When their bones in the ocean forever will be

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

The black sails of the Silencer are puffed full with wind, full speed ahead as they exit Port Royal. Sitting atop the bowsprit, Kylo stares into the glittering ocean, the horizon casting golden rays of light through the deep blue sea. His crew is merry, the weather is pleasant, and yet still a sour feeling lingers in his stomach.

Where were you? Surely now was the time, was it not? Kylo had grown, oh how he had grown, both in size and stature indeed. But more than that, he had done as you asked – as he had always wanted to do. There were no man so fearsome as that of Captain Ren, no ship that saw the sails of the Silencer and won the battle which soon followed.

His chests were filled with gold, which he sold for a pretty penny to the highest bidder, and often reserved himself a chest or two to simply fill his tub with and bathe in the riches. His barrels were filled with rum and food, his crew never having gone hungry, not even for one meal. His wardrobe was filled with expensive silks and linens, donning himself in clothes fit for a leader, but ensuring his crew were dressed as lavishly – these reasons and more are why year after year his crew elected him Captain.

In fact, the annual election had just taken place at the docks of Port Royal, where it was a unanimous vote. Kylo should be celebrating, he should be naked in a brothel surrounded by gorgeous men and women – it was the 1660s after all – he should be drinking to his heart’s content and pleasuring himself with life’s greatest fortunes.

Instead, he sits up on the bowsprit, and speaks to the sea with a melancholic eye. A single eye, for that’s all he has left, the other blinded in a battle he fought many a year ago. His crew takes notice to this, and as they perform their mid-morning duties, a few of them gossip among themselves, as pirates are often wont to do.

“He’s up there again?” A nimble fingered lad named Mitaka, not more than fifteen years of age, speaks up as he braids rope with the efficacy of a man with decades of practice. He had just joined the Silencer’s crew, had practically begged Kylo to take him aboard back in Port Royal, and though the Captain had a reputation for being volatile and coarse, he never turned away a face in need.

“Aye, with the telescope, same as every day.” His hammock-neighbor, Thannison, pipes up from his spot not too far across the deck, on his hands and knees scrubbing away.

“What’s he lookin’ for d’ya reckon?” Mitaka wonders aloud with the sort of curious nature that only someone young as he could still possess.

Thannison looks around, checks over his shoulder and then casts a glance up to the Captain himself, to Kylo who is unmoving, sitting far and away high above them all.

“A mermaid.” He whispers, and even though he is careful, the breeze still carries his voice, the word reaching the ears of the Silencer’s navigator, an ex-General of the Royal Navy.

“A myth, more like.” Hux scoffs with a roll of his eye, drawing the attention of Victoria the First Mate, a woman stronger than half the men aboard the ship combined.

“Don’t let the Captain hear ye talkin’ that way, what he’s lookin’ for ain’t none of our business.” She stands at the helm, not that there’s much work to be done now on such calm waters. They’re traveling windward to their great advantage, and the skies do their part in keeping the seas steady.

“But it is, isn’t it? We’re his crew, we sail his ship, don’t you think it’s our business what we’re lookin’ for?” Hux mutters, where he is reviewing charts over yonder portside.

“I said – ” Victoria storms over with her thick soled boots, storms straight through the freshly scrubbed floor poor Thannison had just polished, to shove a menacing blade of her short dagger in the direction of Hux’s narrowed eyes, “Don’t. Let. The Captain. Hear.”

Little displays of animosity like this were not rare among the crew, as pirates generally weren’t the most easy-to-get-along-with types, but Mitaka watches with a curious eye as Victoria walks away, down through a hatch in the deck, no doubt to retire to her rooms for the afternoon.

“You’d think she’d be in better spirits, what with seein’ her wife ‘n all.” He offers up, makin’ just about everyone within earshot chuckle.

“We could have been in port for a month, and Victoria would miss Gwen the moment they part.” Thannison replies, and this at least, Mitaka can understand.

“Does the Captain miss his mermaid?” He asks, eager to learn everything, eager to know, “Is she even real?”

“He says she is, but no man nor lass has ever seen her, and certainly never come back alive. They say she saved him on the night the Finalizer sank – that he was the only one she saved.” Hux throws a wary glance up to Kylo, who remains unchanged up on the bowsprit.

“Why?” Mitaka wonders aloud softly.

“No one knows.” Hux replies just as softly, for this truly is the one question which hangs on everyone’s mind, the one question that only Kylo would know, but even he is at a loss for the answers. “But as long as I’ve been aboard this ship, he has been looking for her. Now, no more questions, don’t you have rope to braid?”

“Aye sir!” Mitaka busies himself with his tasks once more, and Kylo, high up above them all, is grateful for it.

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

Of course he knows the rumors that spread, the worries that he is going mad. Much like a man chasing an elusive ship, or a hunt for treasure that didn’t exist, those who knew Kylo knew him to be a man fixated on the impossible. They say he has been on the sea too long, that twenty years should be his limit. Others say he is a drunk, and that his stories of a finned woman with long hair and glowing eyes can only be the result of a blackout.

No one says any of this to his face, for they would be run clean through with his saber if they did, but he knows, oh how he knows they say it.

Kylo often wonders if maybe they’re right, if maybe all this is for naught. If perhaps, ‘twas a delusional vision of a boy clinging to death, an overactive imagination. He supposes he will soon find out, for if there were ever come a time where he was Ready, it would be now.

He has sunk a hundred ships, he has slain more than twice that number of men with his own sword. He has sailed to the very corners of the ocean, has made friend and foe in every port known to privateer. The world knows his name, even if they cannot catch his ship. But none of that would matter, if you did not think so.

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

The sunlight glimmers on the water, and Kylo’s eye is drawn to a shifting movement in the waves at once. In an instant, his heart rate picks up, for he’s certain he’s just seen a flipper, certain of it!

Standing up and steadying himself on the long wooden beam, holding onto the ropes which are tied down to the wooden mast for balance, Kylo sheds himself of his hat, his coat, his saber and gun, before he sprints down the length of the bowsprit, until there is no wood beneath his feet, and he is swan diving into the ocean below.

On deck, all activity ceases, as the entire crew races to the bow to try and see where Kylo had gone. His hat and coat and loose artifacts fall into the hands of the men and women that make up Kylo’s ship, and they all clutch to them tightly, for they know how much Kylo cares about his clothes.

“Captain?” Hux shouts, cups his hands around his mouth and booms with exasperation, “Captain Ren – oh god dammit, Kylo!”

“What in the blazes does that boy think he’s doin’?” A gruff voice sounds from further back, and everyone’s eye turns to the young boy who is shedding his clothes too, looking for all intents and purposes that he’s going to do something rash.

“We have to go after him!” Mitaka’s face is bleak with worry, thinking that Kylo might have fallen over or been knocked down by the winds, that he must be injured or drowned.

But the First Mate knows better, and with a shake of her head and a resigned sigh at Kylo’s theatrics, she whistles for attention and all stand still to listen.

“He’ll come back, let him go.” Victoria puts a firm hand on Mitaka’s chest to prevent him from jumping overboard too. Everyone listens to her, Mitaka included, although he cannot stop staring out at the sea, watching for Kylo.

Since that fateful night, Kylo had trained himself how to hold his breath and how to swim well, skills which serve him now more than ever, as he chases what he thinks to be your tail. His legs propel him, muscular thick thighs that work double time, as his rippling biceps cut through the water, his body built but streamlined.

Where are you where are you where are you?

It’s all he can think, until he cannot think of anything but air, and he kicks towards the surface as seagulls caw above him, the sun blinding in a blaze of orange. With a deep sigh, he allows himself to float, his arms and legs spread out like a starfish on a rock, the sun warming his skin.

“If I am not ready now, will I ever be?” He asks aloud, wondering, hoping that you can hear him.

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

When he returns to his ship, he is met with not a single questioning glance, and for this he is grateful. His pride is hurt, his ego wounded, he cannot understand what he’s done wrong to make you keep him waiting this way. Slinking into his quarters, he strips down out of his wet clothes before even checking to make sure the room is empty, and draws his sword when a creak from the grand chair in the corner alerts him.

“What were ye thinkin’ this time? Hm?” Victoria leans forward, her elbow on her knees. “That you saw her again?”

Victoria was the first person to ever give Kylo a chance, when he washed ashore at the port, a scared starving boy alone in a rowboat. With that chance, he built an empire of piracy unlike that had ever been seen, and he brought her along with him to share in the riches. She was probably the only one who could ever speak to him the way that she speaks to him now.

“As a matter o’fact, yes.” Kylo bares his gold teeth at her in a menacing sneer, and she only rolls her eyes and throws a warm dry robe into his arms. Kylo puts it on without hesitation, not really wanting to expose himself to a woman he considers more of his sister than the one he has by blood. “This is about where she was the last time, where it happened.”

Bundled up in his robe, Kylo pours Victoria a glass of rum, and she accepts it with a sigh as he lays down in his bed with a groan. She takes a sip and watches him carefully, cautiously.

“Twenty years is a long time, Kylo.” She says, and Kylo lets out a long, heavy sigh and rubs the tension from his forehead.

“Believe me, I know.” He mutters, voice deep, tired. He sounds tired, feels tired. “We stayed at port too long, I fear that’s how we missed her.”

“You know I do not doubt you that this woman once saved you. But have you thought about the possibility that something might have happened to her in all this time? That maybe she is simply not out there anymore, unable to wait for you?” Victoria speaks softly, not wanting to get Kylo angry, but wanting him to face the facts. “I worry for you sometimes Kylo, perhaps you might think of setting your sails on a different prize – ”

“She is not a prize.” Kylo snaps, leveling his First Mate with a deadly glare, the kind of glare that should send shivers of fear down a normal person’s spine. But then, Kylo deflates, and he casts his eye toward the porthole window, hoping for those flippers to surface once more as he whispers, “She is something far more precious, something that cannot be owned. If ye be so inclined to know, I spoke to her two nights ago.”

“You did?” Victoria’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes blinking in shock.

“Aye, in a dream. And she called to me, called me here, so here is where I have sailed.” Kylo spits back, and this only makes her expression soften once more. “And when we are reunited once more, you’ll all see.”

“For your own sake Kylo, I hope so.” She pats his ankle, before swinging back the rum and leaving his quarters for him to sulk.

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

He is nearly asleep, when he hears it. The whisper, the ghost of his name, drifting to his ears through that porthole window left slightly ajar. He likes to sleep in this way, likes to breathe in the salty crisp air of night, likes to listen to the gentle lap of the waves. The ship is calm, in the middle of the night, the crew asleep in their hammocks or rooms below deck. There is nothing but the creak of the wooden decks, the flutter of the sails, and the steady rocking that has Kylo this close to dreaming, when he hears it.

“Kylo Ren…” The sound makes his eyes snap open, makes his heart beat fast in his chest. He thinks he’s hearing things, maybe conjuring them up in his own mind, but no, there it is again -- “Kylo Ren...”

Out of his bed at once, he throws on clothing. Clothing he has reserved specifically for this moment, clothing he has purchased just for you. With stockings slipped up onto his legs, Kylo steps into his black breeches and tucks in a loose-fitting white linen shirt, securing his waist with a crimson sash. The very same crimson adorns his brocade waistcoat, which he buttons up so quickly and with such shaky fingers, that he has to redo it twice. He has three golden earrings in each of his ears, and two golden bands on each finger.

He doesn’t have the time to wonder if you’ll find the appearance pleasing, as he brushes through his long black hair and ties it back with a crimson ribbon, because your voice is growing louder and more clear, and he is compelled to answer it.

Buckling his boots, Kylo ascends from the suite he calls home and finds at once, a pair of white glowing eyes not far from the starboard side of the Silencer.

“It’s you!” He whispers, nearly chokes on his spit as he does it, rushing to the rail and practically falling over the edge.

He holds his breath, waiting, hoping, and then yes! Yes it is you, you flick your tail happily in the moonlight, your scales shimmering and glittering the way he has so often dreamed about. You disappear beneath the inky waves then, and when Kylo is about to protest, your beautiful body is propelled out of the water, you do an elegant flip, spraying him with seafoam playfully upon impact once again with the waves.

“I’m coming – just a moment, I’m coming!” For the first time in decades, a grin has split across Kylo’s surly face, his gold teeth reflecting the same way your scales do, and he jumps overboard, dives down into the water for the second time, knowing this time, you’re really there.

The sound of your laughter fills the spaces between the scars of his flesh, makes him whole, for the first time since he was a young boy. Your arms encircle him when he swims swims swims as fast as he can to reach you, and you surprise him by being faster – your tail propelling you forward more quickly than his mere legs ever could. Your reunion sings through the ocean, and he cannot take his palms away from your cheeks, he cannot look away from your glowing eyes, he does not want to, not now, not after so long.

You hug him then, floating on your back so he can be propped up atop your breast, and not accidentally pushed under the water. The two of you embrace in every sense of the word, and Kylo is thankful for the sea, for masking the tears of relief he feels.

When he leans his head in towards you, you do not deny him the kiss he so desperately seeks, and this kiss – though it is not Kylo’s first – fills him with a sense of completeness that has him groaning into your mouth. You smile against his lips, you let him wind a hand into your hair, another groping at your breast. The surface of the water is calm, there are no waves now to rock you both, and so you can indulge in one another like this lazily.

There is so much Kylo wants to ask you, so much he has to say, but in this moment, your union transcends language, as your minds meld together, a gate of sorts opening, letting the floodwaters free. He slides his tongue against yours and sighs into your mouth, clutches at you tightly, out in the open sea. If this were to take place inside his cabin, he knows the inside of the windows would be fogged from the heat that he can feel curling around your bodies.

“Kylo Ren.” You break the kiss at last, if only to give Kylo a chance to breathe, but you do not go far. You rest your forehead against his and he strains to look at you in the dark, through the closeness. “I have heard of the stories, how they echoed across the sea.”

“You’re here, it’s you, you’re real and you’re here.” Pride wells up in Kylo’s chest, his ego inflamed, knowing the tales of his legacy have reached you. That is all he has ever wanted, and it is indescribable the way he feels knowing that in this he has succeeded.

“Of course I am, I told you I would be when you were ready for me, didn’t I?” You pet back the long dark locks that curl and cling to his wet cheeks, a thumb soothing across his lips as you lean in for another chaste kiss.

“You never told me your name.” Kylo says, because it is something he has wondered for twenty years, a question he has had burning inside his soul for just as long.

“My name? Hmm I have had many.” Chuckling, you duck your head, bashful. No one has ever asked you for your name, not once. “Names that have been given to me, names I have been called, many names. But tell me, what do you call me in your mind? When you lie awake at night and think of me, what slips past your lips?”

This sends a shiver of desire down Kylo’s spine, the way that you lean in and speak into his mouth, the way you smudge the words against his lips, your wet lashes dragging and brushing against his cheek. He’s halfway hard as it is, the thick line of his cock pressing through the layers of his soaking wet clothes, and all he can do about it is sigh, as he gropes at your breast once more.

“The only sounds I utter are the groans of pleasure which come from the very thought of you.” Kylo’s voice rumbles through his chest and into yours, and you grin, ducking your head, bashful.

“You’re charming. You may call me (Y/N).” You whisper to him like it is some secret, something that neither the moon nor the stars is privy to hear.

“Will you come aboard my ship (Y/N)?” He tests the name out on his tongue, and your scales shimmer with the way it sounds. That makes his pride swell further, makes his cock harder, but not so hard that he loses the clarity of mind to ask, “Can you?”

Your smile falters, but not by much. That beautiful tail breaks the surface once more, shimmering, ethereal before him. Kylo is mesmerized, he has always been mesmerized by you, but you being here in front of him, mesmerizing him now, is far better than the way he has lost himself in his dreams.

“I cannot, not like this. If my scales dry, then I die. So, in the water I must remain.” You explain, and Kylo tries not to let his heart break.

“I see.” He refuses to accept this, even though he understands why it must be so. He refuses, he has not come this far to leave you now.

Noticing his apparent distress, you hug him closer, kiss at his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

“There is…a way.” You start, licking your lips nervously, your voice hushed in the night.

