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amandacanwrite · 2 months

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The Bear and the Fox - A Halsin x Reader One Shot

Word Count || About 6,000 Words

Scenario || You are a druid adept that has been imprisoned by Kagha for trying to stop the Rite of Thorns in Halsin's absence. He returns to find you and is none to happy to see it, especially after all you have been through.

POV || 2nd Person, ungendered tav/reader.

CW || mentions of entrapment, trafficking, self-deprecation, trauma. (Please let me know if I forgot anything.)

A/n || I have been a little stressed out and have been using this as a distraction/escape. I would appreciate so much if you all let me know what you think! Requested by the lovely @drabblesandimagines, thank you for the idea and I hope you enjoy it!! Thank you for your patience in waiting for this one!

You’re almost certain Archdruid Halsin doesn’t know you exist, but it doesn’t stop you from being devastated when he doesn’t return to the Emerald Grove from his travels to the nearby goblin camp. Even if he doesn’t remember you, you certainly have never forgotten him. Nor have you been able to wrench your heart from the grip of the merciless pining that has plagued you ever since you woke up on a pile of soft hides on the floor of his vault beneath the temple..

The truth is, Archdruid Halsin had saved you.

You’d been captured, at the time, by a troupe of traveling drow with the intention of taking you deep into the underdark to be used for whatever nefarious purposes they deigned. You were one of many captured, but the only druid in the lot.

They’d entrapped you in a cage, preventing you from even taking your wildshape to flee. They’d gone between distressing you in both forms, though. They’d seemed to have a particular talent for making you miserable, and in time you’d lost a bit of your humanity to the shape of the russet and auburn fox you often favored.

When he’d reached in to coax you out with a gentle hand, you pounced on the appendage–far too entrapped in the fear-addled mind of an animal that would sooner gnaw its own foot off than let a hunter find it caught in his leghold trap.

But he hadn’t flinched; hadn’t even grimaced as you sank your sharpened teeth into the thick flesh of his muscled forearm and tore at it. He’d simply watched calmly as you got it out of your system. When you’d realized he was an unyielding mass of man, you’d backed into the farthest corner of your kennel and cowered.

“Fear not, little one,” he’d cooed with that gentle, gravelly tone. “You are among friends now. I only wish to ensure you’re uninjured, and you can be on your way to find your mate or your burrow.”

You’d only blinked and he swapped his bleeding arm for his other one. You’d sniffed cautiously before dropping your head and your ears. He’d not needed any other sign, he’d known the way animals communicate; with gestures and body language rather than sounds.

He’d smoothed a hand over your ratty coat; it was the first kind touch you’d felt in months. You’d leaned yourself into it and he’d used the opportunity to scoop you up into his arms.

Perhaps it was at that moment that you’d fallen for him. Because as soon as you’d registered the strong and tender support of his warm, cradling arms, you’d suddenly realized how exhausted you’d been. You lost hold on your wildshape and changed back to your humanoid form, unclothed and skinny.

He’d started, adjusted his grip a little clumsily as you’d spilled out of the space he’d allotted in his arms for you; but he didn’t drop you.

“You surprised me, child,” he’d said as you’d started to drift into unconsciousness. “I’d certainly thought it was strange to go through such stringent measures for a single fox, but I see now why they’d made such efforts to keep you entrapped.”

He’d reached up to brush your tangled hair away from your face. “I can see you’re exhausted. Rest now; when you wake, you’ll be safe and warm with a meal and a warm bath awaiting you.”

He hadn’t lied, and the Emerald Grove had quickly become your home in the months and years that had passed since then. You’d seen Halsin around, of course. And he always seemed to have a smile to spare for you as you passed like swans floating in a pond. But you’d never quite been able to find a way to speak to him in private.

Perhaps it was your fault, you think, as you find yourself in a new cage, heart broken and aching as it seems less and less likely that he will ever be coming back.

You know Halsin to be strong. He’s a seven foot elf and built like the cave bear he so often likes to take the shape of. But there is only so much a single druid can do on his own, even one as competent as Halsin.

It hurts to be facing the possibility of rotting in the cells below the grove–below the place that had so much begun to feel like home for you, finally. It hurts to realize you may die here having never told Halsin how you feel about him.

But perhaps it’s better this way. Perhaps it is better to die having never faced the awkward acknowledgement of feeling that could never be returned.

Halsin has always been effusive, warm, welcoming…brave.

But there is a reason you chose the fox for your wildshape.

You have always been furtive, timid, too reliant on a single person. It has always been your nature, but you can’t deny the fundamental absurdity of the fox falling for the bear. At best, you could only be an inconvenient pest to him. You’re sure of that much.

Still…you miss the sun…you wish you could see it one more time. You’d always wanted to die bathed in the sunlight, not cold and damp in a stone chamber flooded with three inches of water. You curl into yourself, hugging your knees close, trying to remember the feeling of those warm arms around you as the Rite of Thorns continues somewhere above ground, heedless of your pleas for stalling, uncaring of the courage you’d had to summon to stand up to Kagha at all.

Kagha had never cared much for you; found you weak and miserable.

Pathetic. That was the word you’d heard bandied around when she didn’t know you were within earshot or when you were cozily cloaked by your shadows.

“You should have just kept your mouth shut,” you tell yourself.

But even you don’t really believe that. Not truly. You found kindred spirits in the Teiflings who had come to find refuge in the grove. You’d even played with the children in their little hiding spot beneath the old stone structures.

When the goblins came screaming the name of the Absolute, when Halsin left to learn more about the parasites, you’d been shocked and frightened by the sudden turn of sentiments against them and gotten swept away in your own outrage over it. As far as you’d been concerned, everyone in the grove should have been well aware of what Halsin would have tolerated. They should have known that he’d want any living being to be safe and fed–especially the children.

But it’d seemed that even the Emerald Grove druids were merely people; they were just as vulnerable to intimidation, coercion and power hunger as anyone else in Faerun.

You shiver in the cold and the dank, wishing you could get some rest so that you could take your wildshape and find warmth in the silken texture of your auburn coat.

You think of the nights curled up by the fire in Halsin’s secret cache while he allowed you a smaller space to acclimate to when you’d first arrive. You remember the feeling of large, gentle hands cradling your small, vulpine body in comfort as you slept.

It’s at that moment that you hear the scuff of loud, fast foot fall on the decrepit stairs that lead down to this sodden prison. It’s followed by heavy, hurried sloshing before, as if out of thin air, Halsin stands before you. His hands are wrapped around the thick, stone bars of your enclosure so tightly that they are white at the knuckles. His broad chest rises and falls with exertion; or is that emotion? It is hard to know.

He looks…utterly stricken. So much so that you wonder what happened to devastate him. Did he get back to The Grove to find all of the tieflings slaughtered? Did the tieflings rise up and destroy the grove before the Rite of Thorns could be finished?

He opens his mouth and you expect terrible news–expect the worst.

“A-are you alright?” is what he chokes out instead.

You’re quiet for a moment; the question not making sense to you. Why in the world would he care if you were alright? You were…nobody. A druidic adept that found much more comfort tucked into a nest of blankets than anything else. You’d failed to stop the Rite. You’d failed at almost everything in your life so far.

Has he…is it too dark down here? Does he think he’s talking to someone else?

He grits his teeth and starts to wrestle with the door to your cell.

Its mechanism is like the others in the temple; controlled by a stone tablet which should be placed in the proper slot and then activated with druidic magic. But he’s trying to use his own raw strength to open it.

“Forgive me,” he grunts as the stone actually begins to give way, heeding his command. “I should have never left you here while The Grove was tangled in so much unrest. Had I thought the Kagha…had I known–”

“Archdruid,” you stammer. “You’re going to hurt yourself–”

“I care not,” he says, his tone taking on an almost ferocious quality that has you lifting your shoulders and shrinking into yourself. “It is you I am most concerned for. You had only just begun to smile and I– because of my negligence I find you entrapped all over again.”

Your mouth drops open as you realize that he actually came down here looking for you. Specifically to find you. To save you again.

You are small; practically half the size of the archdruid. Yet, you suddenly recognize that he is trying to free you and you are just sitting there like some kind of dead fish. You stand to your feet and hurry over to the bars, grasping two of the other juts of stone and pulling it as he pushes.

You’re not sure, but for a moment you think you see the barest ghost of a smile before his teeth clench again with effort.

When the door is finally forced open a few inches, you release the stone. You roll your shoulders, shake out the tension in your hands. You will yourself to become smaller, to become lithe. You will your mouth to grow sharp, unforgiving teeth. You become vulpine.

You slosh through the water on four padded feet and dash through the opening.

For a moment, you almost flee up the stairs, ready to retreat to the fresh salty air outside. Ready to resign yourself to life as a fox.

But Halsin drops to his knees and you look at him as he looks at you.

He reaches a hand out to you, and you see the faint, silvery scars on his forearm from where you tore into him on the day you met. You sniff at him for a moment, then you shift back to your human form, carefully cradling his arm in your hands.

“Did it get infected?” you ask. “After I gnawed at you?”

His brow is low and lips turn down at the corners.

“No,” he says.

“I don’t understand,” you say. “You shouldn’t have scarred…you should have been able to simply heal yourself.”

“I was able,” he says. “But I was unwilling. I…I didn’t want to forget.”

You look up at him. “Why?” you ask.

There is the sound of chaos from up the stairs. You turn your head, letting your ears tune into the finer details of it as the quiet ambience of the water dripping and sloshing around you obscures it. As your focus narrows, you hear her.

“She’s back,” Halsin sneers. “Kagha has finally returned.”

You look at him, your eyes wide as if you’re seeing him for the first time. The expression on his face is nothing short of raw, wild fury. He is the snarl of a wolf, he is the crackle of wildfire, he is the dark promise of death in a row of pointed teeth.

He draws his arm back, stopping to take both of your small hands in his. His expression softens. “I will tell all,” he says. “But not before I punish the one who did this to you. Not before I see justice properly served for all of the disarray and cruelty enacted in my absence.”

You try to find a way to answer, but you can’t, settling instead for a dumbfounded nod.

He stands and, once at his full height, shifts the position of his hand to cradle yours; offering you help, but also offering you the chance to help yourself. You grasp that hand and he tightens the muscles of his arms as you use his strength and stability to get yourself back up to your feet.

“I am loathe to leave you down in this terrible place…but if you’re too frightened to face her…” he offers.

“I’m not…” you say. “O-or at least I won’t be…not with you there.”

He graces you with the first real smile he’s given you since he suddenly appeared before you and you think you may no longer need the sun if he can continue looking at you just like that.

“Come,” he says. “I want you to be part of this discussion.”

You follow Halsin, dwarfed in his shadow as you ascend the craggy steps, your soft leather shoes uncomfortably soggy and embarrassingly loud as you go. It feels almost surreal to be acknowledged by Halsin. Even more strange that he remembers you–that he seemed to have come to seek you out before anything else.

There are more questions than answers immediately available, and you’re not sure you’ll have the nerve to ask those questions when all is said and done.

When Halsin reaches the top of the stairs, he stops and looks back at you, giving you a calm smile as you quicken the pace of your last few steps to catch up with you.

Now that you’re in better light, his brow faintly tenses and he reaches out for you. You go utterly still as he places two of his fingertips under the very tip of your chin, using the most minute bit of pressure to turn your face.

“You’re hurt,” he says. “I didn’t see it in the darkness of the cells.”

You’d forgotten about the injury on your face–it’s not one you’d actually gotten to see before you were imprisoned, but you’d felt it throbbing for the entire day you were there.

“It’s just a bruise,” you say.

He removes his hand from beneath your chin and draws those same finger tips carefully over the curve of your brow. You wince slightly as he touches the most tender part and shakes his head.

“There’s a split in your brow,” he says. “It will scar…”

You heave a little breathy chuckle. “Perhaps it will make me look more distinguished,” you say as you meet his hazel eyes. “You certainly wear them well.”

His heartbroken expression eases up and he shakes his head, hesitant amusement on his face. “If I wear them well, then you’ll be exquisite as ever with your own,” he says. “Still–that you were hurt because of my absence–”

“The fox was caught sticking it’s nose where it didn’t belong and was appropriately punished for it,” A familiar, haughty voice interrupts. “Don’t let the little bandit fill your head with untruths.”

Halsin takes your hand in his and pulls you slightly behind him as he also moves to block you from Kagha’s sight. It’s a protective measure, but he doesn’t force you to hide. Instead, it feels like he’s asserting his position as your protector–as the protector of any who are weaker than him–while allowing your agency to remain intact should you wish to take the lead.

“I don’t want to hear about your paranoia Kagha–I’ve heard enough of it to turn my stomach,” he says, that gravelly voice gaining an almost abrasive quality. “Tell me why I shouldn’t turn you out–or hand you over the shadow druids you’ve been cavorting with?”

You watch as Kagha goes pale and your stomach churns with a dizzying mixture of nausea and fear.

The shadow druids. The order of druidic magic that lay closest to the dark. The drow, the deep gnomes, Shar. Everything that represents the terror you’d once experienced crammed into a too-small cage.

How could she? How could she want to work with them?! And then to have a nerve to call you a fox in the hen house.

“I didn’t do anything,” you say, your voice quiet but steady. “I was only looking for a way to convince you that we needn’t go through with the ritee…”

“By snooping in places you DON'T belong,” Kagha says.

“Perhaps it is you who does not belong here,” you snap.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Halsin growls. “You do not deserve to remain here, yet it is Nature who will determine what becomes of you. One thing is certain: my teachings have clearly not made the difference here. You are to start anew—be made a novice once again.”

“You can’t do that—“ Kagha starts.

“I am the First Druid in this Grove and I will do whatever I see fit to protect the people who call this place their home!” Halsin booms. “Kagha, you failed me. You failed everyone who relied on you!”

“That fox is an outsider. Ever since you pulled it in by its scruff it has done nothing but consume priceless resources and shrink into the corner like a frightened rodent. If you so crave balance—“

“Enough!” Halsin barks. “I will hear no more of this.”

“But—“ Kagha says.

“I said enough. Get out of my sight before I lose hold of my humanity and tear you to shreds,” Halsin snarled.

He says it loudly and deeply enough that it echoes in the stone chamber. Even you flinch a bit at the sudden fury coming off of him. You can almost smell it coming off of him–the adrenaline, the willingness to fight and gnash at Kagha.

Kagha has the good sense to dip her head in deference.

“Understood, First Druid Halsin,” she says.

“Good,” he says, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “Now. Apologize.”

Her head snaps up again and her gaze slides over to you, sharp as an arrowhead. The silence between you carries the same anticipatory nausea of waiting for a cobra to strike. You can sense quite well that Kagha may be properly chastened for her actions in the grove, but her opinion of you seems to remain the same.

Pathetic, you remember. That’s what you are to her.

“It’s fine,” you say. “I’m just happy to be free again.”

“No,” he commands. “It is not fine. You did what was right and were punished for it. Kagha. Will. Apologize.”

Your heart stutters and pounds in your ears. You know Halsin means well. You know he is angry on your behalf, and that he wants to see you treated kindly, but you don’t like confrontation.You think that ferocity is meant to be directed to Kagha, but you’re not entirely sure. Flashes of terror and confusion climb out of the burial ground of your mind. Memories of a cramped cage, the smell of blood, the sound of pained mewling, angry shouting in a language you don’t understand and the pain of punishment when a command you didn’t understand was not followed.

You don’t want this display; you do not want to be the vehicle of this lesson. You don’t want to rock the boat unless the situation is absolutely dire; especially now that you’ve proven just how little efficacy you have when you insert yourself into the matters of people who do not like you or simply have more investment in their own interests than in the interests of the collective. It feels like a leg snare waiting to lock down on you and you’re not sure you can escape it this time.

The tension between Halsin and Kagha sings at a tenor that pierces your ears. Or is that your adrenaline? You’re not sure. Whatever it is, your muscles are sore and aching; wound tightly and ready to spring at the first sight of danger; the first sign of movement toward you.

Halsin spares a glance your way, perhaps sensing that growing tension. Your eyes dart up to his as your body starts to tremble, not with fear, but with the urge to act. You are a small, scrappy creature locked in a stand-off with a larger predator.

His expression softens, looking almost apologetic.

“Easy, little one,” he says as he reaches his hand out to touch you.

Your mind is more feral than human by then. Just before he can actually touch you, you drop into a crouch and dart away from him, your heart hammering painfully against your sternum like an animal backed in a cage. You feel that wild urge to scratch, to gnaw, to snarl.

His expression drops into one of worry, his guilt clear in his expression and in the way he bends at the knees, lowering himself and making himself small like one might when trying to calm an injured animal.

“You are safe, dear one,” he says. “You are safe.”

You don’t believe him. It doesn’t feel safe here, not anymore. Perhaps never again.

A sound comes from behind you and you lurch forward, losing your footing on your slick, damp boots, falling hard onto the palms of your hands before you get back up to your feet and fly through the old temple and scrambling out of the door.

You simply run, your mind a blur of colors and raw, terrible fear. You can’t even register and savor the feeling of the sun on your skin or the sweet, salty breeze coming off of the lower cove. You run, and run, and run until familiar sights bleed into unfamiliar ones; until the wound up tension in your muscles gives way to trembling exhaustion.

You don’t immediately recognize where you are, but you find a little alcove tucked into a glen of oak trees, their trunks fat with age and their canopies heavy with acorns and boughs full of leaves.