“Tell it to me, I want to help you, the way you helped me.” Kylo replies at once, a sense of urgency in his voice, thinly veiled desperation.

You turn your gaze away from him, your eyes like two beams of starlight, shooting out into the black abyss. Kylo had nearly forgotten that the two of you were floating in the open ocean just next to his ship, until you illuminated the world beyond.

“There is a cave ahead, beyond the craggy rocks.” You say ominously, half-afraid he’ll take you up on the offer, “Only a creature on two legs can reach it, for it is up above the water’s edge.”

“What secrets does it hide? What must I bring back for you?” He takes you up on it immediately, knowing that whatever he has been training for, whatever he has been doing with his life, all that he has learned, has led him to this moment for you.

“A golden medallion strung on a black cord.” Your eyes glow brighter with each word you speak, and Kylo finds himself getting pulled into your story with bated breath. “Decades ago, long ‘fore even you were born, ‘twas stolen from me by a man with a long white beard. He snuck upon me whilst I was asleep one day, tore it from ‘round my throat. I got my revenge on him -- killed him for it, sunk his ship in my storm, but the medallion was no longer in his possession when he drowned. I demanded to know what he had done with it, and with his dying breath he taunted and teased how I’d never reach it.”

“Until now.” Kylo assumes, because you are regarding him with such hope that he knows he cannot let you down. You saved his life, the very least he can do is repay you in this small way.

You crowd his space, your hands on his cheeks once again, your lips brushing against his own.

“I’ll go with you, I can show you the way.” You whisper, kissing him, thankful, hopeful, elated in a way that makes Kylo’s heart beat beat beat loud in his chest.

“When?” He demands, a voice commanding and fit for a Captain.

“Now.” You grin, taking him by the hand in a way that Kylo has memorized in his sleep, and leading him back to the side of his ship where he might climb up the notches in the hull to reach the deck once again.

“Now?” He blinks, having hoped that he could perhaps spend some time with you in his nice warm bed…he would have found a way around your hydration needs, he would have --

“We must go before the dawn breaks, the waters are dangerous when It wakes.” You interrupt his internal monologue, and there is something chilling about the way that your voice catches. “Take the rowboat, you’ll need your strength.”

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

Kylo rows the small vessel through the blackness of night, the clouds having covered the pale shine of the moon. It is no matter, because your eyes glow in a beacon of their own, as you swim beside him. Keeping in time with his pace, your fin lazily pushes you forward, and in the quiet, Kylo decides on which of his millions of questions he wants to ask you first.

“Do you live here?” He settles on. He means both the cove you lead him to and the waters around Port Royal, wondering why in all the time he has spent here, he has never seen you.

“Yes…and no. The ocean in her entirety is my home, I swim from place to place as I please, and sleep wherever my head rests.” You explain, your voice calm and thoughtful. Kylo commits your answer to memory, wanting to absorb every piece of knowledge about you that he can as you continue, “Sometimes that’s a port such as this, sometimes it’s an anchor on a ship, other times it’s on my back, floating in the sunshine. Although I’ve been nearly harpooned that way, so I don’t do it often.”

The humor in your voice at the harpoon mention is lost on Kylo, and he nearly stops rowing as he processes your words, as he dares not to get his hopes up. He does not, however stop rowing, because your earlier comment of a Thing in the waters makes him want to complete this mission as quickly as possible.

“When you say the anchor of a ship, you don’t mean…?” Still, he has to know.

You’re quiet then for a moment, and he knows his suspicions are confirmed, by the very hesitation in your voice.

“I check on you, now and again.” You admit, making him feel both absolutely fucking elated that he has been right all along, and devastated that you have been so close and somehow, somehow always just out of reach. “I always have, wanting to make sure you were safe.”

“And you never said anything?” Kylo doesn’t restrain the question, trying not to let his temper get the better of him.

He thinks of all the ridicule he could have been spared, all the doubt, all the sleepless nights of worry that he was losing his mind, if only you had said something. But then again, he reasons, he wouldn’t be the person he is today, had he not gotten into those fist fights for standing up for his dignity, and then maybe you never would have deemed him ready.

“I couldn’t interfere, that wouldn’t be fair to you.” You explain, proving his reasoning to be correct. You don’t sound apologetic, nor regretful for it as you say, “I wanted you to become a person of your own right, your own making, free of influence from anyone, even myself.”

That hits him hard, square in the chest. And at first he doesn’t know why, but then he realizes…you’re the only person he has ever known to want that for him. He thinks back through all the people in his life; his mother wanted him to be a politician, his uncle wanted him to be a educator. His father was gone, and Snoke…well.

Snoke only found him useful to meet his own ends, and much like the rest of the world, cast him aside when he had had enough. Even the gentlemen with whom he had spent most of his time before that fateful night had hoped he would one day grow up like them.

Kylo cannot be angry with you now, he knows, not that he was ever really angry with you to begin with. How could he, when you are the only thing in the world who has never had any expectation of him, other for him to be himself?

“I spoke to you, night after night I spoke to you.” Kylo whispers into the dark, thinking of all the nights he had spent up on the bowsprit, above a masthead carved in your image, speaking to the wooden mermaid wishing wishing wishing instead he were speaking to you.

Your tail cuts through the water as you swim alongside him in the rowboat, and you whisper just as softly, “I heard you.”

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

The rest of the short journey is done in silence, mostly so that Kylo can prepare himself mentally for whatever awaits him. It looks sinister, a gaping maw protruding from the water, like a mouth with craggy and jagged teeth of rock. The light from your eyes shines into the opening of the cave, but it only shines so far before the dark of the dark swallows it whole.

“Do you see it? The cave?” You ask him softly, drawing his attention from his own thoughts to the massive structure before you both.

“Just up ahead, yes. It’s dark, but I can see it.” He answers, taking in a deep breath. He had never been particularly afraid of the dark, or of the unknown, but there is a distinct sinister energy that crackles through the air that Kylo can feel; it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“You must leave the boat behind now, do not be afraid, the water is warm, and I am here with you.” You assure him, offering him a hand that like moth to a flame, he is compelled to take.

He finds that the water is not deep here, he can wade through it and it only reaches his knees. You lay low, your free hand trailing along the soft sand as your tail swishes through the water, moving forward with him as he leaves the rowboat behind.

“You’re coming with me?” He frowns, unsure if he wants you in as much danger as you warn there may be.

But then again, he should know better than to question you in something like this, particularly when your eyes glow brighter and they shine across the sea, as you nod. Swimming beside him, neither in front nor behind him, you assert yourself as his equal in this regard, heading into the dark unknown together.

“As far as I can go, I am coming with you.” Your eyes glow, and he somehow, feels safe.

The water grows cold, the closer to the cave you and Kylo get. Kylo’s legs can feel the chill, can feel the change in the temperature. There is a humming from within, a rumbling sound that he cannot identify, and so in response, he trains his eye and his ear to be on high alert. The only other noises are the intermittent drip drip drips of water from the roof of the cave landing in the pools below – pools, because the deeper into the cave, the more shallow it becomes, until there is no more depth for you to stay submerged in.

Kylo looks at you, and you blink, the light from your eyes blipping momentarily. You turn your gaze towards the chasm before you, your eyes a lantern of their own for Kylo to see by. He doesn’t want to part from you, but he knows that when he returns, you will never have to part again.

“You must not dawdle, it must be fast.” You murmur softly, not looking at him, looking instead at the chasm, your voice taking on a strange quality that he cannot place. It sounds too familiar, like the way it had all garbled under the water when you saved him from drowning. The hair on the back of his neck does not go down. “Get in, grab the medallion – and only the medallion -- and get out.”

“Why?” He can’t help but ask, the pet-name slipping out of his mouth before he can think to ask if it’s alright, “Darling, what will I find in that cave?”

You still do not look at him, your gaze unwavering, unchanging. It is more unsettling than the rumbling, but Kylo doesn’t bring any attention to it. The medallion is in there, and you want it. You want it, and so Kylo will bring it to you.

“I do not know. Only, I have never seen anyone come back out, once they have gone inside.” You eventually say, quickly following up with, “You need not go, if you don’t think you are ready.”

There is no thought in his mind that Kylo would risk death for you, not know. In many ways, he has spent the last two decades living on borrowed time. In many ways, he has been a dead man walking for half of his life. If he were to die in this cave, it would be a death long overdue, Kylo knows.

“I have trained for twenty years to be ready. There is nothing more I could do to prepare me, if I fail now, I will have failed another twenty years ahead.” Kylo dismisses the idea of turning back now as quickly as you have offered it, pulling his sword out of its sheath which is strapped to his hip.

The metal glints from the light of your eyes, for they have finally turned to face him, the full effect of their glow making him feel as thought it were day, as if time had stood still in a moment of lightning.

“You are strong, you will not fail.” You speak with reassurance, and with those parting words, he steps out of the shallow water and onto the slippery rock floor of the cave, his descent into the chasm begun.

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

The deeper into the cave Kylo goes, the colder it becomes.

Soon he is out of the scope of your powerful eyes, and has nothing but the feeling of his fingers brushing against the cave wall to guide him. His eye does its best to adjust, and he curses himself internally, for maybe if he had both his pupils, he could see better in the pitch black. His footing is careful, the floor is slippery. Even though his boots are meant to withstand such slide, he still takes caution to not step somewhere which will twist his ankle, which will buckle his knee, which will make him fall to depths he cannot see.

His ears are trained still, and he halts at every moment in which he hears something that could be a threat, pausing just for a second or two to ensure that he need not his sword nor his fists to protect himself. Every time, he decides he is safe. He does not let his guard down, but Kylo moves through the cave with a bit more confidence; clearly if something were to kill him, or present itself as a challenge at least, it would have done so by now.

And what’s more – light, up ahead! A gap in the ceiling allows the moonlight to shine through, the clouds which have covered it having moved along on their path across the sea. Never before has Kylo felt so grateful for the moon in all his years, and as he steps into the light that it shines, his eye widens at the sight before him.

Gold, mountains of it. Piles taller than he stands, and oh does he stand tall. Glittering twinkling gold, but wait, no, not just gold, jewels too, diamonds and rubies and emeralds, pearls and strings of precious beads. It surrounds him, overwhelms him, blinds him with how brightly gold it shines. Where could it be, the medallion? Kylo tries to think, tries to strategize. It couldn’t be thrown in among the piles, no, whomever had stolen it from his precious mermaid would have known how important it is.

And so Kylo ignores the riches around him altogether, knowing that time is of the essence. He is careful to step around the piles, around and around them all, forcing himself to stay on task. The medallion, he is here for your medallion. He wishes he had asked for more of a detailed explanation, because he soon realizes that fuck, there are possibly a thousand medallions here.

Taking a moment, he sighs, turns in a circle, careful of his footing. It has to be somewhere obvious, he decides. Pirates are not that smart, and they certainly have a flair for the dramatics. Whomever stole it would want all to see it, would want all to know just how –

There! Up upon a pedestal made of rock, that must be it! A large circular disc of gold laced through a black chord rests propped up in direct line of the moonlight. It glows softly, ever so slightly, a golden pulsating light that draws Kylo towards it.

“There you are.” He whispers, his eye growing wide, filling with the golden light. There is a symbol, possibly writing in a language Kylo does not recognize, etched into it, that glows and glows and glows brighter as Kylo comes nearer.

He reaches a hand out but then quickly yanks it back. It could be a trap, what would he do if it is a trap? He chews at the inside of his cheek, hesitates for a moment. Looking up and all around for any signs of anything that could come crashing down, or shooting out at him from the sides, he waits.

Until he is certain that no such thing will happen, at which point he can wait no longer.

Holding his breath, his hand stretches up, fingers extended as far as they can go, for the rock pedestal is taller than he is even on his toes, and he does not exhale until he can feel the black cord nestled in his grip, and he pulls the medallion down.

…Nothing happens.

Suspicious, Kylo decides not to tempt fate. He has managed to escape death a second time, or at least, he will if he is able to return to you. Now that the medallion is in his hands, it glows so bright that the entire cave illuminates, and he can hear the faint echo of music, the very same music that has haunted his dreams. Your music, he realizes, and his heart beats knowing that he has done what you asked.

He is so pleased with himself, that as he climbs back down from the pedestal and passes through the piles and towers of gold and jewels, something catches the corner of his eye. A tiara, made entirely of gold and pearls, rests innocuously at his feet. It is carved into the shape of seashells, carved so well that if Kylo did not know of the wonders of goldsmiths, he would have assumed someone dipped the shells themselves in the soft metals.

“Well hello.” He bends down to inspect it, to get a closer look. Small golden chains with pearls beaded around it twinkle in the beam of light from the medallion.

The longer he stares at it, the more he notices; a tiny starfish here, a proud seahorse there, the mix of clam shells and snail shells, tusk shells and those spiraled ones which remind Kylo of the narwhals of the north – they are arranged so delicately, so carefully, that before Kylo can even think too much about it, he is reaching for it.

“You will look beautiful atop my darling’s head.” He is convinced of this, and he cannot see the harm in taking it, he is on his way out, he has obtained what he came for, there should be no issue here.

Oh, how wrong he is.

The moment his fingers touch the tiara, a sharp gust of wind bellows through the cave. It hurls towards him in a fury, in a rage, and even as he drops the tiara and lets it fall back onto the pile, it does not cease. The clouds return to cover the moon, or is it the ceiling of the cave itself is closing? He does not know, but he brandishes his sword in the low light, only the medallion’s incandescence giving him enough to see by.

The rushing wind draws the warmth from his bones, until he is chilled cold, frozen, fingers hurting as they clench around the hilt of his sword. He looks all around, ready to take on whatever may attack him, until the deep dark chuckle of his nightmares sounds around him, bounces against the walls in a way that Kylo cannot tell which direction to brace.

“Ickle Ben Solo, my how you’ve grown.” The voice muses, and Kylo freezes at the sound.

The impossible sound.

With clenched teeth, Kylo slowly turns, the hair on the back of his neck raising once more, the vein in his jaw throbbing with rage.

Captain Snoke, exactly as Kylo remembers him, stands in the middle of the cave. Face sunken in, long white beard, remorseless eyes squinting at him. The only difference from years ago and now, is that now, Kylo has grown taller, and when Snoke looks at him, he is forced to look up.

He knows this must be a trick of the cave, because all at once it hits him that the reason you conjured that storm was to kill him – him, the man with the white beard who snatched the medallion from your pretty neck. You had killed him, and yet here he is. Snoke is between Kylo and the exit, the just beyond where Kylo knows he will see the glow of your eyes once more.

This Snoke cannot be real, and so Kylo knows somewhere in the back of his mind that he could simply push his way past him and make way to you…but this is a chance Kylo will not pass up, and so with the medallion clutched in his hand he swings his saber and levels it directly at Snoke’s throat.

“Draw your sword.” The words snarl out of him in a grimace, as the rage of nearly three hundred fallen crew members sing through him.

At once, Snoke’s sword is conjured up out of thin air, and parrying Kylo’s away, shoving with a force much stronger than Kylo would have expected.

“I am but an old man, I cannae do nothin’ ta harm ye now.” Snoke taunts and teases, and Kylo spits at his feet, unable to hold back any longer.

“You lying cheating conniving bastard – I’ll kill you!” He lunges forward, poised to attack, his sword coming up to clang immediately and clash with Snoke’s.

It is regrettable, he thinks, that Snoke was the one who taught him how to fight, because the man can anticipate his moves. However, he only taught Kylo the basics, and in this regard, Kylo finds himself feeling lucky, feeling emboldened to push back harder, meaner, as he swings his sword, making sparks fly.

He manages to make a combination of moves which catch Snoke off-guard enough that he stumbles backwards, and this angers the old man, whose jaw clenches all his own.

“If it’s a fight yer after,” He sounds strange, his voice echoing throughout the cave as he backs away, “It’s a fight you’ll get.”

Kylo will not let him get away, not the way he had last time, not the way he had snuck out in the night when he knew no one could catch him. He immediately runs after Snoke, chases him down down down back the way he came, further and further from the entrance.

As he runs, he realizes that there are things moving around him, and he nearly trips as a hand encloses around his ankle.

Out from the piles of gold slither the bodies of men who had been trapped, ensnared by the cave, men who had died unpleasant, undignified deaths. Kylo cannot be bothered with them, he must get to Snoke – he will get to Snoke, so he slices his sword through the limbs of the men who have fallen, failed on a quest of their own. He hacks away at them without care, does not look back when they collapse and clutch at their bleeding wrists.

They swarm around him, and Kylo can do nothing but kill them as they come crawling out from the depths of the cave, scores of them moaning and groaning, dying all over again. Kylo kicks their teeth in, stabs them through the heart, shoves them away from him even as they claw and cling to him, tearing his clothes, ripping at his shirt and his breeches, trying to grab the sword out of his hand.

Their long blackened fingernails scratch at his flesh, and he has to resist the urge not to be sick with the decay he finds in their faces as he punches and hacks his way through them.

It is suffocating, but Kylo grabs at the medallion almost on accident, and he does not know how, but a pulse of light shocks out of it and knocks them all away. The golden pulse from the medallion, from the symbol which now has morphed and changed into something else entirely, is protecting him, and he does not waste the time it allows him.

Snoke’s laughter guides him, and Kylo chases until there is nowhere left to run. On a tall bridge of rock, Kylo and Snoke find themselves engaged in battle, meeting one another sword for sword, grunts and groans of effort spilling out of their lips.

“This is for Vicrul,” Kylo shouts, as he pushes forward, forces Snoke backwards. The old man’s eyes widen before he frowns, realizing the bridge is becoming more and more narrow, “And this is for Cardo!”

Snoke fights back, their swords locked, shooting sparks all around as they meet clash for clash. Snoke’s footwork is light, he is fast for a man of such age. He manages to slice Kylo’s arm, slicing straight through the fabric. Kylo bleeds, and that pain only eggs him on, a lesson he had learned many a year ago – the pain fueling his rage.

“For Trudgen, and Ushar!” Kylo’s voice is loud, grows louder and louder as the blood rushes down his forearm, staining his shirt and dripping around his clenched fist, staining the metal of his sword as they meet time and time again, as Kylo gains the advantage.

“Ben wait –" Snoke calls him by that name again, and Kylo can only growl loudly with the rage of it all, for how dare Kylo disrespect him now?

“For Kuruk and Ap’lek.” Kylo continues, before managing to fling Snoke’s sword away from his hand, managing to send it flying all the way down a deep trench, water rushing through the cave below them.

Kylo can hear it when it hits against the rocks a thousand feet away, and suddenly gets the strongest urge to hear that sound again, although with Snoke’s head instead of his sword. Like the coward he is, Snoke backs himself up as far as he can go, until he is teetering on the precipe of the edge, on the very last foothold he has.

Kylo lunges after him, letting out a shout of rage as he runs his old captain through with his sword, cutting out the bitter shriveled blackened heart. Kylo holds it in his hand, squeezes any possible remains of life left there and drops it.

Snoke’s eyes widen, almost in shock, for even in death he had not been so injured.

He does not bleed the way Kylo is, but that does not mean that he cannot hurt.

“And this, Captain,” Kylo’s face shakes with rage, as he grabs Snoke by the throat and hoists him high up off his feet, dangling his body right over the trench, “Is for me.”

Snoke opens his mouth to say something, but whatever it is is lost in the scream that spills from his lips as Kylo not only drops him, no not something so careless as that – he throws Snoke down the trench, the glow of the medallion giving Kylo the ability to watch him fall.

He is reminded then, of how it felt to sink to the bottom of the ocean thanks to his carelessness, his cowardice. He hopes that Snoke receives no such mercy, as the one you had shown him that day.

You! He must get back to you, he must –

There is another rumble, from beyond the cave. Kylo startles, as the bridge beneath him begins to shake, and he realizes that the bridge is beginning to collapse.

No, not just the bridge, but the entire cave.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Kylo runs, his boots carrying him as fast as he can go, the medallion glowing and pulsating, music guiding him through the dark, slipping and skidding on the wet rock, Kylo runs. He is chased by large rocks which fall from the ceiling, falling onto his head and only just barely missing. If one were to pin him down, it would surely kill him.

He doesn’t realize how deep into the cave he had gone, until he can finally see the white light of your eyes, and your scream for him to hurry, after what feels like an age of running, his limbs burning, legs and lungs sore from the speed of it all.

“Kylo!” You rejoice, joy thrilling through your body as you reach for him, arms extended and a great big grin on your face.

“I did it, darling my darling I did it!” Kylo shouts at you from the mouth of the cave, outrunning its demise, outrunning his death once more.

“My handsome man, I knew you could do it, I knew you could!” You reach reach reach for his hands, and the second he grabs you, you yank him to your chest and your powerful tail propels you forward faster than his legs could ever run, as you carry him to safety once again, laughing all the while, “I knew you could!”

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

When at last before my ghostly shipmates I stand

I shed a small tear for my home upon land

Though their eyes speak of depths filled with struggle and strife

Their smiles below say I don't owe them my life

As the souls of the dead fill the space of my eyes

And my boat listed over and tried to capsize

I'm this far from drowning, this far from the sea,

I remember the living do they think of me,

When my bones in the ocean forever will be

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

The rowboat reaches the side of the ship, and it rocks for a moment as you hoist yourself inside of it. Your body takes up much of the space, or rather, your tail does, and Kylo cannot stop looking looking looking at you, the thrill of victory, of success, coursing through his veins. There is just one problem – he cannot lift the rowboat from down here.

Thankfully, a lantern sticks over the side of the ship, followed soon thereafter by an inquiring head, belonging to Kylo’s First Mate. He is conflicted at once – he wants to revel in the satisfaction of being correct all these years, but he wants to protect you more, and he is unsure of what Victoria will do now that you are so close.

“You are real!” Victoria says in a loud-whisper, smacking a hand over her mouth for a moment or two.

You wave up to her, a knowing smile on your face, and Kylo’s cheek burn. He is embarrassed, because now you know he has told everyone of importance about you, that he has bragged about you, that he has sang your praises. Giving his hand a tight squeeze, your fin slaps against the rowboat, and that is signal enough that Victoria needs, to send down the ropes.

Once the rowboat is hitched and lifted up out of the water, you slip the medallion around your neck, and immediately it glows a bright gold, brighter even than the white of your eyes, which now fade to the beautiful natural color of your irises.

Kylo is still unsure though, still not certain how this will help you, even as the medallion glows and glows.

“What does it do -- ?” Victoria has the same thoughts as Kylo, the same questions, but both of their thoughts are interrupted by the golden light which glows larger and larger, encompasses your body.

You rise up into the air, and Kylo is hesitant to let go. He knows he must, so he does, and instantly regrets not being able to hold your palm against his own. He steps onto the deck of the boat where it is sturdy and safe, and watches as some otherworldly magic you wield spins around your tail.

Suddenly, there is a great flash of light, and your fin begins to morph and split into two legs, two human legs; thighs and knees and calves and ankles and even feet and toes. Kylo cannot believe it, Victoria blinks and has to shield her eyes from the brightness of it all, but it is not long after that the glow fades, and you are gently lowered by your magic onto the deck.

Kylo’s arms are there for you at once, your naked body bracing itself in his embrace. Although there is no one on the deck who is awake aside from the three of you, he still wishes to shield your body from sight, a protective possessive simmer bubbling up in his chest. It also does not help that it has been a long time since you stood upon human legs, and he does not want to risk you falling, not now, not ever. He will never let harm come to you again, not as commander of the seas.

“Incredible,” He whispers, kissing your face, holding you tight while you get your footing, “You’re beautiful.”

“You keep saying that.” You laugh, your hair spilling over one shoulder as your arms loop around Kylo’s neck. You smile at him so radiantly, that it could have been high noon for all Kylo knew.

“It is the truth, I will continue to say it until the day I die.” He leans in to kiss you once more.

When his mouth opens for yours and he begins to hum against your tongue, Victoria clears her throat rather loudly, and scratches the side of her face awkwardly. You break apart only enough for him to shoot her a harsh glare for ruining the moment, but Victoria only rolls her eyes.

“Show her your cabin, Captain.” She says with no hint of subtlety, “I daresay she will be eager to see it.”

Kylo looks at you, and your pupils grow wide wide wide in the dark, and he knows you are eager indeed.

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

Kylo has never given much thought to his quarters, not until this very moment. Of course he knew what he had and he knew the degree to which his nice things were nice, but he never had wondered what you might think of them – or if they would be of any consequence to you at all.

It was a long room right at the very port of the Silencer, a vast open area split off into smaller sections by way of furniture arrangement. The floors were all covered with handwoven Persian rugs, the windows draped with fine linens. Up against the windows at the far back of the room was his large mahogany work table and chairs with plush velvet cushions, where he held meeting with the higher members of the crew. Along the wall were various chests and bureaus which housed his clothing, all carved with intricate designs and all having brass handles and clasps. Towards the front was his bathing area, a grand tub and all sorts of implements to improve his hygiene – he abhorred the idea that a pirate need be a filthy man.

And finally, off to the other wall, sat a grand canopy bed, with curtains which could be pulled shut to prevent any light from seeping through, should he want to sleep in on one particular morning or another. The bed frame was gold, inlaid with jewels, carved and decorated to tell the tale of a mermaid saving a young boy.

He waits for you to make the first move. He wants you, desperately, terribly, but he will not push, will not do anything which you do not explicitly ask for. He does not want to pressure you in any way. He has waited for you for twenty years, he could wait longer if you asked – as long as you are here, he doesn’t care.

But he doesn’t have to wait, for you have already laid yourself down in his bed, your arms spread out as your legs rub against the soft blankets, one finger beckoning him to join you. It does not take anything more for him to shed his clothes and do just that.

Kylo’s skin is still slightly wet from the cave, but if there is a chill that washes over him from being so exposed, he doesn’t pay it any attention. You are watching him curiously, your eyes trailing up and down his body as he steps towards you, climbs his way up the bed.

Immediately, your arms open for him, and he settles himself above you, kisses at the warmth of your throat as your hands find their way into his hair.

“Do you prefer me this way?” You muse playfully, rubbing your foot against the back of his calf, making him shiver shudder gasp with anticipation, continuing, “With legs, like you have?”

Kylo continues to kiss your neck, to worry his lips along the muscles there, grazing the gold-capped edges of his teeth up and down, making you shudder in return. He cannot describe the thrill that fills him with, knowing he affects you so.

“I prefer you either way, although I will admit, there is so much we can do like this.” He whispers, finding some way to broach the subject, the subject of his desire, his lust for you. God he wants to fuck you, wants it so badly that one of his hands wanders down to your lower stomach, asking with a silent hesitation for permission.

You grin and nod, and Kylo sucks in a breath, lets his fingers dip down lower, until they are brushing through the hair that has replaced your scales, pushing between your folds, your legs falling open and welcoming him. At once, you hum out a longing moan, a sound that Kylo has to chase, simply has to. He crooks two inside your pussy, revels slowly, softly, in the way that your body reacts.

“Aye, now the question becomes, do you have the stamina to do everything I want?” You chuckle as his lips part from the sensation of how wet you are, wet in every sense of the word. Kylo has large hands and thick fingers, but somehow your cunt takes him with ease, welcomes him and sucks him deeper.

Pulling back ever so slightly, Kylo looks up at you, his fingers busying themselves with working you open, pushing and rubbing through your folds, your pussy dripping around his knuckles. It makes his mouth water, makes him have to swallow hard, especially when your pupils darken and grow wide with lust of your own.

“You’ve – you mean to say you have experience?” He doesn’t know why this shocks him, Kylo certainly was no virgin.

“I’m nine hundred years old, I daresay I have more experience than everyone on your ship, O Captain.” You laugh, and something about the laughter bubbles anger inside him, makes his face harden.

He knows he’s a hypocrite, he knows. He’s fucked women all over the world, taken his pleasures from helping hands on more than one occasion. He knows that you must have done the same, so why does he get so possessive? Why does he get so immediately blood-thirsty? He has to fight the desire to rip heads off of necks, to hunt down those who did not deserve you – hell he almost stops fingering you from the sheer rage that stings the back of his throat like bile.

“Ohh does that make you jealous? That others have had a taste of me?” You notice, cupping his cheeks and kissing him sweetly, legs curling around his waist, voice deceptively calm as you whisper into his mouth, “Don’t be, you should know I killed them all right after.”

That makes his cock twitch, appeals to the primal side of his brain which had already begun to plot. You simply grin, turned on further by the way he is so ready to kill for you.

“Good.” He very nearly snarls, thrusting another finger to join the two that have already found comfort in your pussy, deciding that he would show you just how much better he could make you feel, than all those others combined.

With three fingers in, and his thumb on your clit, Kylo kisses you passionately, swallows down the mewls of pleasure and little hiccuped gasps that he elicits from your throat. His eyes are pinched shut because you are too beautiful, it hurts him to look into your gaze the same way that he has always been warned not to stare into the sun. But he doesn’t need his eye to see you when he can feel the way your body undulates and rocks underneath him, the pulsating warmth of your flesh sending goosebumps of pleasure rippling down his spine.

When he’s decided that you’re good and ready, when you’re stretched out enough to accommodate him, he sucks those fingers into his mouth to chance the taste of you. It is beyond that which Kylo could have ever dreamed, and spit strings off his rings when he hoists your leg up enough to properly thrust his cock through those warm plush folds.

“Fuck,” Kylo grunts unexpectedly, as the angle allows him to shove his way through with ease, the fingering having relaxed you enough to take him. But only just enough, it would seem, for despite the attention, you still are tight, and Kylo is sure that he could die like this and die a happy man.

Kylo’s body sings at the contact, at the vice-like hold your cunt has on his thick throbbing cock, and he pushes it deeper deeper deeper still inside you, not stopping until he bottoms out completely, not stopping until he has stuffed you full of his hot hard length, not stopping until your mouth drops open with surprise.

Smirking, Kylo positions himself in a way that he can support his weight and pull back, hips pistoning hard and fast all at once, making the bed creak louder than the rocking ship. He has decided he will never fuck again, if he cannot fuck you – he is ruined for anyone else, ruined in the way you push your pelvis up to meet him thrust for thrust, giving him as good as you get.

“Kylo – oh yes, yes! Take me, give me everything Kylo, give it to me.” You gasp, one of your hands digging into the scarred meat of his back, the flexing muscle of his shoulders moving under your palm.

The praise makes him moan, a deep rumbling purr in his chest that you exploit, a litany of yesyesKyloyou’resogoodgoodgood dropping from your lips, spurring him on, making his pride and cock throb, his hips rolling against yours, balls smacking harsh on your flesh as he clamps his teeth down onto your shoulder.

“Stars above, oh God – you’re beautiful, so beautiful.” He chants, feeling and savoring the way his cock spears through the tight wet velvet heat of your pussy, better than anything he has ever felt, clenching around him perfectly, fluttering and pulsing against his engorged veins and swollen head.

Your back arches underneath him, pushing your breasts with perked swollen nipples right into his face as he bends himself down to meet them, desperate to latch his tongue to your chest and suck. You moan moan moan, and he does not hold back the grunts of his own, the low noises from the back of his throat that muffle against your flesh as he suckles and licks the salty sweat off your skin, cock never once breaking in its rhythm.

“Fuck, fuck that’s good.” You pant, your body bouncing on the mattress, letting yourself go, letting yourself be moved this way and that for Kylo to pleasure you as he sees fit. Your eyes roll back into your head, your teeth bite at your lower lip, and Kylo can hear the way your pulse flutters from his spot on your breast.

“You like my cock?” He laves his tongue over your nipples one at a time, pinches at them with his lips, eager and ecstatic that he is making you feel this way.

“Yes!” You sigh loudly, no regard whatsoever for his crew – he doesn’t care either, in fact your volume makes him grow bold, grow demanding.

“Tell me how much.” He orders, shifting your positions so that he can take one of your legs and stretch it up up up over his shoulder, ankle resting near his ear, fucking into you hard and fast, so fast that his own voice shakes, “I want to hear you say it, say how much you like getting fucked by my big cock.”