The sun shines through the eaves, coloring the long grasses in deep emeralds and dappled yellow light. You sit against one of the trees, feeling the steady presence of Sylvanus as you gulp in desperate, exhausted breaths, your heart still hammering loudly in your ears. You rest your head back against the tree and close your eyes for just a moment. You breathe, and then you breathe again. Distance from the grove gives you a moment to realize just what being in that place was doing to you.

The politics, the prejudice, the precarious balance between the available resources and the people who needed them most. You always do better on your own. There’s a reason the form of a fox comes to you most naturally; they aren’t pack animals. As it so happens, apparently, neither are you.

So why had you stayed so long?

The fear of being captured again, perhaps.

Or maybe it was the Teiflings–you’d found a little group of friends among them; enjoyed sharing a drink with Dammon once in a while.

But neither of those seem to ring true for you, in reality.

No, what really seems to be the reason is the other part of foxes that makes the most sense to you.

That they tend to find a mate, have a family, and remain with them for life.

A reality you’d spent the last several years trying to avoid. Because there was only really one person keeping you at the grove. And that person was Halsin.

He’s just…

He’s everything you wish you could be.

He’s everything you wish you could have.

But you can’t. Because at the end of the day you’re just some animal, fleeing the first offer of help and biting down on the hand that feeds you. There’s regret in this moment. Regret that you will never get to inquire about the expressions on Halsin’s face; about the reasons he came to free you so quickly.

But the regret gives way to exhaustion and as you soak in the speckled rays of sunlight, feeling truly warmed for the first time in days–perhaps even weeks–you drift into a dreamless sleep.

It’s the quiet sound of metal against wood that wakes you.

The manner in which you wake is not a lurch; not an abrupt burst of movement that feels like you’re gasping for air. It’s the slow, soft blinking of an afternoon nap becoming an evening laze. In breathe in through your nose, slow and deep, faintly aware of the feeling of soft fur against your bare feet.

You feel swaddled by warmth. Wrapped in the familiar scents of clove, moss and tobacco.

You finally open your eyes and find a fire crackling before you, hemmed in by stones half-darkened by clay, as if someone collected them recently to guard the oaks from the danger of an unkempt flame.

You don’t put it together at first that you’ve been moved; specifically that you’ve been laid down within a comfortable bedroll. That the smell infused into the furs is comforting because of the man sitting not even a few feet away; the source of the sound of metal against wood.

You crane your head up to find him. Halsin Silverbough quietly focused on a block of soft wood, whittling away at it. You just watch him for a few seconds, almost dazed that he’s here with you.

“Is this a dream?” You ask.

His knife slips a little clumsily, he hadn’t noticed you were awake. He drops his hands into his lap and turns his head to smile down at you.

“Do I often visit you in your dreams, dear heart?” he asks.

Hearing that gravelly timbre and that tender pet name sets your blood on fire. You feel a flush rising to your face and you can’t keep from bringing the covers up to hide the evidence. His eyes crinkle with mirth and he lets out a pleasant, easy laugh. The easiest you’ve heard him laugh in…well, ever.

“Forgive me for laughing,” he says, setting his little project aside. “You gave me quite a scare when you ran off like that. But I suppose I can’t blame you for reacting that way…I know how hard it is for you when tension is high. Forgive me for being inconsiderate of those feelings by making you the instrument of Kagha’s repentance.”

You’re quiet for a long time, unsure what to say. You finally settle for, “How far did I run?”

His brows rise a bit and he heaves out a bit of a grumbling breath as he thinks about it. “Hard for me to ever tell how long a distance is, but we’re somewhere near the goblin camp at that old temple of Selune,” he says. “Lucky for us that I cleared it with a group of adventurers today. Otherwise, I fear I would have made things much worse for you by tackling you down before you could get too close to their camp.”

You bite the inside of your lip, trying not to imagine your body tangling with his. Your face is red enough.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you say, still beneath the covers. “I was so devastated when you didn’t come back from the goblin camp.”

“I’ve been worrying about you since I left,” he says. “I was…I wasn’t behaving calmly when I found you. I wasn’t acting in a way befitting a First Druid.”

“No one is above their own natural drives,” you say. “Anger is a natural reaction to disobedience.”

He looks at you, his brow creasing. “You think I was angry because Kagha disobeyed me?” he says.

“It’s as good a reason as any,” you say.

He inhales. Hesitates. Then inhales again before saying, “You asked me about the scars on my arm. Why I didn’t want to forget them.”

“Yes,” you say. “But then Kagha came back…”

“I know,” he says. “But I’d like to answer that question now. Now that I’m calm.”

There’s something in his gaze that feels heavy and significant. You slowly rise from your position tucked away in the bedroll, letting the furs fall away from you. You notice, now, that your damp boots have been placed on the other side of the fire to dry, along with your socks. A small act of care a lesser man may have never thought to do for you.

You turn to face Halsin and he turns to face you.

“When we found you…that day with the drow,” he says. “You…reminded me of something I went through as a young adept. A time in which I was kept as an unwilling guest in a drow lord’s estate. As time goes on, it’s easy to forget those things that have happened to me, or to minimize what I went through.

“In truth, I admired you. I admired how you snarled and gnashed at my hand when you were barely the size of my forearm. I admired the way you reached out for care when I housed you while you got back on your feet…for a while I feared that you were never going to heal. But then I realized that you were strong in a different way…in a way that I was not.”

“I’m not strong,” you say, shaking your head.

“You are,” he insists. “Strength is not only measured in brute force. It’s not measured in violence and demands and power. It’s in how you wake up every day, how you rise out of your bed and try to be better than the day before. What I experienced…I shoved it deep down inside of me until the pain was forgotten, but I watched you facing yours every day.”

You’re shocked to hear this, because in your recollection you struggled each day. In the beginning, you were frightened of everyone and everything, and the only thing that allowed you to function at all was the desire to be worth the effort Halsin made in saving you.

“Then…then I learned of you trying to stop the Rite of Thorns, and of you winding up imprisoned again in the very place you should have been safest,” he says, his anger a quiet undercurrent as he remembers newly. “I was so terrified that you would fully retreat back inside yourself, but then you stood and put your small hands on the stone door, snarling at your entrapments just as you were that day I met you.”

You remember his smile, a brief flash when you came to help.

“Am I still strong if I run away from the grove?” you ask.

“You wish to leave?” he asks.

“...I’ve realized, Halsin,” you say, your voice quivering. “I’m not well suited for the social hurdles involved with remaining with the druids…and that the only reason I’ve stayed is because…”

You swallow tightly, words lodging in your throat. Halsin is silent, ever patient as he waits for you to speak.

“Halsin, I have loved you for some time now, I think,” you say. “I know that I am young and that I can’t hope to compete with your past lovers or even the braver druids back at the grove. I know that you hardly have the time for romance, and that even if you did, you likely wouldn’t spend that precious time with me–”

“Hah…you sound so certain,” he says, his voice quiet and contemplative.

It’s your turn to be silent, now. You bring your gaze up to meet his again and he is smiling so gently at you. “The only reason,” he says finally, “the only reason that I have not invited you to my bed is that I didn’t want to cause you inadvertent harm by placing pressure on you that you wouldn’t have the resolve to deflect. I didn’t want to risk my position as the first druid making you feel as if you couldn’t say no to me.”

You blink, the world coming to a screeching halt around you.

Halsin…wants you? You?

You shake your head, feeling your face begin to blaze like you’ve come down with a fever.

“Well, I suppose it’s moot,” you say. “I can’t expect you to leave the Emerald Grove with me.”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “I’ve already left.”

“What?” you say.

“Did you think I packed a bedroll and a pack just to come retrieve you?” he says through a chuckle before he heaves out a rough sigh. “No, truth be told, my heart, I have long become disillusioned with my place among the druids in the grove and with you and the ache of old pains, I can no longer say that my heart is fully in it. The adventurers who released me…they are making their way to the shadowlands and I hope that if I join them, I can undo an old failure from a century ago. Finally heal the ache instead of simply avoiding it. I’m hoping that I can be more like you.”

You feel breathless for a moment, even more so when his eyes lock on yours.

“It will be frightening, my love,” he says. “The shadow curse makes the underdark look like a stroll after midnight. But if you still feel the way you’ve told me you do and if you can trust me to continue protecting you, I would have you in my tent with me greeting each day together.”

You don’t speak, not because you’re uncertain, but because you want to savor this moment.

Halsin loves you.

The bear has fallen for the fox.

And he wants you by his side.

It is the purest bliss you have ever felt. You think you could die happily in the shadow cursed lands if it is a sacrifice you make for him.

You will protect him.

And he will protect you.