You laugh, not at him but in sheer simple bliss, arms thrown over your head, hands tangling in the sheets. The moonlight shines on your body as he fucks into you, listens to the squelch of your cunt as it drips and drools on his cock, your tongue doing its best to stay in your mouth as you take the pounding he gives you.

“Kylo! It’s so big, I – oh fuck, oh! I’m so full!” You moan and whine, voice high and loud and music to his ears, as you hiccup and giggle out of your mind, especially when his thumb falls on your swollen clit, begging for attention.

The dark curling possessive feeling floods through him then, wanting you like this all the time, wanting you happy and pleased, wanting to be the man which gives it to you. The medallion practically smacks against your chest, and he grabs a hold of it in his hand so that your pretty skin won’t be marked by bruises that he does not give you.

“I’ll fill you up, fill you right to the fucking brim,” Kylo growls -- seethes, “I’ll knock you up and pamper you and make you come every day, coming on my cock and fingers and tongue – ”

It is then that he stops entirely, his hips halting at once, brain tripping up over his own words. You give him a whine and a light smack to his shoulder, protesting that he has stopped, especially when he pulls out. Before you can question him verbally though, he’s shuffling down the bed as fast as he can, pulling your folds apart with his golden clad thumbs and burying his face in place of his cock, his tongue stroking and sucking and thrusting through you.

“Oh!” You gasp happily, pleased with this attention, and Kylo’s arms wind underneath your thighs, your knees squeezing the sides of his head as he eats you out.

Kylo eats your pussy like a starving man confronted with his first meal – he is sloppy, he is aggressive, he is desperate. His nose prods up against your clit and rubs and bumps as he sucks you down, as he swallows the slick that pools on his tongue. You taste like the ocean but also like something otherworldly, and Kylo thinks that this is already replacing his most favorite of rums, the wine of your body far more addicting.

Keening each time you yank on his hair, Kylo kisses and makes out with your pussy, tears welling up in his eyes from the sheer overstimulation of his scalp and his cock, which ruts against the sheets. The laundry boys will kill him, he just had the sheets washed not two days ago, but he doesn’t care.

A grosser part of him thinks he will never have his sheets washed again, but as he drinks down your slick and moans and pants into your pussy, he thinks no, he wants nothing but the cleanest bed for you to be fucked on. You deserve nothing but the best, and his hands clench into fists as he groans out the sheer desire to give it to you.

In the back of his head, Kylo knows that this cannot last forever, and a sharp pang of sorrow hits his heart, because he cannot think of anything more important than this – eating, drinking, sleeping, no, nothing compares to the way you sob on his tongue, sob with pleasure that has been denied to you for so long.

His brain cannot make up its mind, whether he wants to bury his face as far between your legs as it can go, or his cock, and he wishes there were some way he could fuck you and taste you at the same time.

“Kylo, I’m going to come.” You warn with a shuddering moan, and that makes up his mind for him, for he wants to come alongside you, wants to come inside you, together.

So, regretfully he pulls away from your pretty pussy and gives your clit one last kiss, and pushes the head of his cock back into you, resuming the thrusting pace he had built, feeling how his cock has to work hard to shove itself into you, your cunt tight tight tight.

“Will – can – where -- ?” He feels like a fool for the loss of his words, but you, even blissed out the way that you are, you understand what he’s trying to ask.

“Come in me, handsome, fill me up like you promised.” You order, and though he has proven himself to be stronger than any man alive, he is weak for the tone of your voice.

That heating warming desperate coil of pleasure winds winds winds up in his stomach, until it is shooting out of his cock in throbbing pulsing ropes of hot come, spreading through your cunt, dumping his load as your body comes and shudders and shakes around him, your thighs trembling, toes curling, back arching clean off the mattress. He pants and gasps for breath as he curses long and low in his chest, pumping the last few thrusts of his hips against yours until his arms give out and he collapses down on top of you.

The medallion glows gold, sends a pulse of light across the ocean – you are grinning so wide and so beautifully that Kylo knows whatever has just happened between the two of you, is only the beginning.

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

Now that I'm staring down at the darkest abyss

I'm not sure what I want but I don't think it's this

As my comrades call to stand fast and forge on

I make sail for the dawn 'til the darkness has gone

As the souls of the dead live for'er in my mind

As I live all the years that they left me behind

I'll stay on the shore but still gaze at the sea

I remember the fallen and they think of me

For our souls in the ocean together will be

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

The sweat cools on the both of your bodies for a long while, and still, somehow, Kylo feels like he is in a dream.

The Silencer creaks and groans gently in the night as he traces patterns across your back, little looping nothings that have you humming softly. Your legs are twined through his, braided like the rope which hoists his sails, and he wonders if you can hear how fast his heart is beating, even in the calm. You must, you have to be, for you are tucked up against his broad chest, your cheek nestled into one of his pecs, your arm curled around his thick waist.

What he wouldn’t give to have both eyes again, to be able to see you the way he wishes he could.

It is surreal to think that you are here, after so long. After twenty years of the world thinking him crazy, not only has he proved them all wrong, but he has proven himself to you. You wear the medallion around your neck, the very same medallion which was stolen from you so long ago, by the very captain that once tried to steal Kylo’s life.

Now he was gone, and you are here, and he has just fucked you through nearly to sunrise, and he thinks if he had but a small glass of something to drink, he could have the strength to fuck you some more.

“I have never felt more complete, than I do in this moment.” He confesses, looks down at you. You meet his gaze, and your irises grow huge in the low light. He leans in to kiss your forehead, his hand rubbing your back up and down, “I cannot believe at long last I have found you.”

You sigh happily, so happily in fact, that the scales on your hip begin to shimmer and glow, and Kylo thinks he would kill Snoke a thousand times over, if it meant he could have you so calm, so at ease.

“I thought about you all the while, heard stories about you across the deep. I am so proud of the man, the terror you have become, my Kylo, handsome Kylo.” You whisper, kissing the spot underneath his chin, where his scar drags across his throat.

Suddenly, he grows panicked, his arms tighten around your body, because he does not know the extent to your visit, he does not know if you only are granting him this one night. He holds you tightly and you hum with a question in your tone, making Kylo’s cheeks grow red hot with embarrassment and shame.

“You cannot go again, you cannot leave me. Please don’t – I’ll do anything, anything to stay together.” He clings to you, like the boy he once was, drowning and dying alone out at sea, the very sea which he now commands, which he now holds in an iron grip.

“’Anything’ is a dangerous word to be said to a mermaid.” You tease him the very same way you had teased him then, but this time Kylo knows what he’s asking for, and oh how he has waited so long to ask it.

“I meant it before, and I mean it now, I will not be apart from you again.” There is that deep baritone that has sent fear into the hearts of a thousand ships, and you grin at the sound of it, pulling your bodies flush together.

“You won’t have to, handsome.” Licking your lips, you allow him to tilt your chin up.

“Let me kiss you?” He asks, and he asks it so sweetly that you don’t even have the time to answer, you’re already nuzzling your nose against his, already rubbing at his lips with yours.

The kiss, much like the ones from seemingly an eon ago – or was it only a few hours? – begins as a chaste nothing and works its way into being something passionate, something heated. It is in this kiss, that Kylo knows now wherever you go, so too he will follow, even if that’s to the very edge of the Earth, down to the very pits of the deep.

As he closes his eyes and kisses you once more, his hands cradle your head and holds you tight to his body. He worries you’ll burst into seafoam or stars, worries that now that he isn’t looking at you, you’ll disappear. His pulse jumps because of it, pounds in his throat so strongly that he thinks he might be ill – but you’re here still, he knows it, he feels the press of your lips against his own.

Kylo opens his mouth, and you slip your tongue through, making him melt and groan deep in the back of his throat, his hands clutching at your naked body, your scales shimmering in the moonlight that pours in through his cabin window. This medallion, the one which has granted you your legs once again, glows golden. He can see the burn of the symbol behind his eyelid, as you push yourself to straddle his waist, to pin him down to the mattress.

“Fuck!” He feels the white hot brand of the medallion then suddenly, and his shouts of pain are swallowed down your throat, you shush and soothe him with your otherworldly touch, even as something hot hot hot courses through his veins.

You have done something to him, something that he doesn’t know, doesn’t dare to ask. He trusts you, wholly and completely he trusts you – you have never given him reason to doubt, so he doesn’t, not even now.

You kiss and kiss and kiss and he doesn’t realize the ship is sinking, doesn’t realize that twenty foot waves have spilled over the side of the Silencer. He doesn’t hear the alarm bells or the shouts of his crew, he doesn’t care about anything else besides you. No, he sucks the air from your breath until there’s salt water in his lungs, but he doesn’t choke, he doesn’t splutter, he lets himself be pulled down down down, your hands in his hair, his arms around your waist as your legs disappear.

There is music then, music all around, inside his body and out, and he wonders if this is the ballad of the sea, of the souls you have claimed, the souls he has stolen at the hand of his sword. Kylo can feel them, their presence, in the in-between, calling and reaching out to him in a tearful melody, but knows he will not be joining them. Kuruk, Ushar, Ap’lek and Trudgen, Cardo and Vicrul’s faces all ghostly images of their younger selves, so young and fit that Kylo nearly doesn’t recognize them.

He regards them with a mournful eye but they shake their heads, not a single one of them angry. They don’t want him to join, Kylo realizes, they don’t feel betrayed that Kylo has lived while they have died. He makes them a promise, sends out the thought through the sea, that he’ll live out the years they had stolen as best as he can, and this is enough for them to stop haunting his dreams. To the tune of the music they dance and sing off into the ether, freed from the shackles of the in-between, finally free once more.

And then he realizes the music is coming from you, a siren song that fills his ears and his eyes and his very heart, it is the most beautiful thing he has ever heard, and he is filled with an euphoria unlike that he had ever known, because he realizes he gets to listen to it forever. Kylo had once asked if you were an angel, and you had said no – now he knows better, he knows what you are; you are heaven herself.

“We’ll be together forever like this.” He hears you say, your voice distorted and watery as your teeth grow sharp, as your hair grows long, flows about your head in a death defying halo. “Not a single man alive could harm you now. You’ll remain like this forever, just as you are, with me by your side.”

Kylo should be afraid, he knows this, he knows he should – but how can he be when you’re holding his hands and kissing his palms? How can he be when he opens his eyes and he finally breathes, a sucking sharp gasp of the ocean that fills him up?

He cannot explain it, but he is transformed into something, something otherworldly just the same way that you are. He looks the same, but he can feel it inside his body and inside his mind, as the medallion glows and so too does the brand on his chest, marked forever by a mermaid’s kiss.

But instead of that kiss sending him to the Locker or a watery grave, he keeps his lungs open and he remains unafraid, as you smile with too many teeth in your mouth, you laugh and you cheer and you sing so very loud. And when he blinks he sees you crystal clear through both of his eyes, you grasp for his hands and he knows now he can’t die, his ship sails under the water manned by his crew, who too look completely unchanged.

You swim above the ship and perch yourself atop the masthead, the breaking light of dawn shines down through the waves, making the watery world feel like an elixir of life, of immortal dreams come true. Kylo chases you, with strong limbs he climbs up up up the rigging of the ship to join you, and as he climbs, so too does the ship rise, until the Silencer breaks through the surface once more.

The crew rejoices, they dance in circles around the bilge pump and throw their hats in the air, the sunrise golden and beautiful as your fin smacks happily against the wood of the ship, laughter at the antics on deck. Kylo sets you in his lap there high above the water’s edge, and seagulls fly and call from the disturbance of the ship ascending from the depths.

“I love you.” He says it, says the words that he has been practicing inside his mind for decades, the words he has rehearsed in front of the mirror. He never thought he would have a chance to say them to you out loud. “I have loved you from the very first moment I saw you.”

It hits him then, the realization that Kylo will be able to say them to you forever.

“Why do you think I rescued you?” You beam at him, and he laughs, elated, that his feelings are returned.

Looping your arms around his neck, you kiss Kylo, salty and briny and bright. Kylo holds you in his lap tightly so that you don’t fall, one of his hands on your cheek, adoring, caressing. He leans his forehead against yours, and the medallion glows, and when he meets your grin it’s with a smile of his own, because he has given you his soul fathoms below.

I remember the fallen and they think of me,

For our souls in the ocean together will be.

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

Tagging some friends, as always if you’d ever like to be added or taken off the taglist, please visit the link in my description (if your tag isn’t working that means on the form you might have given me your sideblog @ instead of your main!)

@mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @thembohux @kylorenswhxre @sunflowersinthesnow @babayagakeanu @safarigirlsp @rennasiance-mama @steeevienicks @mousemakingjam @the-unmanaged-mischief @materialisthicc @drake-bells-waxed-penis @dutchiepie @slut-for-harri @littleevilme13 @erys-targaryen @leillaa

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren/you #kylo ren fanfiction #kylo ren #adam driver #adam driver fanfiction #adcu #my writing

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onceuponamirror · 3 years

Text

flutter

consequences? of her actions? it’s more likely than you think. nace oneshot, post 2x12, speculative fight and feelings. [read on ao3]

She wakes up disoriented. Her brain adjusts to her surroundings—creaky bed, filtered natural light streaming through plastic curtain panes, and faint smells, all mixing awkwardly with the dull neon sign over Gil’s bed.

Gil’s bed. Right. Now she remembers finding herself outside the Bobbseys’ at midnight, unable to stop herself. It feels like Nick all over again, when she buried her feelings in someone else and begged for a distraction from her own brain. But she keeps seeing Ace on that ledge when she closes her eyes, and can’t bring herself to let the thoughts linger.

The bed is empty, cool to the touch where another body should be. He’s been up for a while then, she thinks. Nancy sits up, straining her eyes against the morning light. Gently, an aroma of coffee and eggs wafts into Gil’s room, and she smiles, realizing he must’ve gotten up to make breakfast.

She pulls on her jeans and boots. Gil hadn’t seemed the type to cook a girl breakfast after a booty call, but maybe she’d misjudged him. She drapes her jacket over her arm and follows her nose to the kitchen.

“That smells gr—oh.” Abruptly, Nancy cuts herself off. It’s not Gil by the stove, but Amanda, who also quickly falls silent halfway through a laugh. At the counter, in his lucky pullover and an unbuttoned flamingo shirt, is Ace, who visibly straightens in his seat when he sees her.

“Uh.” Nancy finishes pulling on her jacket, adjusting her hair around the collar. Her neck feels very hot as she puts the pieces of the scenario together. The three of them, all before 8 am, all at the Bobbseys’s. She flashes Amanda an awkward finger gun. “You’re not Gil.”

Amanda smiles back at her sympathetically. “Sorry,” she replies. She glances down at the eggs sizzling quietly in the pan, and then back to Ace. “But I make a much meaner omelet than him anyway. Want one?”

For a long moment, Nancy just stares back at her. Red alarm sirens are ringing in her thoughts, but she’s still settling with the fact that both she and Ace seemingly slept here. “Is…Gil…here?”

“No. He left, about twenty minutes ago,” Ace says, his voice low. Nancy wonders if he always sounds this grumpy in the morning. “Forgot to mention you were here, though.”

Nancy blinks. “He left? Like—left? Is he coming back?”

Amanda turns off the stove and faces her. “He said he got a freelance gig that he couldn’t pass up. Kind of left in a hurry.” With a slight grimace, Amanda sighs. “Nancy, Gil can be…easily distracted. It makes him forgetful, you know? Of his manners, mostly. He doesn’t mean to be.”

Nodding distractedly, Nancy runs her tongue along her teeth. Of course he runs out the day he was supposed to help her out. After a long moment of Amanda and Ace watching her, he clears his throat. “Why? Did you need him or something?”

Ace’s tone is uncharacteristically harsh, and both she and Amanda turn to look at him. After another awkward beat, Nancy says, “Um. Well, he was supposed to help me run a boat over to this beach for the case I’m working on. It’s kind of…a two man job.”