“Dear heart,” Halsin says, his nerves coming through his voice. “You torture me by keeping me in suspense. Please know if you don’t wish for this you needn’t agree. I know what I ask of you is–”

“I’m going with you,” you say freeing him from the discomfort you’ve resided in for years. “Of course I’m going with you, Halsin.”

The smile he gives you is nothing short of miraculous.

“Nature blesses me with you,” he says. “Now come here, I need to enjoy you before I take you to meet the others. I have waited so very long for the opportunity, and I have until nightfall to make good on it, if you will have me.”

The image of your body tangled with his appears in your mind’s eye again. You rise to your feet and stride over to him, slipping your fingers into his wild hair. He cups the back of your thigh with a large hand before coaxing you to sit on his lap.

Where he kisses you for the very first time.

May the oak father bless you with countless others.

Taglist|| @itty-bitty-dancer @thoughts-of-bear @tryingtowritestuff24 @drabblesandimagines @soupaisu @ladyoakenshield157 @ladytesla @incrediblethirst @baldurs-gate-simp @themidnighttiger @rayskittles33 @hippiewrites @whisperingwillowxox @ethereal-sk1es @cosywinterevenings @themartiansdaughter @brain-has-left @any59 @madwomansapologist @midnightmoonytales @unaliveoni @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @kellerybird @tiedyedghoulette @jenn-duncan @thelittledoe @esotericeribos @robingreysantos @erwinmybeloved @itdobe-foggy @witchywannabe3263 @kaimxri @cryingoverpixelsetc @theoriginalannoyingbird

#writing community #writers on tumblr #writing #authors #writeblr #my writing #romantasy #historical fantasy #bg3 fan fic #halsin x tav #halsin x reader #bg3 #bg3 halsin #halsin silverbough

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clockwayswrites · 8 months

Text

Both Ways at Once Part 5

WC: 1766, Masterpost CW: discussions of death, vague mentions of child trafficking and rape

Danny leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He breathed in slowly through his nose, counting. He couldn’t let loose. They didn’t know. John said they didn’t know and Danny trusted John. Not with everything, he knew too much to trust John with everything, but he trusted John with this. The other wouldn’t have done this if he had known.

The gloved hand on his shoulder shifted, sliding to wrap around the back of Danny’s neck and give a little squeeze. It should have felt suffocating. It was grounding. Danny could already feel himself settling and responding to resonate back with Red Hood.

That was dangerous to have that resonance.

“Pomp,” John said. His shoes squeaked as he leaned forward. “Talk to me, Pomp, what did I miss?”

That right there was one of the reasons Danny trusted John, he would step up when he fucked up.

Danny sighed and opened his eyes. “He’s— he was a halfa, John.”

John paled. The color drained out of his face and left him a splotchy grey. His voice was strangled as he insisted, “Halfas are just a myth.”

“Rare, very rare, but not a myth. Think about it John. You said that the Red Hood from before was alive, but you know I’m right, the one here is a protector spirit. He died, John.”

“Red Hood is still alive, he has a heart beat,” Superman insisted.

“I’m still not talking to you,” Danny hissed, not taking his eyes off John. “Constantine. He was a halfa. I don’t know what they are anymore. This one is more ghost than human. I assume that the other one is more human than ghost. But put them back together and they would be perfectly balanced and you’ve been keeping them apart.”

John slumped back, rubbing at his face. “Bloody fucking hell…”

“The other half has been unwell, hasn’t he? Maybe just fatigued, but I bet he’s in pain too. His focus keeps wandering maybe. He’s listless.” Danny finally glanced away from John and over to the trio. Batman was, as always, almost impossible to read, but Danny felt sure Batman was tense. He might even be worried.

He wasn’t even looking at Danny but instead at Red Hood, who Danny was sure was avoiding Batman’s gaze. Even still, Red Hood’s fingers were trembling against the back Danny’s neck.

Danny reached up and took the gloved hand, hooking their fingers together.

“Constantine,” Batman growled, but the word sounded broken, under the bite.

John glanced from Batman to Danny and back again. “If Nightingale says that Red Hood is, was, a halfa, then he was. Nightingale’s the psychopomp, the dead is his realm more than any living I’ve ever met and, hell, more than most people who are dead.”

“And what is a halfa?” Wonder Woman asked, still the calm voice of reason.

“Rare,” Danny bit back, showing his teeth. He made himself take a breath and regulate his tone. “Someone who is half living, half ghost. They are a balance between life and death. If no one knew that Red Hood was part ghost, there’s a chance he wasn’t fully formed before, but I can assure you he’s a protector spirit now, no matter if he’s still alive. It’s also likely why the spell did this. There were already two halves to split. The human who was the living and the ghost who was the death.”

Wonder leaned forward in her seat. “You seem certain that the other half is sick.”

“They have to be— it’s a part of themselves that was ripped out and that leaves a wound. I suspect that because the other one must have more of the human side, he’s suffering more of the human affects of the separation while Red Hood is suffering more of the ghostly affects.”

“And your recommendation?” Wonder Woman asked.

“They need to be together. They need to be together and the place where they’re together needs to be Red Hood’s haunt.”

“His haunt?”

“Likely where he resided before. Or it would be where he patrolled if those are different areas. It would be somewhere emotionally important to him no mater what. As I’ve said, he’s a protector spirit so it should be obvious where his haunt is considering his role as a vigilante.”

“Crime Alley,” Red Hood rasped from behind Danny. his fingers squeezed tighter around Danny’s for a moment.

Danny’s arm was getting sore holding itself up like that, but he wasn’t going to take the comfort away from Red Hood or even deprive himself of that grounding point. It would be too easy for him to lose his temper here and really give the Justice League something to be afraid of.

“Crime Alley then,” he said. He had no reason to doubt what Red Hood was said. A ghost knew their own haunt. “We have to get him back to Crime Alley and they need to be together. I assume you have a place there?”

“No,” Batman said, though he didn’t shift. Wonder Woman placed her hand on his arm again.

“We’re concerned about there being a reaction of some sort should they meet,” she explained. “Constantine said that it might be possible.”

Constantine grumbled under his breath and ducked his head with a little shrug.

“If we didn’t know what was going on, sure, that’s a fair enough worry, but we do and I’m telling you that they need to be together until either they’re back together as one or until they fully settle into two separate people.”

“No.” It was Superman who protested this time.

“You don’t have a choice if you don’t want to torture and kill one or both of them,” Danny said, resisting the urge to bare his fangs at the boy scout again. “They need to go to Crime Alley.”

“He’s dangerous. If he is just the Red Hood half of the personality, which you’ve basically confirmed—“

“I have not. I’ve explained how they were physically split. It has affected how their split in motivation only because motivation is what a ghost is, but I would have to speak with both of them to learn how they are mentally and emotionally split.”

Superman just frowned in a disappointed uncle sort of way, as Danny talked and then continued on like Danny hadn’t even said anything. “Then he’s even more dangerous. We cannot simply let someone like Red Hood go. We have to think about everyone’s safety in this matter, especially civilians.”

“I thought you weren’t killers?” Danny threw back at them, saccharine sweet in his delivery.

It made Superman’s frown deepen, though Wonder Woman actually looked a bit amused.

“We aren’t,” the Big Blue said.

“If you try and keep him here you are. I’m telling you right here and right now that if you do not let him go back to Crime Alley then you are signing his death warrant. You might try to claim that he died in jail, but you’ll still be the cause of it. But that’s how you kill, isn’t it?”

“Nightingale,” John warned under his breath, twitching like he wanted to reach out and touch Danny, maybe to hold him back.

“No, really, it is, isn’t it? You want to to pretend that you don’t kill, that you’re better than whatever Red Hood has done, but are you really? At least he’s Honest about it. Red,” Danny said, tugging at the other’s hand so that he had to move up to stand more beside him. Danny looked up at the mask, looked through it. “You’ve killed.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because they wouldn’t stop. They never stopped. Now that they’re dead, they’ve stopped.”

“Who?”

“Poisoning drug dealers. Rapists. Abusers. Child traffickers. People who threatened my….” Red Hood reared back slightly as if surprised by what his cut off words were going to be.

“Your haunt. Your people. Those under your watch and protection,” Danny said. “See, he’s honest about it. Were all of those deaths in the right? I don’t know. But I’m not sad a rapist is dead. I’m not sad children didn’t get trafficked. Those are the sort of people we’re supposed to be against, isn’t it? Well, us small heroes. You fight bigger names these days, don’t you, Superman?”

“Alright then,” John said, standing suddenly. Red Hood twisted to put himself further between the occult detective and Danny.

Danny patted Red Hood’s arm gently. “It’s okay, John’s trying to protect me. He thinks I’m putting my foot in my mouth and making enemies. And maybe I am. But I’m not going to sit by and watch this hypocrisy. You don’t kill. That’s a damn lie.”

“We don’t.”

“You’ve checked up on ever criminal then?”

“What?” Superman asked, thrown by the sudden question.