He looks annoyed, but Amanda just smiles at her. “Well, we can help. Right, Ace? It could be fun. I’ve always wanted to go on one of your mystery adventures with you and Nancy,” she adds. Ace glances between the two of them, looking uncomfortable, but finally nods.

“Sure,” he says slowly, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah, we can help.”

“Great,” Amanda says cheerily, and plops the eggs she was cooking onto two plates. “Well, I’m gonna just take a quick shower. You two have these and then we can go!”

She disappears into the back of the trailer, and a few moments later, the sound of running water filters across the room. By the time Nancy glances back at Ace, he’s nearly finished eating the eggs before him, almost as if stuffing his face will keep him from talking to her.

Nancy takes a small bite of the eggs, chewing as painfully slow as she can. “This is good, actually. Maybe Amanda wants Grant’s old job. We still kinda need a line cook.” At the mention of his brother, Ace finally meets her eye. He doesn’t say anything, though—but she notes that he hasn’t left either. Attempting to fill the awkward silence, Nancy pushes on. “You know, I think this is the longest time you’ve been in a room with me since he left.”

“Yeah,” Ace sighs, and averts her look. “I’ve been busy.”

“Really?” She replies, skeptically. “Because it kind of seems like you’ve been avoiding me. Like, I don’t know, you’re mad at me?”

He glances at her again, like he’s considering his words. “Maybe I am.”

Nancy puts down her fork. She’d known this was coming, and hoped it wasn’t. Her hands slide over her face. “I know, I know, this is about the list of names. But…it was an emergency, Ace. I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t let you—” She drops her hands from her eyes. “And—and anyway, I fixed it!”

“Yeah, you fixed it with Celia Hudson,” Ace replies curtly, getting to his feet. His voice rises. “You traded the list for letting a murderer get away with killing 12 people on that ship. You didn’t fix anything, Nancy, you just moved it to another place! You made me responsible for you doing—for those 12 lives instead!”

For a moment, chest heaving, she stares at him. “No,” she says finally, finding a level in her tone. “I made me responsible for the Bonny Scot. Not you. And I will find another way to bring Everett to justice, okay? There’s always another wa—”

“What if there isn’t, Nancy?” He shakes his head, pacing towards her. “Not everything is a puzzle you can just solve, okay? What if he gets away with this and hurts someone else? We know he will. And you’ll get pulled in deeper with the Hudsons. And when that happens—that’s—that’s on me.”

“Then it’s my burden, Ace!” They’re practically shouting now. Dimly, she hopes Amanda can’t hear this through the shower. “You’re right, Ace, okay, I did trade your life for the witnesses and then I traded the witnesses for the Bonny Scot.I made a necessary calculation in a crappy situation. But I did it, not you!”

“For me!” He yells back. She’s not sure she’s ever heard his voice this loud; she wasn’t sure his vocal cords could physically reach this decibel. He exhales, deflating and running his hands through his hair. “It was… a total Slytherin move, Nancy. Okay? Just…admit you didn’t think it through.”

She scoffs, throwing her head back. “Well, that’s rich.”

Hands on his hips, he glowers at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How many federal databases have you hacked into by now, Ace?” She exclaims, throwing her arms out. “I think I stopped counting after you broke my dad out of prison!”

“That was different,” he mumbles. “That was an—”

“Emergency,” she finishes flatly, raising her eyebrows.

Ace purses his lips, and he finally seems somewhat calmed. “Your dad’s life was in imminent danger. I didn’t risk anyone else in the process. But I told you, Nance, at the paper mill. I told you I didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s life. ”

“Well, I was responsible for yours,” she replies softly, defeated. He stares at her, chest heaving. “And…I told you, I couldn’t lose you.”

He still doesn’t say anything, but a look passes between them. Her heart flutters so madly against her ribcage she’s afraid he might hear it. She’s reminded of that night after the wraith in the woods, when he’d told her something very similar. He didn’t want to lose her, then. She wonders if he’s thinking the same.

There’s a long moment of silence.

Finally, she nods, and her hand finds itself home on his arm. “I’m sorry I made you feel responsible for the Bonny Scot, Ace, I really am. But…even if you’re right, and I can’t find another solution, then…it’s still my fault. Not yours. It’s my problem, my burden, okay? Please, Ace. I can’t have you mad at me. I can’t…focus when you are. I need you on my team.”

When she meets his eye again, his expression has softened. She can tell the fight has gone out of him. Eyebrows knitted, he says, “No.” Her face falls, but then he continues. “I’m a Hero of Horseshoe Bay too, you know. You shouldn’t have to shoulder it all alone.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, before she can plan otherwise, and steps back from him. She lets out a self-deprecating sound from the back of her throat, thinking of how Gil abandoned her the night after her promised to help. She thinks of Owen Marvin, dead because of her. She thinks of Nick, who was right to have ended things with her. Finally, and bitterly, her thoughts jump to how happy Amanda and Ace had seemed before she walked in. “I’m used to alone.”

His face crumples and he opens his mouth, but whatever Ace is about to say, she’ll never know. Amanda has emerged from the back of the trailer, toweling off her damp hair and already dressed. “Okay, I’m ready,” Amanda says, striding towards them. She pulls to a stop after a moment, having picked up on the strange energy lingering in her kitchen.

Ace is still looking at her with an expression she can’t—won’t—name. If she had to try, it might be pity, or a kinder version of it. She inexplicably feels like crying, but swallows it, unwilling to feel weak in front of Ace’s girlfriend.

“Everything okay?” Amanda asks gently, and Nancy can’t help but think, that’s why Ace likes her. She’s sweet. Her heart squeezes again. Don’t think about it.

Exhaling, Ace nods at Amanda, and then back to Nancy. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

She hopes it’s true.

#nace #nancy x ace #ace cw #nancy drew cw #nancy drew #can someone tell me the proper tags pls #ace comma copyright pending #<- will remain until public domain lmao #nancy drew spoilers #fics #drabbles #god i forgot how much wanting reviews and validation SUCKS #lmao #but #i got a bug

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no-droids · 4 years

Note

Can you describe the exact moment where Mando knew he wanted to fuck the reader?

I think tumblr ate my ask, so (in Bernie Sanders’ voice) I am once again asking if you can describe the moment Mando knew he wanted to fuck the reader and couldn’t deny his feelings any longer.

(((Your second ask included another question, so I’ll write for both, ALSO SPOILERS FOR SEASON 1 OF THE MANDALORIAN YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED)))

***

The first moment Mando knew he wanted to fuck you? Or the moment he couldn’t deny his feelings any longer?

Different moments. Completely different moments. Took place weeks, if not months apart from one another, in fact.

If… if he’s being entirely honest, the first one probably isn’t that interesting of a story. He’s almost certain the thought crossed his mind before you ever said a single word to him. Actually, now that he’s actively thinking about it, he’s pretty sure he hadn’t even seen your face when he was first struck with the idea.

That really isn’t all that uncommon for him, though. Of course, Mando has never been immune to the charms of women, but as he grew older and in his more recent years, he learned it’s almost always best to just avoid the hassle altogether.

That doesn’t mean he never thinks about it.

In fact, not having sex surprisingly causes people to think about sex more, if you can believe it.

Not that anyone would ever know it, obviously. Most people are entirely capable of keeping their thoughts to themselves, but Mando does them two better and keeps his words and his face to himself, too. Nobody truly knows what’s really going on behind the helmet, and he prefers it that way. He can think whatever he wants, let any emotion play over his face without once worrying about its potential impact on another person.

Nobody ever knows. Nobody knows when he’s smiling, when he’s gritting his teeth. Nobody knows if he’s sleeping, or if he’s just choosing to sit remarkably still.

Nobody knows how often he looks at you, especially if his head is facing a different direction.

The beskar offers solace in that regard. He has many personal qualms with it, but on occasion, there can be. Benefits. Specifically, it was incredibly useful the first time he saw you. That day was one of the rare occasions he remembers being truly grateful for the helmet.

At that point in time, Kuiil had been dead for a few weeks, and realistically, Mando had no real reason for even being there. He had no real reason for landing the Crest somewhere in the outskirts of his late friend’s abandoned moisture farm. He could make up some excuse about the blurrgs weirdly getting to him, how Kuiil’s enclosure was likely too well-built to escape from and they’d probably be nearing the point of cannibalism by now. But realistically, he had no reason.

Secretly though, if anyone ever asked him to cut the shit and just fucking explain himself—give them a legitimate, valid rationality as to why the fuck he bothered wasting the fuel returning to this desolate planet, why he delayed collecting payment on Nevarro in order to visit a barren moisture farm he knew would be empty—Mando could. He wouldn’t, obviously, but he could. It was stupid, it was completely fucking illogical, it was absolute fucking nonsense, but there was indeed an underlying motivation attached to his actions that he likely wouldn’t even admit to himself.

He was looking for something. Or, someone, to be more specific. Someone like Kuiil. His good friend’s affinity towards children and his abilities as a versatile mechanic were incredibly useful when he was still alive, and while Mando wasn’t stupid enough to think those things came from the water here on Arvala-7, whatever trace amounts of it there were to be found in the air, he was… well, he was getting a bit desperate.

The kid was a fucking handful, always getting into trouble while he was out trying to hunt down bounties. It would be irresponsible to take him with Mando, but it was also irresponsible to leave him in the ship by himself. He couldn’t do both at the same time. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t continue to be this child’s caretaker and provider. It just wasn’t physically possible.

He needed help. But he had no idea where to look for it. Kuiil was one of the only people to whom Mando ever extended an offer of partnership, one of the only people he ever trusted to look after his ship and his kid. So, after a few weeks of unsuccessfully juggling the responsibilities of a single-parent/bounty hunter, Mando figured that if he needed to start somewhere, he should probably start at the very beginning.

He wasn’t expecting much of anything. When he hid the sleeping kid in the stowaway cot on the ship and silently made his way across Kuiil’s land, he wasn’t expecting much of anything at all. In fact, he kept inwardly scolding himself for even bothering. He’d let the blurrgs out of the corral, try not to get immediately eaten by the starving beasts, and then probably just have to figure something else out in regards to the kid. Sorgan, maybe? There were some nice, trustworthy people there. Maybe he could find one who’d entertain an offer of adventure.

If anyone pressed him about it, Mando supposes what he was expecting was an empty house. Rabid blurrgs enclosed a few hundred feet away, either in the process of dying or already dead. He even braced himself for the possibility of a dismal, scavenged scrap pile that those Maker-forsaken Jawas would leave behind if they decided to raid Kuiil’s farm while he was gone.

He… he absolutely was not expecting the sound of someone moving things around in the house. A quiet voice murmuring unintelligibly to itself as pieces of scrap metal clanged carelessly against the floor.

Mando stepped around the corner. And then he saw you. Bent over, rummaging around in one of Kuiil’s spare junk bins.

And…

There.

That’s the moment.

That’s when he knew he wanted to fuck you. Seeing you wave your ass in the air, completely oblivious to his presence as you continued rifling through Kuiil’s things.

Not very interesting, he said before.

The thought struck him a split-second before an immediate flare of anger at your blatant disregard for his friend’s memory.

His third emotion was his blaster in his hand. That’s—admittedly, not really an emotion, but then maybe somebody should tell him why Mando sure as fuck seemed to feel it often enough.

“None of that shit is yours,” he remembers saying through the modulator, his voice rough from a day or so of disuse. Your body snapped upright at the first word, hair pulled into a high ponytail and hands black and greasy as they immediately flew up into the air over your head, clutched tight around a few frayed wires.

“Oh shit, I wasn’t—” You started to spin around, but you froze halfway through the process at the sound of Mando clicking off the safety of his blaster with his thumb. Based off your positioning relative to one another and the way a sweaty tendril of your hair hung in front of your forehead, he could just barely catch a sliver of your face at this angle, but it was enough to see you try to look at him through the corner of your eye as best you could without lifting or turning your head. “I was just here taking care of th—”

He wasn’t in the mood, and Kuiil deserved better. Kuiil deserved better than a lot of fucking things Mando handed to him. He deserved so much better than what happened to him, but no matter how much Mando wilted under the guilt of being the main reason Kuiil wasn’t here right now telling you to get your fucking hands off his personal belongings himself, he simply couldn’t change the past. He could, however, right some wrongs right here and now.

“I can see how well you take care of things,” he grunted sharply, cutting you off. “A good man dies and you think his shit is yours to scavenge?”

The wires immediately dropped from your hands and you whipped around entirely to look at him in the eye, disbelief and shock painting your expression. “Kuiil is… d-dead?”

He… he wasn’t expecting that.

Okay… any of those things, really.

First, he wasn’t expecting you to be surprised, much less upset by the news. Second, he wasn’t expecting you to know Kuiil’s name, or third, to move so rapidly and carelessly under a loaded blaster in response to his, in hindsight, incredibly cruel taunt. Looking back, he wishes he made even a marginally better first impression with you, but as Mando quickly comes to learn, you’re too forgiving. You never bring it up again.

Fourth, and notably, one of the things he remembers thinking most is how he wasn’t expecting you to well… look the way you did.

You were a young woman in the middle of this arid, fucking Jawa-infested desert and you somehow managed to look well-fed. Vibrant, even. Bright eyes, soft features, blinking up at him from under long lashes, plush lips parted and chin beginning to wobble like he just broke your fucking heart.

Pretty. Grease smudged across your cheek bone, fingernails dirty, hair a complete mess. Still. Devastatingly pretty.

Fifth. Strangely, and perhaps more jarring than anything else—Mando didn’t expect you to stare right into his eyes the very first time you looked at him. Most people ended up focusing their gaze somewhere near his forehead, maybe even down to his nose on occasion. You managed to hit him dead-on. On the very first try.

Sixth. He faltered.

Mando faltered under your stare, your words, your appearance. He took way too long in responding. He remembers watching your hands fall to your side in a shocked sort of dismay, and then he remembers silently holstering his blaster as you all but plopped down on the ground, right where you were, the stricken horror of realization painting your expression a hauntingly empty tabula rasa.

“Oh,” is all you said.

Over the next few hours, Mando learned a few things about you. Some things you told him, other things he figured out.

Things you told him: You were one of Kuiil’s neighbors. When you didn’t see him for a few days, you set up base here to keep things running smoothly, feed and take care of the blurrgs while he was gone. You were waiting for him to come back.

Things he figured out: You liked animals (even those stubborn overgrown creatures that look like they’re missing the middle-third of their body) and from the immediate softening of your expression upon catching sight of the bleary-eyed kid peeking his head around the doorway at some point, you liked children as well. You were a moisture farmer like Kuiil, an occupation that required you to be a wide-ranged and skilled mechanic. You lived alone and managed to stay relatively healthy in such an unwelcome environment, which meant you were hardworking and resourceful. But the state of your clothing said you needed money. And the way you looked at him told him you were lonely.

The last one was a shot in the dark, he’ll admit, but Mando has always been observant. Your house had to have been a reasonable distance from Kuiil’s, just based on the sheer square acreage of his land alone. Sometimes you tripped over your words, like it’d been just as long for you without speaking as it had been for him.

Admittedly, you were… quietly endearing to him. In a way. Soft spoken but sharp, capable yet entirely untested beyond this tiny little rock in the backskirts of the outer rim. The kid liked you. He had good instincts, and he smiled a toothy little grin every time you turned your attention to him, clearly finding the little one much easier to talk to than Mando.

And, he supposed, at the very end of the day, Kuiil apparently liked you. Kuiil apparently trusted you. And Mando… Mando very suddenly remembered someone—something else. Something else Kuiil once trusted, and at that time, Mando sure as fuck didn’t. He probably couldn’t have distrusted that fucking bounty/nanny droid more, and yet… Mando ultimately trusted Kuiil, and he ended up being completely right. Mando was wrong, and Kuiil was right.

Weeks after he covered his body in rocks. Weeks of silent overthinking, of the guilt of his friend’s death weighing heavier on his shoulders than any armor he’s ever worn. Well. Mando wasn’t about to start second-guessing him now.

Perhaps, the real question is why you ever agreed to join him when he casually offered. A chance at adventure, at finally leaving Arvala-7? The promise of good money, of not having to constantly worry about farming water from the atmosphere just to have a sip of it?

To this day, he still has no fucking idea. That’s probably something best to ask you.

Now. The second question.

When Mando couldn’t deny his feelings any longer.

He… he feels like there’s something weird about phrasing it like that. It’s probably better to ask about. The turning point. When everything either fell apart or came together, depending on how you want to look at it. The split-second realization that shit had changed. The exact moment when Mando knew he was well and truly fucked.

Before he starts, he should probably preface.

Mandalore isn’t known for their fine arts.

Anything creative he did as a foundling that wasn’t also inherently, at its core, strategic, wasn’t rewarded. Ever. His people have always been a militaristic people, and art is for peacetime. Mandos aren’t known for their music, painting, or architecture. Their specialty is smithing, combat, and depending on the clan, espionage. Their symphonies are war chants. Their murals are blood-streaked battlefields. The last person he really remembers hearing sing, if only just for the love of it, was his father.

Maybe that’s why it originally took him so long to figure out what that fucking sound was.

He was in the pilot’s chair of the Crest, almost asleep at that point. The door to the cockpit was shut tight, and last he checked, you were entertaining the little one in the hull. After a few weeks with your company, he had come to expect certain things from you, if not based off the terms of the deal you two struck, then simply based off newly established precedent.

You took good care of the kid and fixed mechanics, yes, but you were also apparently a decent pilot. You even took to the habit of cleaning the ship whenever Mando was gone. That was never part of the agreement, but you did it anyways. You were surprisingly helpful. Sweet, in that regard. Not difficult to be around, nor to work with. And if he was being honest, you were just about the furthest thing from difficult to look at.

But mostly, you were quiet. In general. The record for the longest conversation ever occurring between the two of you was still held by your very first introduction. As a quiet person himself, Mando had grown accustomed to the average individual’s insatiable need to fill the silence for him, talk his ear off out of nervousness, discomfort, or an annoying combination of the two. In contrast, and like him, you barely said a word unless it was necessary. It made for a peaceful journey around the galaxy, if ever a silent one.

Even more surprising, you were usually very good about keeping the noise down even with a small child in tow, and excelling where Mando failed (mainly, stopping the tears before they evolved into screeching sobs). Because of that, the unfamiliar sound he could just barely hear from his place in the ship was that much more intriguing to him. It was audible through hyperspace, through a metal door, and through sound-absorbent beskar. So quiet, but loud enough for him to wonder what its source was.

He remembers standing up and slowly walking over to the door, straining his ears and listening to the volume marginally increase, but not by much. Just to the point where he could finally place it, though it took him far longer than it should’ve even considering the situation.

A gentle melody. Humming. Sweetly reverberating throughout the ship despite its deadened acoustics, when Mando didn’t think he’d heard a song in years.

He must’ve stayed like that for a few minutes at least, just standing statuesquely in front of the door leading to the hull. Either… either you were singing to his son, or you were singing just because you felt like it. Somehow, each one of those possibilities managed to move him more than the last.

Only it was still too quiet to truly hear. There were still just too many pieces of metal separating him from you.

So, at that point, he had two choices.

Well, three. Mando had three choices. He could always just fuck off and go back to the pilot’s seat, up the noise cancellation setting on his helmet just slightly and try to pass the fuck out, but that wasn’t… realistic.

So he had two viable choices. Each one came with its own set of problems.

One, he could press a button on the panel and open the door. Potential problems included the noise it would make while shifting to the side, and the ability for you to catch him eavesdropping if you happened to be standing right under the ladder to the cockpit. Statistically, the prior was much more plausible. If it happened, and it was very likely to happen, you’d stop singing and the ship would be silent. Once again. Like always.

Two, he could. He could… take his helmet off. But—

—But here was the thing about that. Mando hated doing it. Even when he had to take it off to eat, he hated doing it. And not because of the reason most people would probably expect. It wasn’t because he felt uncomfortable or exposed without it, even when barricaded inside an enclosed space like this by himself. It wasn’t because he felt guilty about it, either. Technically, he would probably be violating his oath by removing it unless absolutely unnecessary—eating, for example, or bathing, or about to bleed out and die from a head wound, etc—but Mando probably couldn’t have given less of a shit about the details. He was always more of a big-picture person.

No, the reason he hated doing it was because… well, because of how much he really fucking loved doing it.

When he was younger, he’d always looked forward to any excuse to breathe fresh air. He’d drag out his meals for as long as he reasonably could, trying to memorize the way everything looked without a digital interface shielding his eyes. He used to have absolutely impeccable grooming habits, really taking his time shaving his face and deep cleaning the beskar and filter every single day.

That… that only lasted a few years.

Eventually, it became harder and harder to put the damn thing back on again. Only, he had to. This was his life. After a handful of decades, taking the helmet off became less about savoring the moments without it and more about just prolonging the inevitable. Making it that much more difficult to accept. If you knew you were going to starve, would you want a full course buffet in front of you the entire time? Let the visuals of everything you could never have, the aromas torment you until your very last breath? The blissful temptation started to eat away at him, until eventually he just grew to dread taking it off altogether.

Eventually, those few moments of relief from the torture of wearing it just became the worst torture of all.

It was easier keeping it on. Physically, emotionally, whatever. His body would acclimate to the metal and padding wrapped tight around his skull, and some days he happily forced down the growling in his stomach and skipped meals altogether. He hated taking it off. He hated the fresh air. He slept in the helmet. When he had to, he scarfed down his food. He learned how to eat with his eyes closed.

So. To reiterate, Mando had two choices.

One. Run the incredibly high risk of you stopping entirely.

Two. Do the thing he arguably hated doing more than anything else in this galaxy.

He silently turned and pressed his back against the closed door, sliding down to the ground and weighing his options. Technically this was a non-problem. Technically he was just making things difficult for himself. He could always just say fuck it and mind his own damn business. He could always just… he could…

He—

He took the helmet off.

He cradled the beskar between his knees and stared down at the visor as it glared judgmentally back up at him, his spine resting against the closed door and listening to your soft humming for as long as you felt like doing it.

And…

There.

That’s the moment Mando knew he was fucked.

That’s the moment the countdown started. From that point on, it became only a matter when he’d give in, not if. Before, he could at least pretend everything was fine. Before, he could at least tell himself with reasonable certainty that while he genuinely liked you as a person, he’d never push your relationship past the point of quiet, yet friendly, business acquaintances.

But that was the moment Mando knew he was full of shit. That sooner or later, there’d come a point, a shift, when his resolve would eventually snap. And like his kid and the ship, he’d let himself get taken care of by you, too.

He didn’t know how long it would take, or the catalyst that would set everything off. It could be anything. A close brush with death. A soft, much needed touch.

Fuck, even just a really rough day.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #rough day #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #reader insert

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wickedscribbles · 3 years

Text

Come What May, Chapter Two

A/N: Enjoy! You can find up to Chapter 9 on my Ao3 if you get antsy for more; my username is just WickedScribbles. :)

Masterlist

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Original Female Character (Second Person Perspective)

Rating: Explicit

Tags: female masturbation, male masturbation, first kisses, admission of feelings, Obi-Wan ain’t give a fuck he’s getting some, that’s not how the Force works, discussion of the Jedi Code, Obi-Wan is a switch and you can’t change my mind, come marking

Word Count: 4.9 K

After the awkward ship ride home to Coruscant, Master Obi-Wan seems to make it his mission to stay as far away from you as possible. In the Temple, this isn't hard to do; most floors and rooms were meant to hold dozens, if not hundreds of people, and Obi-Wan knows its halls better than most.

It’s admirable, how he’s managed to vanish in a place that adores him so much. Have you seen Master Obi-Wan? is always followed by, Oh, you just missed him or No, I haven’t seen him. The most you’ve been able to see in weeks is the edge of his cloak slipping around a corner. A startled look over his shoulder as he flees the gardens, realizing that you’re meditating there, too. If you’re both attending a council meeting, you swear he ignores you so vehemently that you start to doubt your own existence.

And his life Force? Forget about it. He's shoved it down so tightly that he might as well not exist to you. You find yourself pining for it. If he's determined to never interact with you again, you had hoped to at least feel his Force touch yours, even in a friendly way. It's almost as if he yanked a part of your own essence away when he withdrew that night in Odryn. Something feels missing from you. In the mess hall, you start asking for cinnamon tea. It tastes flavorless.

In some ironic twist, now you're the one tormented by dreams. But each one leaves you right on the edge, with no one to reach out to. Alone in your quiet room, gasping for air as the details of the dream drain away the more awake you become. Obi-Wan. Smirking down at your naked body. Hands. Tongues. Breath. Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan. Each time it happens, you bring yourself to climax, face muffled deep into your pillow, biting down a cry of his name.

Hesitant, you touch the thick cloud of life Force all around you. You have to swallow the bile rising in your throat. It's like slogging through floodwaters with Jedi on all sides; far too overwhelming. You have to pull out almost immediately, the sensation akin to being drowned under the weight of information.

You can feel the signatures of every Force-sensitive in the Temple, from the smallest youngling all the way to Master Yoda. They all have a presence. Lying on your back, you stare up at the ceiling with a fading sense of nausea. If you ever want to speak with Obi-Wan again, you’re going to have to get better at this.

Two more weeks pass before you can re-enter this headspace. Inhale, exhale. Don't try too hard to keep a rhythm. Body relaxed. Mind at ease. Then...you dive in.

Lit candles and a holonovel. Leaning on an old cane. The smell of blaster fire. Giggling and playing tag with your creche mates. Lying in a medbay bed, watching sunlight streak the window. Feeling fear wrench in your gut at the thought that this war might never end. Watching your Padawan twirl her sabers, her lekku flying behind her. Sitting cross-legged in the library tower, thinking about things you shouldn't.

The last one is him -- it has to be. There’s no other Force here that feels like this; the same mix of emotions run through it that you felt before. But now, they feel muted, pushed down under a working consciousness. You’re not sure you would’ve been able to sense it at all, had you not already made the connection.

Though you're still reeling from a dozen other sensations, you get to your feet. The library’s halfway across the Temple -- you trip and nearly fall flat in your haste to get there in time. Your urgency earns you more than a few strange looks, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You don’t even have a plan for what to say when you get there; all you know is that you need to see him again.

You slow to a walk when you reach the library’s entrance, trying to blend in with those coming and going. It’s the middle of the afternoon, the perfect time of day to be here if you wanted to go unnoticed. Younglings have just been released from their lessons, roaming the aisles. They chatter at a poorly managed volume, despite their minder’s warning. Older Masters roam to and fro as well. Some are glued to holodisplays, others watch the younglings play with fond smiles.

But where are you, Master Kenobi?

Dodging a group of Padawans, you scan the perimeter. Nodding hellos and exchanging brief greetings, your heart begins to drop the longer you investigate. It wasn’t him. All that work, for you to be wrong. Whatever connection had occurred on that mission is unwanted on his end -- so much that he's actively pretending that you aren't alive. Jedi are supposed to be good at letting go of attachments -- are forbidden from forming them -- so why does this sting? You turn to the library’s exit, fist clenched tight. Then, you hear it.

“Thanks, Master Kenobi!”

“Of course, Padawan. Any time.”

A short Rhodesian girl darts past you, beaming as she holds her unlit lightsaber with newfound determination.

Only years of discipline and training keep you from bolting past her like a Jawa to a shipwreck. Taking a deep breath, you round the corner. There he is. Finally. Sitting cross-legged, just as you’d seen him through the Force, warmed by the sun coming in through one of the high windows. He doesn’t look up when you spot him -- his brow is furrowed (like it was when he -- no, not here) like what he’s reading is too important to take his eyes off of.

Is it your imagination, or has he gotten prettier since you’ve had the chance to get a good look at him? His hair’s longer -- it’s starting to curl near his ears. The beard’s a little bushier, but still well kept. Obi-Wan brings a hand to his mouth, stroking it lightly. Maker. You swear the ghost sensation of the hair is still tickling your lips, though it’s never really been there.

Well, you didn’t track him down to stare.

You walk over to his small table in the corner, and he only looks up when your hand is on the back of the unoccupied chair. Must be one fascinating holotext. If your heart wasn’t pounding, you might have laughed at the expression that crossed Obi-Wan’s face before he composed himself. His eyebrows threatened to disappear right into his hairline. How many people could say that they’d caught Master Kenobi off guard in such a manner?

“Master,” you greet, bowing in a show of respect. “May I have a word with you?” You have to pull your hand off of the chair so that he can’t see it trembling.

For a moment he looks at you, apparently lost for words. You wish you knew what he was thinking -- or even better, could feel his life Force mingled with yours. You practically grieve it with him right in front of you, but unable to feel a thing. It’s torture, waiting for him to either accept or dismiss you with no hint about which he’ll do. At last, with the smallest of sighs, he closes the holotext and straightens.

“I suppose I can spare a moment,” says Obi-Wan, getting to his feet. “Come with me.”

Feeling like a youngling again, you follow him out of the library and into a hall that you’ve hardly ever been down. Together, you pass no one but a few busy cleaning droids. Neither one of you says a word as he pauses in front of a door, keying in a code. Looking around to make sure that no one’s watching, Obi-Wan waves you in before he follows. The door locks behind him.

It’s an abandoned training room. Still clean due to the presence of droids, it’s nonetheless clear that no living thing has set foot in here for some time. Wooden sparring sticks lie in a pile next to the door, and an outdated holoprojector sits in the far corner. The small size surprises you -- a room this large would likely only hold around half a dozen students. You imagine that’s why it’s no longer used.

“Please, sit.” Master Obi-Wan gestures to a floor mat, and you drop onto it obediently. He mirrors your assumed posture, back straight and ankles crossed. As if this was an out-of-the-way meditation session, not a tense confrontation that you’d been trying to have for weeks.

“You’re a hard man to find, Master,” you say, hoping to break the tension.

He ducks his head, the slightest hint of color creeping over his cheeks. “Yes. Well. War does keep one busy.” You watch his fingers drum on top of his knee, a habit never seen before. Is he anxious?

You nod. “Of course. And yet I notice that I haven’t been assigned any more missions.” When he doesn’t say anything, you continue.

“Our... mission on Odryn seemed to meet the Council’s standards.” Your tone is light, cautious. It’s true that you’ve been stuck in the Temple since then, with many other Knights coming and going. Hard not to believe that Obi-Wan hasn’t had a hand in where you get assigned. Or if.

Obi-Wan takes in a sharp breath, turning away. Was that going too far? He’s silent a moment before speaking, his tone lower than you’re used to hearing it. “Young one, I...that is to say...accompanying you that day was a mistake.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, a look familiar to you from watching him chase Anakin Skywalker around.

You’re genuinely curious when you ask what he means.

“What I mean is--” the blush on his face is darkening, and you lower your eyes, biting off a smile. Cute, your mind tells you again.

“I knew that there was -- that I -- felt something toward you. That offering myself as a volunteer to go with you on the Odryn mission was a poor choice. That my thoughts would -- that I might --” He breaks off, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “Yet I went anyway. I am so sorry for what followed.” Obi-Wan looks ashamed, not meeting your eyes when you go searching for his.

Ashamed? Sorry? Poor choice? That’s...the complete opposite of how you feel.

Felt something toward you! Your brain screams in retaliation, alight with joy that you hadn’t hallucinated the whole ordeal.

“Do you...remember anything?” you ask timidly. “The dream?”

“I remember enough,” he replies, not seeming to want to discuss it further. “Enough to be consumed with guilt for what you had to witness. I assure you -- I swear -- that every moment since has been dedicated to severing the bond I mistakenly forged. To improving myself as a Jedi.”

For several seconds, you have no clue what he could mean. Then it hits -- he thinks that everything that happened was all his doing. That you were a bystander, a -- a victim.

“Obi-Wan,” you stammer. You’ve never called him that before, and it feels far too intimate once it leaves your mouth. He looks up, blue eyes full of chagrin. “Did you really think that was all you?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Can I...could I just show you?” You swallow. Oh please I’ve missed you, please.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth, then frowns, seeming to think better of it. After a moment of hesitation he simply closes his eyes and inclines his head, an invitation. So relieved you could cry, you close your eyes in turn and drop your shoulders, relaxing. Yes, oh stars, yes. Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan.