“Every criminal you’ve fought, every mugger and back robber and goon, you’ve followed up to see how they’re doing the next day, month, year?”

Superman had that lemon sucking twist to his face again. “No?”

“So you don’t really know, do you, how many criminals walked away from you only to die of brain hemorrhaging later because you punched them into a wall. Or how many died from a complication to their lungs or spine or heart because Black Canary ruptured something with her wail or Flash fucked from contact with the Speedforce. It’s not that you haven’t killed, it’s just that you don’t know how many you’ve killed. It’s impossible to act on the scale that you do and not have killed,” Danny said with certainty.

“Nightingale, I believe you’ve made your point,” Wonder Woman said, still calm, still patient. She was different from the others. She has killed, Danny knew that; she was an Amazon. He remembered his stories from Pandora.

“Have I?” Danny asked. He let go of Red Hood as he stood to lean over onto the table. Danny could feel that snarl building up in his throat again now. The other reached out to touch him again right away. The snarl calmed a little, only a little. “Because what about when Superman has used a building as a barrier to smack an enemy into? No one was ever hurt there? No grannie ever slipped and fell as the building shook and never got up again? At least that would be an accident then, unlike punching someone to death, but don’t pretend your hands aren’t red. Don’t pretend—”

The hiss of the door opening cut Danny off.

The room feel silent.

Danny could see all the heroes tense.

From behind him a voice spoke up, “Well, aren’t you all dramatic.”

--- AN: The mysterious stranger is right! They are all dramatic. Danny was about ready to go for Superman's throat-- literally and just not figuratively. Hope you enjoyed how this all played out! I know people were waiting for Danny to let loose some. Fatigue is hitting me hard right now, so glad to have gotten this out!

Stay delightful, darlings!

I no longer tag, you can instead subscribe to the masterpost!

#dp x dc #dead on main #dead on main street #both ways at once

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brewedfiction · 2 years

Text

What You Call Justice

Both detectives featured in this writing were created by me, and the prosecutor was created by a friend of mine; all of them are for an art theme on Discord. Takes place in a modern Ace Attorney-style setting, but with none of the canon characters.

Summary: The city of Adalci is amidst the soon to be infamous HR-6 case. Detective Maria Rozzer can't believe that the person accused of killing 6 people is none other than her mentor.

“Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, under pains and penalties of perjury?” The bailiff asked.

In a small, unremarkable courtroom with plain brown walls and the chill of air conditioning, Detective Rozzer rested uncomfortably in her seat.

“I swear,” she replied.

It wasn’t the first time she had been called as a witness. There had been defendant after defendant put away using her testimony and a prosecutor’s argument.

But this… this made her stomach turn.

The prosecutor slowly pacing before the stand was a man around her age, with short brown hair and wary blue eyes. He adjusted the darker tie of his blue suit.

“Detective Rozzer,” he began. His voice was scratchy, like he was just short of coughing, with a faint Irish tone. “Is it true that the defendant, Hendek Roussin, is or was your mentor?”

She tried to resist narrowing her eyes at him. Chesil Odom. The prosecutor that conveniently found some sort of damning evidence, enough to level several charges of murder against him.

Detective Rozzer could hardly believe she was here. Neither could the slew of other detectives and officers sitting in public benches. She’d had to listen to the back and forth of the prosecution and defense while waiting for her turn to defend the other detective.

“Yes,” she answered. “He’s been a friend and proper mentor to me ever since I became a detective.”

“I see. But as I understand it, you met the defendant prior to becoming a detective yourself?” Prosecutor Odom was studying her through his square-framed glasses. “Could you tell us about that time?”

“When I asked ‘im if I could apprentice under ‘im, after I got my degree?” she replied.

He shook his head, smiling in a way that was polite but unwilling to humor her. “When you were 10 years old, Detective.”

How… how could he know about that? No one knew-

And then Detective Rozzer understood why Prosecutor Odom allowed her as a witness. Not out of fairness to the detective, nor for a testimony to Detective Roussin’s good character. She was certain her heartbeat was as loud as gunshots.

“Right,” Maria managed, quietly. “Yeah.”

All eyes were on her as she began a story of 14 years ago. “It was late November when I was walking to school. When I turned 10, my mum and dad let me walk with my mates. But that morning, I was late, so I was by myself.”

So there she was, backpack bouncing wildly as a tiny Maria Rozzer hurried to school. Her mum wrangled her daughter for long enough to tie her blonde hair into two cute, high buns, now keeping it from flying in her face while she ran.

She was only a street away when a dark blue truck passed in the lane closest to her side of the street. It pulled to a stop and a man practically 3 times her size stepped out of the passenger side.

“Hey sweetheart,” the man called to her. “Where ya rushin’ off to?”

But Maria’s parents had told her never to talk to strangers, unless they were other kids at her school, so she simply shouted “School!” as she continued running.

“School?” asked the man. “I can drop ya off. Want a ride?”

She eyed him, leaning against the truck door and smiling at her. Something about him made her feel scared. So Maria didn’t answer him, and instead tried to run past.

But then he reached over, snatched her by the handle of her backpack, and lifted her from the street. Maria wrestled and thrashed instinctively, legs kicking uselessly. The man sneered at her.

“Awful rude not to answer somebody.”

Maria struggled again, this time managing to slip out of her backpack and she took off running as soon as her sneakers met the floor again. She started screaming as she ran, but the man quickly outpaced her and scooped her up. The sound of another car door opening followed and a second man, slightly shorter than the first, joined them. The driver.

“This lil brat giving you trouble?” he chuckled.

“Shut up,” the other replied. Maria was still screaming and crying, so he shook Maria. “Both of you!”

In response, Maria bit down the hand he had wrapped over her mouth. The man swore loudly, but slapped her hard and then grabbed her by the scruff of her collar instead.

“You sure we can sell this one?” the driver commented.

“Help me!” Maria cried.

Detective Rozzer looked at the prosecutor blankly, green eyes hollow.

“I’m sorry to remind you of such times,” Prosecutor Odom said sympathetically. “What happened after that?”

“…I thought that was it. I’d get tossed into that truck by those dodgy guys and never see my folks again,” Detective Rozzer admitted. “Thought no one heard me, or no one cared.”

But someone did hear her.

“Freeze!” shouted a third man, appearing from the alleyway between two buildings ahead. He pointed a gun at the men. “Drop the girl or I’ll shoot!”

“Oh, fuck, man!” The driver paled.

The other man holding Maria scowled and muttered a “Fuck this”, but shoved Maria away from him.

Maria stumbled and hit the sidewalk as the two ran back to the truck and jumped in. The truck’s engine roared and the tires peeled as they drove off.

The man with the gun didn’t lower his weapon until they were out of sight. He rushed over to Maria and helped her up. Her eyes caught on something clipped to his belt that reflected the sun’s light, but it was quickly hidden by the man’s long coat.

“Are you okay?” the man asked, voice soft. His reddish-brown hair stopped at the middle of his neck.

Her hands and legs had gotten scraped by the rough floor, but it was nothing as she tried not to cry. She backed away from him.

“I’m not one of them, I promise. They won’t come back as long as I’m around,” he said. “My name is Hendrick. What’s your name?”

“M-Maria,” she sniffled.

“Okay, Maria. You’re okay now. Can you tell me where your parents are?”

She nodded. “At home.”

“Can you show me where ‘home’ is? So I can walk you back to your parents.”

She nodded again.

“I see,” said Prosecutor Odom. “It’s very fortunate that he was there to save you.”

Detective Rozzer glanced at the jury. Each of them looked highly sympathetic and concerned after her story had finished. Even the prosecutor seemed to sympathize with her. But she braced herself. She knew this was the act before the sucker punch, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“Those men that nearly kidnapped Maria Rozzer were part of a human trafficking ring called 5N-4K3, or SNAKE,” the prosecutor explained to the room. “A ring that has been and continues to be a problem for our city.”

The same trafficking ring who Detective Roussin was accused of murdering members of.

Prosecutor Odom turned back to her. “Just a few more things, Detective, and then you’re free to go.”

Something hot and angry clawed its way up her throat. He was toying with her. If she didn’t say something now, she wasn’t going to get to defend him!

“Detective Roussin is a hero! He saved me, and he’s saved hundreds of people in his time!” she shouted.

“Objection!” the prosecutor pushed back. “The witness will refrain from expressing opinions on the stand.”

“O-Opinions?! Are you daft?” Detective Rozzer snapped. “He saved my life- that is a fact!”

The audience and jury began to murmur, starting a low rumbling that ran through the courtroom. The judge slammed his gavel repeatedly for silence.

The prosecutor continued. “But it has no relevance to your testimony. I am not arguing that he saved your life that day, because that is not what is at stake here today. What I am arguing is that Detective Roussin murdered six people.”