When you reach, the door to his life Force is open -- barely ajar, but open all the same. This time you’re the eager one, the neglected one, and your Force greets him like a long lost friend. He wraps around you, hesitant but willing to take you, to listen. You feel tears slip down your face before pushing harder.

Sunshine, tea, cinnamon, cedarwood, shame shame shame. His purest parts clouded with it, making your chest ache so deep you can’t catch a proper breath. This isn’t right. This isn’t the whole picture. You long to make him understand. To let him know that you want him every bit as much as he wanted you that day, and so you flex forward and show.

You hear him gasp from the sheer volume of it. All your desire, watching him sleep and dream of you. Feeling the ebb and flow of his thoughts and thinking you’d never touched a more beautiful life Force. Watching his fantasy about you and feeding back one of your own. When you play back your affection toward him -- before Odryn and after -- he makes the smallest sound under his breath. And when you show him how you came just from feeling his orgasm, right there on the jungle floor, he withdraws from your mind so painfully it feels like a blow to the head.

“Stop,” he chokes out, eyes wild. “I -- I get the picture.” His hands clench tight to the material of his robes, arms crossed over his midsection.

“Are you okay?” you ask quietly, wiping your face. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you -- but you need to know. It’s not just you.”

Both hands bridge in front of Obi-Wan’s mouth as he stares straight ahead. “I'm not sure if this is better or worse.”

“Why?” You lean forward, unable to keep the desperate note out of your voice. “Master -- Obi-Wan -- I don’t see the issue. This appears to be… highly mutual.” You let your eyes dart down to his waist, which he’s still keeping hidden from you. He catches your look and bites his lip, and never in your life have you wanted to break a rule more. Because you know exactly what he’s going to say before he even has a chance to explain.

“Sometimes I forget how young you are,” he sighs, shifting under your gaze. “You know why. The Code -- attachments are exactly the sort of thing we can’t have.” But you can hear how his breathing’s gone shallow and shaky. His own eyes are lingering on your mouth, like he’s imagining if you taste like you do in his dreams.

“I think that’s an outdated rule.” You cross your arms, not missing the way his gaze now bounces down to your lifted breasts. “You’re attached to Anakin. And his Padawan, Ahsoka.”

“That’s…” Obi-Wan sighs.

“If either were about to die on the battlefield, would you not run to save them? Or leave it to fate?” You quirk an eyebrow, knowing his answer.

“I suppose you’ve got me there. But that’s not -- not the same attachment. It’s familial, not -- this.” He glances up at you shyly. “I can say with full confidence that Anakin has never tempted me in the ways that you have.”

“You’re one of the only people in the Temple he hasn’t, then,” you laugh, trying not to bask in the thought that he’s just said you tempt him. Obi-Wan grins back. A bit of that sunbeam feeling returns, though his Force is nowhere near yours at the moment.

“Anakin has a...fast and loose relationship with the Jedi Code. Even more so now that I am no longer his Master,” he chuckles. “Still. I have to assert that this is a different matter.”

“Hmm.” You frown, feigning contemplation though your mind is already set. “What if we... promise not to get attached? To fall in love? Would that feel safe enough for you?” A long shot.

Obi-Wan shakes his head, giving you a sad sort of smile. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible, dear. I’ve seen your thoughts. You’ve seen mine.” The seeds have already sprouted, he doesn’t say.

Unable to help it, you scoot closer until your knees touch his. “That’s too bad. I -- I really wanted to kiss you, Master.”

And there -- you’ve struck a nerve. Simply addressing him as Master in such a sweet, plaintive tone is enough. Obi-Wan practically flinches, lips pressed tight together. His eyes are bright and longing, looking right into yours now. His lashes are longer than mine. You know without looking into his mind that he remembers that particular part of his dream. Finding you in his room, bare but for your long, brown cloak.

For a moment, you stare at one another. Then he takes a deep breath. “Well. In for a chit, in for a credit,” he murmurs, and presses his mouth against yours.

Oh, it’s soft. So gentle. The barest touch of lips, yet it makes you shiver. You place a hand on his cheek with a happy hum, so glad you were able to convince him. Obi-Wan answers with a satisfied sound of his own, inching further into the kiss. When he presses harder, his moustache threatens to go up your nose. You pull away instinctively, fighting not to giggle.

“Not good?” Obi-Wan’s mouth is still inches from your own, his innocent question full of concern.

“No, it’s fine. But you’re a little,” you grin, “fuzzy.”

“Oh.” His hand drops to his mouth as if he’d never considered it before. “You’re right, I suppose. It is getting to be a bit much. Should I shave it?”

“No!”

“Trim it, then.”

“Later,” you breathe, coming for his lips at a less direct angle.

“Mm! Mmm…”

The urgency of his tone betrays him as he claims your mouth again, more confident this time. Obi-Wan’s legs fall open loosely, and you crawl forward to sit between them, not quite in his lap. His arms come around you, fingers tight on your shoulder blades. You let your mouth fall open against his closed lips as you pant, heart hammering. Gods, he’s strong. The knowledge that he could easily be rough with you -- and yet his mind shows that all he wants is to be gentle -- only makes you want him more.

Obi-Wan’s lips open against yours in turn, and you whimper at his breath mingling with your own, hot and inquisitive. You curl a hand in his hair, wondering if he’ll have the reaction you imagined in your Force projection. He doesn’t disappoint -- with a needy little gasp, he pulls you forward, effectively placing you onto the very erection he’s been trying so hard to hide. His cock flexes up into your core. Oh kriff yes there, your body sings, applying the lightest pressure back.

This time Obi-Wan is the one to pull away, dropping his forehead to your cheek. You slide back to the floor, leaning back on your palms.

“Would now be a bad time to say that I have no idea what I’m doing?” he admits with a breathless laugh. His Force is trickling back open like he can’t seem to help it, and oh, do you like what you feel.

You laugh too, just as flustered. “Doesn’t seem like it, Master.”

“I’m flattered, but really. I’m rather clueless. I assume from the way you’ve spoken about attachments that you are...not.” You sense curiosity from him, though he says nothing more about it. In return, you offer your thoughts. It’s easier -- and far less embarrassing -- to show. Your eyes seek Obi-Wan’s, asking permission to join his life Force again. He inhales shakily, and you don’t miss how tightly his hands are clenched in his lap.

Pressing a kiss to his temple, you re-enter, gentler this time. Truthfully, the experiences you have to offer aren’t that impressive. Fervent touches with a few fellow Knights who also had little to no experience, but passion in spades. Your hands on your own body, long after night had fallen at the Temple. Obi-Wan observes these parts of you, not critical or judgemental. Instead, you’re met only with his growing attraction to you, his consistent relief that what occurred on Odryn was not his fault (but you started it, you tease.).

And you? You prod. His Force shrinks a little, nervous, before opening to you further on the topic.

He hadn’t lied. In conscious practice, there’s nothing. You sift through years and years of thought in fast-forward and he’s never even laid a hand on himself, though the urge to simmers far closer to the surface than he prefers. This...definitely explains the lack of certain details in his dream. Aside from intimacy displayed by couples he’s seen out and about on-planet, he doesn’t have much to go on. This isn’t a topic they teach you as a youngling. Because why would a Jedi need to know? You remember your own firsts, everything coated with disquietude.

“Told you,” he mutters, breaking your concentration. When you open your eyes, he’s giving you a classic Kenobi smirk. Uncertainty lingers behind the kind crinkle of his eyes, anxiety that he can’t quite banish. Neither of you address it. “Are you still so eager to break the rules?” Do I still appeal to you?

In answer, you graze your mouth over his once more. When you tug at Obi-Wan’s bottom lip with your teeth, the pile of sparring sticks in the corner collapses and scatters.

“This is a training room,” you say between kisses, adrenaline flooding your veins at the noises he’s making. Quiet gasps ascend into groans the more daring you get with your tongue, his fingers trembling on your shoulder. “So we should make the best of it. Get some more experience under our belts.”

“I like -- your phrasing,” Obi-Wan manages. "But I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to stop talking," one of his hands snakes to your ass and you squeak in surprise, "and come here."

Gladly, you have time to think at him, before he grabs your hips and lifts you right back into his lap. Nothing shy about it this time -- he's put you directly on his clothed cock.

Now you're the one caught off guard, and he can sense it all over you. How badly you want it. How long you've imagined. You must smell like need. Locking eyes with you, Obi-Wan rolls his hips into your cunt, slow and purposeful. When you whine, something seems to click in his expression -- like he's filing the information away.

I see.

See wh-- !

But you're not allowed to finish the thought. In one motion, Obi-Wan is rising up and over you, crowding you onto the floor under him. You lie there, the training mat stiff underneath you, as he continues to survey you. His hips press yours firmly into the floor, a delicious pressure as you lie flat and he sits astride you.

“There are several options running through your mind, little one,” he says at last, and you blush. No one’s called you that since you were a youngling, tripping over the hem of your robes and envying the Padawans with their lightsabers. To hear him refer to you as little, when you’re pinned under his arousal, does something to you. “Show me the one you want the most.”

Licking your lips at the way his curious look has morphed to one of hunger, you offer the image that has gotten you to climax for the past few nights. You had been desperate to be claimed by the one person who hadn’t seemed to want you.

How things have changed, you muse, watching his eyes go wide as he watches the scene play out in his own mind. Obi-Wan’s full lips part on a silent moan as it vanishes, blinking back to reality slowly.

“Yes. Yes, I think we can manage that.” His voice is so soft, a contrast to the hard press of his cock and hips. “Pull your tunic up for me.”

You scramble to obey, exposing the flat planes of your stomach, then the curve of your breasts. The sturdy material of the tunic is gathered up near your neck, leaving your torso bare for him. Obi-Wan reaches down to swipe the pad of his thumb over one nipple, making you squirm under his hold. He purrs at the desperate sensation it incites in your core, feeling it almost as you do through the Force.

Staying silent as he’d asked you to, you nonetheless beg him to hurry, both with your eyes and through the Force. You know he wants this just as badly -- can feel the stiffness of his cock and the arousal pooling in his gut as surely as if it was your own body -- yet he takes his time here.

So when he finally palms his dick through his trousers, forcing it flat against your stomach, you mewl for him. Your hands reach up to dig into his thighs, urging him on.

Exhaling through his nose, Obi-Wan continues to palm himself through the material, sucking in a gasp when he finally lets himself wrap a hand around it and squeeze.

“Out of everything you imagined,” he murmurs, undoing the ties on his pants deftly, “this is really what you want most?” His erection peeks out at you now, straining his underwear. With a bob of Obi-Wan’s hand, that too is pulled out of the way. Fucking -- Maker --

“Yes,” you whimper, mouth watering for it.

It feels like you’ve waited years to have Obi-Wan’s heavy, naked cock lying full on your stomach. He’s thicker than anyone you’ve been with, and flushed red with want. The tip is already dripping, warm on your cool skin. He grabs it firmly in his right hand, a ragged groan tearing from his throat as he gives it a slow pull. Powerless to stop yourself from wanting a closer look, you prop yourself up on your elbows. Your heart jumps to your throat as the extra attention makes him flush.

Those lovely eyes, framed by copper lashes, dart away from yours as he tugs harder, biting a knuckle to keep from crying out. Kriff, you wish he wouldn’t. You want his overstimulated sounds almost as much as you want his come smearing your chest.

One hand works his shaft at an increasing pace as the other tenses in the material of his tunic. "Always -- so much," he confesses in a gasp. "Such a m-mess to wake up to." And indeed, pre-come is dribbling down his cock and hand in rivulets now, pooling below your belly button.

"I've never," he shudders, shoulders tensing, "never done this -- on purpose --" Obi-Wan looks down at you, not really seeing, brows knitted with desperation. The normally composed Jedi is falling apart, and it’s driving you insane. "I can f-feel it about to happen." In his fist, his cock is making obscenely wet sounds as he covers it with his own juices.

"How -- how close?" you ask, unable to take your eyes off of the way he's working his hips in tight little thrusts now. Fucking into his hand like no matter how fast he strokes, it won’t be enough. You feel like your hips will be bruised by how hard he’s pinning you into the training mat, but you can’t bring yourself to give a damn.

“Close --” he whines, ducking his head, face screwed up as he pants. Obi-Wan’s hand and wrist are a blur as he pleasures himself, balls drawing up in anticipation. His hair is a mess, so untidy from its normal neat part, and you wish you could run your hands through it. “Oh, gods -- oh, gods --” His Force is blazing with the chase, teetering on the edge of an orgasm he’s never been able to fully experience. Going to come all over you, stars, feels so good --

“Please, Master, please,” you beg, shoving his hips further up your torso. You’re soaking in your underwear, waiting for him to mark you.

You see it in his eyes three seconds before it happens. They go completely round with wonder, a hand slamming over his mouth as the first spurts of hot come streak your stomach.

Little one, stars -- I’m coming, I’m coming -- oh f-fuck fuck --

Though Obi-Wan hardly lets more than a whimper escape past his own hand, you hear everything loud and clear in your mind. It’s every bit as intense as you remember from that day on Odryn, and you clench as his aftershocks roll through your empty cunt. Rope after rope of come covers your chest, from the bottom of your stomach to the hollow of your throat. The scent of it coats your nostrils, thick and musky and Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter closed, hand falling from its grip over his mouth. “That -- that was…”

“Messy,” you joke, offering a smile. Incredible, you add as a hint of embarrassment creeps into your bond. When you reiterate how good it felt to watch him losing himself in the pleasure of it, he relaxes again. With a sigh, he eases off of your hips and tucks his wilting cock back into his trousers, settling down on his side next to you.

“You do look rather pretty like that,” he admits quietly, cheeks still flushed from exertion.

“Just wait until we actually take our clothes off, Master.”

“Pfft.” Obi-Wan leans in and kisses you, as gentle as the first time. “I have to tell you something,” he adds, voice lowered to a conspiratorial volume though you’re alone.

“What is it?”

“You taste like that dreadful tea they serve in the mess.”

#come what may ao3 #wickedscribbles #obi wan kenobi #obi wan x you #obi wan fanfiction #obi wan x oc #obiwan smut #ziva courtee #obi-wan x oc #obi-wan fanfic

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kylorengarbagedump · 3 years

Text

Defy Your Authority: Chapter 3

Read on AO3. Part 2 here. Part 4 here.

Summary: You always hated tagging along on boys' night.

Words: 3300

Warnings: tw//kassanovella

Characters: Kylo Ren x Reader

A/N: HI LOOK AT ME I GOT THIS OUT IN TIME. I did indeed test positive for COVID so this was wrought through my fatigue--and may be why there is a delay for the next chapter. We'll see!

I hope y'all enjoyed this. I am doing my best to respond to all the feedback, but I'm like... so tired LMFAO. Thank you so much for your support and engagement. It literally means the world to me and is so encouraging.

I love you. ❤️

It didn’t matter how many times you told yourself to calm down. Your pulse bounded like a rabbit, every thump a reminder of your tightening chest. The walls of the Steadfast washed past in black-silver blurs, your mind wild with fear. Hux’s words replayed over and over, a cruel broadcast in your brain. Requests for response from the officers stationed there have gone unanswered.

Realistically, that could mean anything. Pessimistically, everyone was dead and you were homeless.

The thought of losing your crew weakened your knees. For four months, they’d been your solace and something akin to a family. Not like you’d had other real options on that little butthole of a planet--but you’d gotten lucky. You’d made a home out of Orinda; a home where you’d planned to return.

Lip pinched in thought, you joined Kylo in a new turbolift, crossing to the corner again as if he were a disease you wanted to avoid. You folded your arms over your chest, stared at your shoes. If you were homeless, it was anyone’s guess as to what you’d do or where you’d go next. It was clear that your supposed… whatever he was didn’t care for your presence.

Leather gloves scrunched in the silence. The lift arrived, and he stormed off, in expectation that you’d follow. You rolled your eyes, trailing behind him, allowing the need that had burgeoned between your thighs to deflate.