Detective Rozzer clenched her fists, now clearly glaring at him.

“Maria,” someone else spoke up. “It’s okay.”

Her eyes shot over to the man in the defendant’s chair. Detective Roussin looked tired, more so with the streaks of gray running through his reddish-brown hair and beard. But his brown eyes were as warm as ever.

“No, it’s not,” she said.

“Answer his questions, please.”

All the anger, sorrow, and distress swirling around in her heart was starting to make her feel sick. But she looked back at the prosecutor.

“I’d like to remind you that you’re under oath, Detective,” Prosecutor Odom said. “Will that be a problem?”

“Get on with it, then,” Detective Rozzer said flatly.

“On the day you met the defendant, was there anything that struck you about him?”

“He had a gun.”

He smiled. “Yes, as you told us earlier. What about that gun? Was it department-issued?”

“Yes.”

“That makes sense. After all, he is a detective. But he didn’t identify himself as one when he drew his gun, according to your story.”

“…No.”

He nodded. “Did he have anything on him that identified him as a detective? Anything at all?”

Detective Rozzer stared at the floor. She was not a lawyer. She couldn’t make things up on the fly, nor fight her way back when things looked dire for the defendant. All she could do was see the truth.

“Detective?”

She gripped the stand before finally meeting the prosecutor’s eyes. Committing every single detail of him to memory.

“…His badge. He had a badge on his belt, but it was hidden by his coat,” Detective Rozzer admitted through gritted teeth.

Prosecutor Odom looked to the jury again and held out his arms as if presenting the truth to them. “And he didn’t show this to the men or to you at any point?”

“No,” she said. “He explained what happened to my mum and dad after he brought me home, but I didn’t hear ‘bout that ‘til I was a teen.”

“So they didn’t tell you he was a detective? Why not?”

“…because he told them not to gab to anyone. Not even me.”

She was gripping the stand even harder now, but it didn’t hurt even remotely close to how much pain her heart was in. Like the man in front of her was ripping it open, one seam at a time.

“One last question. When he introduced himself to you, the name was ‘Hendrick’? But the defendant’s legal name is ‘Hendek’…”

“I must have misheard ‘im,” Detective Rozzer pressed.

“Or he was lying to you. So that on the day that Detective Roussin saved you, no one would know he was really acting as a vigilante-”

“Objection!” shouted the defense attorney, finally speaking up. “That’s speculation!”

“Withdrawn,” replied Prosecutor Odom, before the judge could speak. “But the truth is, even if he had been off-duty or undercover, he did not identify himself as he should have. I believe Detective Roussin’s intention was to kill those two men, as he has done to other members of that human trafficking group!”

And just like that, the unsteady silence of the courtroom shattered once again, coming back even louder this time. The judge slammed his gavel for even longer before the room eventually settled.

The prosecutor was staring her down, smiling. Detective Rozzer glared back, breathing hard, and fighting every urge to spring over the bar of the stand to wrap her hands around his throat.

“Of course, that too is speculation on my part, so I apologize,” he said. “The first murder Detective Roussin is accused of didn’t happen until years later. That being said, Detective Rozzer did showcase my point wonderfully-”

“Ya bastard!” she shouted. The volume of the court exploded for the third time as she rose from her seat. “Ya bloody-!”

“Order!” shouted the judge. “Order in the courtroom, or I will have you removed, witness!”

“It’s quite alright,” Prosecutor Odom said. “I was about to call the next witness anyway. Thank you, Detective.”

“Bailiff,” the judge shouted over the noise, “please escort the witness out of my courtroom.”

The bailiff's hold on her arm was firm as the two left the stand. Detective Rozzer glared at the prosecutor, who looked away from them as they passed. The door slammed behind them, leaving only silence.

The bailiff let her go some ways into the hallway and looked at her, but said nothing before going back to the room.

Detective Rozzer stared at the door. Her hands curled to fists, but they remained at her side. She had caused enough of a scene for one day.

Instead, she stormed out of the building. One of her superiors had left her a voicemail while she was out, demanding she return as soon as her testimony was over.

So Detective Rozzer counted her breaths on the drive to the department and the lead office, as if it would calm her down. She knocked at the door and waited.

“Good. Come in,” said the captain. The older woman waited for Detective Rozzer to pass before shutting the door. “Take a seat.”

The detective did so, silent and tense. This room, with red carpet and all sorts of awards and trophies on the shelves, not to mention the variety of knick-knacks on the desk, was reserved only for serious matters. Promotions or reprimands.

“What were you thinking?” The captain started. “That is not how you represent our department!”

Her fists balled against her legs, as if that would give her the strength to keep her mouth shut. It did not. “I couldn’t just let that daft- that prosecutor say those things about Roussin! He’s dragging an innocent man’s name through the mud!”

But the woman only stared at her.

“He’s innocent!” Detective Rozzer insisted. “Ya have to believe that! He’s one’a us!”

“You’re a disgrace,” spat the captain. “Your loyalty is blinding you to the evidence, Rozzer. And murder is murder, even if the victims are scum.”

Shocked into silence, the detective felt her face grow warm in anger and embarrassment.

“You cannot defend that man. There’s no saving him of his guilt,” her superior continued. “And if you shame our department further- more than Roussin has today with his actions- I’ll have your badge. Are we clear?”

Detective Rozzer said nothing. If those were the only two options, she knew which she would pick.

“Are. We. Clear.”

But then she saw Detective Roussin’s face again, pleading with her to speak like he had in the trial.

“Yes,” she murmured.

He wouldn’t want this for her.

“Good. Now get out.”

Detective Rozzer left without another word.

There was a different face in her mind now- one she committed to memory earlier. Every detail, so she could better remember the man she hated.

Prosecutor Chesil Odom.

#ace attorney au I guess?#fiction's ocs #I just like detectives in fiction ngl #cw gun #cw attempted kidnapping #cw human trafficking mention #fiction's writing

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angel-of-the-moons · 8 months

Text

A Rose Under the Moon

A Soulmate!AU

Pairing: MCU Moon Knight System (Marc/Jake/Steven) x Fem!Reader

Summary:

You've waited your whole life to meet your soulmate. You just didn't know your soulmate was so close by, all this time.

But...

How the hell can you handle being thrown into a world full of gods and magic? You're just a shopkeeper! Why is your heart being tugged by three different threads?

Why do they all look alike?

How... how the hell can you handle three soulmates?

TW/CW: Depression, Anxiety, PTSD, Drinking problems, Loneliness, Pain, Angst, Torture, Childhood trauma, mentions of child abuse, human trafficking, sex abuse, drug abuse, suicidal thoughts/mentions, fighting, violence, graphic violence, death, major character death, comfort, soulmates, fluff, healing, slow burn, eventual smut, NSFW

MINORS DNI: I AM MOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT YOU CONSUME

Taglist: @bad4amficideas @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @shirukitsune @lokisremainingsanity @mundivagantsoul @furblrwurblr @zoleea-exultant @latenightcravingz @daygirl26 @thelastemzy @leahnicole1219 @marsmallow433 @crazyunsexycool @oscarissac2099 @littlenosoul @animechick555 @capsiclesworldsblog @cloudroomblog @lov3vivian @princessakirika @fog-sama @cheshire-salvatore-mikaelson @badbishsblog @lillycore555 @stardream14 @meowmeowyoongles @kate-ohara @kittenlover614 @patchesofwork @enheduannasposts

Chapter 1: The Scholar Link

Chapter 2: Inside Voices Link

Chapter 3: The Victims Link

Chapter 4: Old, Unhappy, Far-Off Things Link

Chapter 5: Old Friends Link

Chapter 6: Whiskey Rose Link

Chapter 7: Cats And Cradles Link

Chapter 8: Everybody Loves Cats! Link

Chapter 9: A House Divided Link

Chapter 10: On The Wings Of An Icarus Link

Chapter 11: Good Food And Cat Fuzz

Side Characters:

Puck the Cat

#A Rose Under the Moon #moon knight x you #moon knight x reader #moon knight mcu #moon knight #steven grant #jake lockley #marc spector #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #jake lockley x reader #smut #moon knight smut #soulmate au #soulmates #my writing

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woahjo · 3 months

Text

i've been thinking a lot about a jjk hunger games au... gonna add content warnings just in case

cw: mentions of sex work, implications of noncon/trafficking, references to gore, canon typical violence and discussions for hunger games stuff

if satoru were a victor in the hunger games, he'd be a capitol darling. he'd be so adored and so admired. he's so handsome, so charismatic, that even some folks in one and two find him completely captivating.

he's a career from district four, who won his games with all the savvy of someone who was born to do it. when he volunteered, there was very little doubt that he was the most promising tribute. strong and surly. 18 years old with a long, lithe body and smile that screamed winner.