He’d said he would punish you. But you couldn’t think of a punishment worse than going four more months without his touch.

Kylo broke through another set of blast doors into the hangar, officers and Stormtroopers alike snapping to attention in his presence. If he noticed or cared, it didn’t show--he pushed through the quiet floor, furious stride carrying him toward one of the ugliest ships you’d ever seen.

Black durasteel panels formed a long, cylindrical frame, the bow outfitted with a row of rakish teeth and bordered by two guiding flaps. The engines looped like two smooth bricks at the stern of the vessel, the two ends connected by rows of external piping and guarded by a sprinkle of gunning stations. Its blocky build bore a resemblance to a prison transport--if that prison transport was then modified by an eager, unsophisticated halfwit.

He climbed the descended ramp in thundering strides, and you skulked in his wake, only to be greeted with one of the mercenaries you’d seen earlier. You paused, but Kylo passed the soldier, marching toward the stern and abandoning you in the main corridor. The man--at least, you were fairly certain he was a man--wore a mask embedded with breathing tubes, a huge, heavy club in his hands. The weight of his gaze anchored you to the floor. He said nothing.

“Uhm…” You tried to find an introduction, but none seemed appropriate. Grimacing, you offered him a half-hearted salute. “Sir.”

The man did not respond. Face burning, you scurried into the ship, hot on Kylo’s heels.

Few lights rimmed the interior of the vessel, your only guide the resonant thump of his boots along the durasteel slats. It was as dim as it was dank--the deeper you delved, the heavier the air. It was sticky with the stench of war, weighed with iron and brimmed with smoke. And underneath that, a scent you’d only describe as one owned by a pack of panting massiffs.

A chill crept over your scalp. This ship was empty of kindness, barren of mercy. You didn’t need the Force to know that nothing good had ever happened within these walls.

Your fear had you scampering to keep pace. Kylo led you through a flickering hall and turned a corner, swiped a switch. A set of blast doors opened to sharp steps, another pair of doors at the top. Those parted as you approached, light spilling from the Steadfast hangar through wide slats of red transparisteel. You’d arrived in the cockpit.

Six chairs lined the wrap-around dashboard. Two as pilot seats, two positioned at gunning and weapons systems, and two plugged toward the back, each in front of a monitoring station. One seemed to handle communications--or lack thereof, the radio receivers and wiring were all almost entirely torn out--and the other dedicated to internal surveillance. At the latter, a matrix of screens with live feed of the interior of the ship.

Even through the shadowed halls, you could distinguish a handful of prison cells. Each of them was torn apart, littered with metal scrap and half-shorn weaponry. The walls themselves were adorned with sloppy graffiti, one of them decorated by a mural of a massive, five-legged lizard beast. A huge red beam was bursting through its neck. Within the tiny walls were separate collections of cultured artifacts. You knew enough about war to know they were trophies.

Every room also possessed a rumpled, dirty bed. A flash of hall light near one cell, illuminating notches in the durasteel where the head of the bedframe met the wall. Like the frame had been slammed against it. Over and over and over.

You swallowed. On one of the feeds, a body slipped through the hall like a living shade. Pausing, you watched until it disappeared from view. The sound of footsteps whispered, then hummed, then roared. You spun, seeking out Kylo, finding him by the co-pilot’s chair, and darted into the pilot’s spot as if this was a totally normal occasion and you weren’t on a weird deathship surrounded by his weird death bodyguards.

Kylo turned to gaze at you, and the blast doors opened, stealing his attention. In the frame stood another would-be man, outfitted with a ribbed-weave robe and carting a huge plasma rifle. Filth smothered him from his boots halfway up his legs, and his head was obscured by a helmet, not unlike the one you’d known Kylo to wear. This one had two blinders on either side, like this man was a predator.

Like he was a hunter.

Whatever fear you felt for him, he certainly did not feel it for you. He glanced between you and Kylo, trying to ascertain the relationship that resulted in your presence.

“She’s in my seat.” His voice was grainy, like glass on stone, distorted underneath his mask.

You held up your hands in deference. “Hey, sorry. I had no idea this was your seat.” You went to stand, frowning at Kylo, who was studying your every movement. Really had to love how helpful he was being.

“Hurry up,” the man said.

Nodding, you wriggled around the chair with your hands still raised, as if this would offer any form of protection between you and this fully armed guard. He squared his feet and stalked toward the pilot’s seat. You side-stepped him, but he shoulder-checked you despite it, and you stumbled back, wincing.

“What the f--”

Kylo Ren’s saber screamed to life, slicing a divide between the hunter and the chair. He stalled, fists balled, neck rolling to stare at Kylo. You gulped, rubbing your arm, your eyes flipping between him and the crackling rod of plasma only a foot away from the man’s waist.

“Sir.”

“Careful,” Kylo said.

He snorted. “Of a Lieutenant--”

“Kuruk.”

Kuruk pivoted to you, and you met his stare somewhere behind the shield of metal. Whoever was underneath the helmet was rending you apart in his mind.

He shrugged his shoulder and looked back to Kylo.

“Excuse me. Sir.”

The saber disappeared, and Kuruk took his seat at the dashboard. You flushed. At least he’d done that much. You snuck to the back of the cockpit, thinking to sit at the surveillance station, but pausing there too. Every one of these seats could have an owner whose name you didn’t know. Glimpsing Kylo, you threw up your hands in confusion.

Kylo caught this, but did not acknowledge it. “Resistance activity was spotted on the scanners. Get Cardo and Trudgen on the turrets. Ushar gunning.”

“Yes, Master.”

Your eyes widened. Master?

Kuruk fussed with the dashboard, relaying the information, and you gazed at Kylo, examining his body in the same routine you’d practiced nightly with your hands between your legs. Fuck, he was big--the thick expanse of chest rose with a slow breath, and you watched it fall, then watched his neck tense as he turned, attuned to your observation. Heat rushed your spine when you linked eyes. His jaw stiffened.

“Get in your seat, Lieutenant.”

“Oh,” you replied. “Is this my seat? I didn’t know.” You sank into it, shooting him a wide, sparkling smile. “Thank you, Master.”

Kylo swallowed.

The blast doors opened again, the soldier you’d seen at the entrance bursting through and tromping to a gunner console--you assumed this was Ushar. He tossed his club to the side, flicking on the controls and calibrating the sights. The ship itself bellowed to life, rising from the floor, and you gripped the seat, unable to force your focus from Kylo--just as he was unable to force his from you.

The two of you were in competition. That much was clear.

You just couldn’t figure out what the loser would be impaled with--or if that would make them a winner, instead.

The Buzzard shot into the stars, coasting in a direct path toward Orinda. You broke the staring contest, glimpsing the little planet through the cockpit, pulse picking up again. Requests for response unanswered. Once you got on the ground, you’d go find your crew and make sure they were safe. That’s all you needed to know. Whether or not Kylo wanted you to come back was irrelevant.

You met his gaze again, his irises hiding a storm. Blood bit your cheeks.

Mostly.

“Nothing detected on the sensors,” said Ushar.

Kylo glanced at him then turned toward the transparisteel, searing you with a leer before he sat at the dash. You shivered. Whatever you’d done to make him feel this way, his brief glimmers of favor only made it worse. Maybe you did want to fuck him so you could get a chance to figure it out. Or maybe it was just frustrating to know him in ways no one else had while simultaneously knowing almost nothing at all.

The three men operated in silence as you approached Orinda. From space, it seemed normal. With no starcraft popping up, there was a chance it was a false alarm. That it had been a fly-by. You held your breath when you broke the atmosphere, flames whipping the transparisteel. The Buzzard trembled with gravity, diving toward the ground, greens and browns and blues splitting to trees and fields and sea.

Then a flash of light, smog blooming to life, tiny fires swallowing your narrowing field of vision. Air froze in your lungs, nails biting the hard back of the seat.

“Fuck.” You launched from the chair, scrambled toward the dashboard. “No, no no…”

Kylo spun to face you, but you ignored him, shoving between the two pilot seats to crane over the console and peer through the transparisteel.

He stood, looming over you. “Back to your seat.”

His words swum in the tsunami of your mind. The outpost was smothered with smoke. The closer you drew, the dimmer the horizon, until the Buzzard landed on the border of the eruption, the entire sky encompassed with billowing black fog. Every muscle in your chest felt like wire around your ribs, forcing the breath from your lungs. You shook your head, hands starting to tremble.

They were out there. They could be dead.

The blast doors opened, and you whirled to leave, but Kylo caught your shoulder and stilled you.

“What the--”

“Gather the rest,” Kylo said. He was speaking to Ushar. “Spread out and secure the perimeter.”

Ushar nodded, grabbed his club, and disappeared down the steps. Huffing, you wrenched yourself free from Kylo’s grip and stomped toward the exit only to be paralyzed by a very familiar nothing. You growled, unable to even make a fist.

“Dude!”

“You will remain on board the Buzzard until I return.”

The fact you couldn’t turn to look him in the eye made you even angrier. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you said. “That’s my crew. They’re my responsibility.”

“Stand down.”

You snorted. “Hell no.”

Two long, slow steps brought him behind you. His presence consumed you like a black hole, crushing you in darkness.

His chest met your back. “Every one of your little quips has gone unchallenged.” Another step, and his mouth fell to your ear. “Do not test me here.”

Warmth flooded your thighs. If he didn’t like being challenged in front of his soldiers, he shouldn’t have put you all in the same space. His own fault.

“I don’t care,” you said. “These are my crew members. You don’t know them. I do. Let me go.”

“No.”

“Why are you even doing this?” you said. “You’re the one who fucking brought me here!”

A pause. Silence settled between you, the only sounds the distant noise of destruction and your anxious, heaving breath. You heard him exhale.

“Kuruk,” he said. “Scout and support.”

Behind you, Kuruk stood, followed by the metal click of him grappling his rifle. You watched, stuck to your spot, as he charged through the cockpit and down the steps. The blast doors to the stairs shut behind him. Then the ones to the cockpit. And you two were alone.

Kylo snarled, snatched your throat--he was a swoop of rage, swiveling and slamming your back to the wall. You seethed, squirming under his grip, unable to hide the smirk curling on your lips as you tried to pry his wrist away. He subsumed you like a star subsumed space, bright hot and pure, and you were a simple nothingness, addicted to his heat.

“You think you have earned my submission,” he muttered. “You have not.”

You wheezed, gazing into his eyes, finding an electric spark of hunger and fury within them. Four months without this had been far, far too long. As long as he was treating you like a stranger, you didn’t want to give in. But that wouldn’t stop you from making this torture for him, too.

“Then what have I earned,” you purred, “Master?”

He sucked in air through his teeth, pinning your body flat--his chest rolled with excitement, his voice raked over lust. “The further you push me, the worse your earnings.”

You bit your lip, bucking your hips against his, feeling a growing bulge between his legs. “You’re ridiculous.” You’d thought he’d wanted you to go to Orinda. Maybe you’d been wrong. “What, is this because I left?”

A huff. “No.”

“Then I don’t get it.” You rolled your pelvis into him again, and he jerked forward, crushing you to the wall. “Why don’t you want me around? What did I do?”

Kylo shifted, panting into your neck, his mouth centimeters from your skin. “Not what you did,” he said, clutching your throat tighter. “What you saw. It will not happen again.”

Some bit of that stung. You saw inside of his mind. “You act like I made you admit it!” It was difficult to speak under the pressure of his palm. “You could’ve just let me go.”

“Hm.” His hand squeezed, and he dragged his hardening bulge along your thigh. “Perhaps I should have.”

So that’s what this was about. Whatever had happened, he’d decided that what he’d shared with you was weakness. And being Supreme Leader meant he couldn’t be weak. Meant he couldn’t have room or time for you. All you were was a living regret.

Frowning, you glared at him, driving your thumbs into the meat of his wrist and throwing his hand from your neck.

“Yeah,” you said, shoving him back. “Perhaps you should’ve.” His eye twitched. A screeching blast broke the air, and you tensed. “I’m going to find my crew.”

You stalked out of the cockpit, blast doors parting for you as you hit the stairs and cut through the halls back to exit the Buzzard. It was one thing to abandon you. One thing to make you leave. One thing to act like he’d never held you, kissed you, or whispered your name.

But it was an entirely other thing to imply he wished it never would’ve happened. The thought pierced your heart, and you steeled your jaw, tried to pull the pain free. You didn’t have time to play Kylo Ren’s newest Game of Repressed Emotion. You had friends to find.

The ramp to the Buzzard was already down, and you hurried to the ground, smacked with the scent of blazing fuel. Embered ash battered your eyes, and you coughed, covering your face with your arm. Under the wailing wind of heat, you heard Kylo approaching the exit, so you trudged toward the outpost, seeking out any hint of life.

“Tonis!” Your voice was eaten by the flames. “Mirna! Lin!” Narrowing your gaze to protect it, you pushed toward the hangar, knowing that if they were anywhere, they’d be there.

Sweat crawled down your nape, scattering over your lower back as you drew nearer to the fire. The mercenaries were nowhere to be found, but you supposed that was okay, since they didn’t seem very fond of you regardless. The hangar was beyond the completely engulfed fueling station and therefore impossible to see, but as you curved around the fire, you could discern slivers of it. Edges of the building, and then whole sections.

And your stomach dropped.

Another couple of steps, only to discover the hangar scorched, collapsed in on itself like a shattered greenhouse. You stopped a scream and bolted, careening toward the wreckage to see if you could find anyone or anything among the debris. Thick durasteel girders stuck out of the heap like nails, the ridged ceiling crumpled in pieces and mirroring the fire’s light.

“Tonis!” Your back burned from the heat, but you didn’t care. You tried to find a way in, a way to pull something apart, a way to find someone. “Mirna!” You grabbed a huge wooden beam, hands slipping on the soot, but you fruitlessly tugged anyway. “Lin!”

A ragged shard of wood ripped your palm, and you shrieked, cradling it to your breast in shock. Cursing, you left the mass alone, following the foundation around the corner, hoping against hope they escaped out of the back and were huddled behind the hangar. You approached the corner, calling their names, louder and louder. They weren’t coming to meet you. Again, and louder, and you turned the corner, pleading with the Force that they’d be there.

Of course, they weren’t.

In front of you was a cluster of discarded starship parts, all outdated or malfunctioned or busted. It was a collection you’d gathered since you’d arrived--arranged and created when more parts were added. Each fragment was unique, and when building it with your crew, it sometimes resembled a sculpture. Under the clouds of smoke, it looked like a pile of junk.

Growling, you rushed it, kicking the base and sending it all tumbling to the ground. Your furious hands found purchase and hurled whatever they had grabbed to pieces. A scream shook your chest, and you jammed your foot against a solar array panel, cracking it in half. Underneath, you found an old, pretty fuelcell splinter. You grabbed it in your bloody hand and hissed, pulverizing it with your fist. Grunting, you threw the dust into the air, watching as the firewind ate it all.

You heard the rustle of grass behind you. Your shoulders sagged.

“There are no signatures of life remaining at this station.”

Sighing, you turned to Kylo. He was watching you, face blank.

“Yeah.” You wiped your palm on your pant leg, smearing it with blood. “I know.”

His eyes flicked to your hand for the shortest, sharpest moment. Then he met your eyes. “The silencer is still in need of repair.”

You frowned, averting your gaze. “I don’t want your pity.”

“You’d prefer to sleep outside in melted trash.”

“Maybe.” You shrugged a shoulder, crossed your arms. “Dumpster fire and all that.”

Kylo Ren held you in his stare, cape fluttering and hair rumpled in the breeze. Tears stung your eyes. You wanted nothing more than to run into his arms.

“Come.”

He turned the corner. Clearing your throat of sadness, you followed him. You allowed him to guide you through the devastation, past the flames, and up the ramp until you were safe in the Buzzard cockpit. And then he left, likely to gather his men before departure.

And then you were alone.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren fanfiction #kylo ren #defy your authority #fya2 #fanfiction problems #COVID CUTIE BRINGING THE CONTENT........

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