so of course he had sponsors and allies. of course he was highly sought after by the other careers. his district partner, a pretty person with a quiet and stoic disposition, was simultaneously proud of him and deeply threatened. they'd trained in the same class and she knew what he was capable of. no one remembers her name anymore, they just remember that he hadn't killed her. he'd spared her from what he could until someone else took her from this world.

it seemed that after she passed, satoru flipped a switch. that was it. the games would end and he'd come out on top.

after his victory, satoru had all the wealth he could need. no family anymore, hardly any friends save for the other victors, but money and wealth beyond what he'd ever imagined. it was dazzling even for him and his district was better off than most. career districts tend to be.

he disconnects from the world, lets snow sell his body and keeps playing the game. that's all there is left to do. to just keep playing. fame isn't all he thought it would be and satoru realizes now that he was too naive in volunteering. he dreamed of a kind of glory that doesn't exist and with every passing year, he grows more and more bitter internally of the kids after him who make the same mistakes.

then, three years after his games, an 18 year old from district 7 miraculously wins. you're an underdog, an unexpected victor from an outlying district with little to no chance of winning. but you did.

satoru meets you on your victory tour, when the fear of the arena hasn't fully worn off, and he's struck by the quiet stoicism you have within you. you're sweet, but with a bitter edge, given to you by your district and the unlucky hand dealt to you. he finds himself a bit in awe.

he thinks you hate him at first. satoru gets the impression that you hate him so much that you can hardly stomach being around him. it isn't until he pulls you to the side and warns you about what comes next, that you start to humanize him. that defensive glint wavers for a moment, leaving nothing but a pretty person with an unlucky lot in life. he's not sure why he warns you, but he does. he feels some sort of kinship with you. you've endured something similar, felt the same fear he felt, and you don't revel in it. instead, you quietly chew up the hand dealt to you and spit it out, something he never thought he could do.

satoru, a victor from district four with nothing left in this world, is awestruck by the idea that he can love someone this much. suddenly, it's not just about playing their game, it's about winning it. just surviving isn't enough anymore. with you in the equation, he needs to thrive.

#gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jjk x reader #cal.writing #im posting some drafts from my old blog onto here #but this has been rattling around in my brain #char.gojo #tw.trafficking #tw.implied noncon

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catboybiologist · 7 months

Note

has anyone ever told you that you're perfect as a biological man and you should learn to love yourself as the man that you are????

so cw for discussions of transphobia and all that. So first off, yes, but I'm still trans. End of that discussion.

But anyways, I got this and a similar ask back to back, from either a transphobe or a troll making a weird joke. While the asks themselves are uninteresting, they made me want to talk about something that's been brewing in my head a while. And that's how the phrases "biological man" and "biological woman" make no goddamn sense, as a biologist. So I'm gonna use this ask as starting point to launch into that greater discussion- I'm not really responding to the asks itself, more dumping some thoughts I've had kicking around for a while. (Also sorry this blog is so transfemme language centered sometimes, I'm just writing from my perspective and don't want to exclude anyone I'm sorry. The rest of this post will be from a transfemme perspective but applies to transmascs as well for testosterone and other elements of ftm transition).

The reason it doesn't make sense to me is like, what exactly do you mean by biological? You're describing a massive biological system, and all of its components. So let's dissect what you could mean by "biological".

Obviously you're not talking about the entire human biochemical system, because biology includes our thoughts and behavior. So if someone socially or identity transitions, we're already eliminating some biological factors from what we consider as "biological" here.

Soft tissue secondary sex characteristics are easily acquired by HRT. Shit, I have some breasts growing already, and I'm 4.5 weeks in. So that can't be what you're talking about.

So maybe you're talking functional genetics? Well if we wanna talk that way, we gotta talk about gene regulation. The entire point of taking HRT is the change patterns in gene expression across the body, suppressing genes associated with masculine secondary sex characteristics and promoting genes associated with feminine secondary sex characteristics. Estrogen, like any hormone, is a signalling molecule that is trafficked between cells and across the body. Its job is to kick off a network of downstream signals that carry out a variety of individual functions. So in terms of active genes, a trans person on HRT will functionally be the sex of their target gender.

Okay okay, maybe for some reason you don't care if they're off or on, if you have a gene that has the potential to make you male, you're a man, dammit! Well, as mentioned before, everyone has the genes required to give you secondary sex characteristics of either sex. So under that definition, everyone is biologically both a man and a woman at the same time. And also biologically cancer. Not "biologically has cancer", biologically IS cancer. Also, we're all every organ all at once everywhere on our body. Changing patterns in gene expression are how one organ differentiates from another, and how many visible traits arise. As mentioned earlier, this includes many genes responsible for secondary sex characteristics.

But chromosomes! Y chromosome is a man! The only reason the X and Y chromosomes have relevance to sex determination is due to the Sry gene, which is linked to the Y chromosome. Why is this the case? Well, your chromosomes are paired. Normally, pairs of chromosomes are the same size and have the same genes. This is helpful, because it means you can have two copies of every gene- if one becomes nonfunctional, you have a backup, or you can express multiple spicy variants of the same gene. Somewhere in our evolutionary history, one of these pairs of chromosomes experienced a large scale deletion, causing many of these genes to be missing. It's fine if you have the backup copies on the other chromosome- but some kind of patch needs to be developed to help make sure that, on average, most offspring have at least one copy of the full chromosome. So, the individuals that linked the Sry gene to the Y chromosome, the chopped-up version of the chromosome, passed down some offspring. But there's nothing intrinsic about why it has to be this way- most animals don't have chromosomal sex determination at all. Even in mammals its fairly common for an X chromosome to grab the Sry gene, creating a phenotypic male with an XX karyotype. It's an evolutionary patch, nothing more, and a rule that is frequently broken. And if we want to talk about evolutionary patches being biological determinism… well then let's start talking about how vitamin C deficiency is the "biologically mandated" state of the human. And besides, chromosome structure is really mostly relevant for how it functionally affects gene expression, and we already talked about how gene expression is changed by HRT here.

Alright, alright dammit. I'm talking about the genitals, dammit. If you have a penis you're a man! Okay great. Tell me if you would classify post-SRS women as "biological" women then. Also, we're really starting to reach here.

Fine! I'm talking about bone structure and bone structure alone! I mean yeah, some elements of bone structure will always remain in someone that's had testosterone in their system long enough- its rock deposits in your body after all, its difficult to reverse. But some don't! Even adults on transfemme HRT experience hip widening, changes in height, and other changes in their bones (they just take a LONG time, and I've often ranted about the massive amount of misinformation regarding how long HRT takes to show its full effects). Additionally, there's plenty of surgeries for facial structures- is FFS the true hallmark of a "biological" woman? And also… no matter what metric you start drawing lines on here, you're gonna end up excluding some cis women as well.

To be abundantly clear, NONE of this is to say that you aren't valid if you aren't medically transitioning. What I'm doing here is pointing out that "biological" is a useless, overexpansive, arbitrary adjective that, even using the most transphobic definitions, still includes most trans people. The line is drawn… somewhere in here, to them. And more often than not, it will be drawn wherever excludes the most trans people, which will invariably exclude some cis people, and they'll all eat each other alive.

The reality is that "man" and "woman" are useful conventions that can be generally applied to classify most people into one category or another. And that's not unique to gender, it's literally how language works. As with pretty much any linguistic classification, its observational, not prescriptive. When thinking up of names for animals, we don't think up of a definition first, we see a group of animals that share similar traits and then think up of a name that will represent that species. But then, if we find more edge cases later, or an edge case becomes more prominent, we either adjust the definition or subdivide the group further with accurate terminology. Imagine if, around the time humanity discovered weasels, we made a definition of weasels that only included the European Mink. Then we found the least weasel, and people started crusading about how its "not biologically a weasel" and "defend weaselkind". It's just so… arbitrary. Where it begins and ends is up to us as a society, and linguistics, meaning that "biological" as an adjective here isn't doing much.

What is a woman? Well, some combination of the factors above, and many, many more I didn't talk about here. It's a classification cluster of people exhibiting certain traits that is not easily reducible to a simple adjective. And guess what, so is literally anything we see in the world. What is a race? What is a nationality? What is a species? What is continent? There are useful, simple definitions for each of these things- and those definitions are helpful on a first pass! But once you start to examine it more closely, that utility breaks down, and you have to get more nuanced. Which is exactly what happens for trans people, but for some reason, people aren't willing to have that conversation in the same way we're able to have quirky debates over whether or not Australia counts as a continent or an island.

I want to develop these thoughts further at some point, but I hope this is at least a good summary of my perspective on all this, as a biology grad student, and I hope that some people find utility and comfort in my explanation!

#cw transphobia #transphobia #cw transphobes #trans #transition #hrt #trans science

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eatommo · 5 months

Text

Like Real People Do [d.d]

Summary: You and Mando have a history of broken hearts and are both looking for a place to land in the galaxy you live in, but you'll always have each other.

A/n: Not beta'd! mistakes are my own! and look a Hozier song to a Pedro fic what's new! I love this. I hope you do too! 6.2k

Cw: Canon typical violence, mentions of human trafficking, use of weapons, mutual pining, discussions of loss, discussions of war, brief mentions of grief, Reader is from Alderaan (trauma that comes from that), the reader has some of my tattoos because we love a self-insert, broken glass, pubic hair?, unprotected p in v, mentions of marking, hickeys, mentions of oral sex m/f receiving, fingering, the helmet stays on, breeding kink if you squint, as always touched starved Din, themes involving depression and loss, takes place post season 3 but has a flash back to season 1, I probably missed something but let me know!

It had been ages since you’d seen him. You’re not sure how many rotations, but not a day has passed that you didn’t think about him. But there, just passing the entrance to the trading post, his shiny beskar helmet flashes over the crowd.

You put your head down, looking at the spare parts you were hoping to auction off for some measly credits at a holiday festival for some caf and to help you hopefully buy some piece of junk craft to get you off this dusty and dry planet.

Maybe you’ll be lucky and you can slink away, and evade an awkward reunion all altogether. You found an outcropping and a small table covered in different smoked meats and small roasted animals.

You try to sell the fact that you look busy while you think about the last time you spoke to him. Your conversation about the rebel symbol marred into your skin with black ink, Cara had done it herself, and you’d helped her put the very same symbol on her cheek. The pain felt good, it mirrored the grief that felt immeasurable and it almost felt like a release of all of the terrible thoughts of your family’s final moments. Had your family suffered? Did they even know what was coming for them?

You were young and had just gotten off the planet in search of something greater, a higher purpose. Something to believe in, and the empire stole everything you’d ever known in one simple explosion.

It had handed you a purpose, for a time. Working with the rebellion, standing with your Princess, and fighting and punishing the Empire for the loss of Alderaan. Cara and you were hiding out on Sorgan after leaving your post as shock troopers. You were in the fresher when they started to tousle outside, you expected some gruff Klatoonian who she sharked in a bet, as it often was. Instead, she lies on her belly, a blaster pointed at a chrome-covered Mandalorian, who is lying on his back with a weapon drawn.

The only thing that holds your attention is a little green baby holding a cup of soup, mirroring your amusement waddling up next to you.

He coos, looking between you and his companion like he expects you to save him. “Sorry bud, I’m with her.”

An aggravated harsh pant cuts you off, “Stay away from him.” The blaster shifts to you, but you raise your hands and keep an even temper. He looks between the two of you, who clearly have no intention or idea what he is in possession of, and offers to buy the two of your dinner.

He didn’t speak much at first, but as you and Cara drank away a flagon of spotchka and you shared your interest in his ship, having to grow up around the rebel's fleet and wanting to see such an old military craft, he offered to show you.

“It’s a short walk, the kid is falling asleep in your lap anyway.” You look down at the little wrinkled green monster, blinking slowly with his massive eyes as you stroke his ears, you can’t help but fawn over him.

“I can’t believe they’re hunting a baby.” Whispering, as you feel the warmth of his tiny body, heartbroken at the idea of an imperial remnant looking for children.

“He is older than I am.” His surprisingly playful voice almost startled you, he’d been quietly walking by your side as you carried the little guy nestled into your chest.

“He’s” you struggle to find words, but you can feel an energy emanating from the little creature in your arms “magnificent.”

The Mandalorian hums lowly, agreeing with you. There’s a pause for a few moments while you look over at him, “Did you find a lot of purpose? With the rebellion?”

It's your turn to be broody, “For a time.” Suddenly feeling subconscious you speak a little bit more quietly, “Just waiting for the next thing to believe in I guess.” You sigh, gazing down into the dark black ink just above your rebel stripes, “It feels like I could keep fighting forever, but hearing all this, seeing such a small child threatened by the same evil as I was, it feels like I already have.” You’re not sure if he understands you, or even what side of the war he stood on.

“You feel like there’s reasons to fight.” He looks down into the baby drifting to sleep in your clutches. “But afraid that you have no fight left.” You half expect him to be criticizing you. Mandalorians have lost almost as much as you have, but are warriors by nature and have fought and continue to be feared across the galaxy as mercenaries and bounty hunters. His voice is soft, and understanding, as if processing his words himself.

You spot the ship ahead, falling silent in your admiration you trudge through the leaves and sticks that have fallen from the ship clearing its landing. The ramp hisses as it falls open to welcome its pilot, but you stop outside to admire the twin engines and their decades-long wear and tear.

Walking around the ship to admire her heavy laser cannons and her yellow markings. He watches you with a quiet but proud silence, as you eventually shuffle up the ramp to set the little one into a floating pram. Your eye catches a glimpse of a carbonite freezing chamber, and a little anxious butterfly seems to stir in your belly, how much do you trust him?

“I always thought I’d die looking for a bounty when I got too old, too slow, or just in plain luck.” You turn heel to face him, heartbeat clipping unsteadily in your chest, but you raise an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue. He hesitates and sets himself on top of one of the shipping containers. “But protecting this child has made me dream of a life I never thought I could fight for.”

You can feel your body soften at his confession, cursing yourself for thinking lowly of a man whose been nothing but kind and trusting of you. “I’m sure it's lonely.” You take a small but calculated breath, “He is lucky to have you.” The smile is soft, and you try to reassure him despite yourself.

He looks at you standing but a few steps away from him, and nods, “I’m just as lucky.”

The bustle of the holiday market slows to accommodate him, traversing through the stalls as all shapes and sizes scurry out of his way. You swear to yourself, turning away and buying some meat you can’t afford. When you hear your modulated name fall out of his mouth like a prayer, soft and delicate. He steers around the crowd, veering right into your path as a child walks in front of you blowing bubbles from the straw of a festive drink.

The Mandalorian approaches you with purpose, his walk deliberate and commanding as if everyone in the vicinity answers to him. “Mando.” you smile briefly, warmth heating your cheeks, and the never-fading crush you have on this man skipping around your belly. “Hi.”

His gaze stays fixed as he reaches for your arm, touching a patch of ink that not only is new to him but you completely forgot about. His glove runs over it and when it doesn’t smear it might’ve made his knees buckle. “The Crest.”

You peer into the helmet, glad to have him near you again, and realizing how much you missed hearing his voice, a rush of blood washes over your cheeks again. “Yeah,” you fumble around doubting your reasons for getting that tattoo in the first place, “I’ve been adding a couple of ships that are important to me.”

You hear a small noise but are unable to determine the emotion behind it, “I was hoping to see you on Nevarro,” your heart rate picks up in your chest, and of course, his helmet picks it up, “the last few times.”

“I’ve been moving around, looking for something new.” There’s a sleepy squeal coming from his satchel, “is that?” He swings it around to the front and opens the top of the bag to reveal your favorite green forehead. “Handsome man! I’ve missed you little mudscuffer.”

Mando chuckles under his breath as you pull the baby from his confines and offer him a piece of the meat you just bought. He swallows it down greedily. “I swear he eats. He just woke up.”

You smile and give him a playful look, “Is daddy feeding you enough munchkin?” You hand the baby another strip, Mando is glad you don’t see him adjusting his pants as the word daddy slips between your lips innocently, “Don't worry I’ll get you something sweet too.”

Mando rests his hands on his hips, and shakes his head in mock defeat, “He’s not gonna want to leave.” He follows at your back as you carry the child through the marketplace, sometimes letting his palm rest on your back to keep close to you.

He would not be one to admit but seeing you carry the child around reminds him of the times on Sorgan, of the weeks you spent together and his floundering inability to court you. Even now the way you look at him has him hiding behind his beskar helm like a foolish schoolgirl.

“He doesn’t have to, are you here for business?” You cast a look over your shoulder, “He can stay with me while you take care of whatever you need.” You find a stall selling some fruity overpriced drink for the planetary holiday.

You look into your bag, coming up just a few credits short, and cursing at yourself. Starting to walk away, “I’ve got it.” He cuts in front of you while gripping your shoulder and standing over the top of you, handing more than enough credits to the man in exchange for two drinks.

Yet another blush creeps into your cheeks, “No need to spoil me.” You offer the child his drink and he snatches it away from you eagerly with a screech.

“I want to.” That causes your brows to knit together and a deep ache below your belt to settle and warm.

You sip away at the luxuriously sweet drink, wishing you could at least share it with him. “I have a room at an inn,” you offer, “or we could go back to the Crest, and catch up.”

You lean against one of the walls so that you don’t accidentally traverse even further from his bounty. “I don’t have the crest.”

Your drink turns to ash in your mouth, “What? Is she in disrepair? I’m sure Karga-“

“It’s rubble on the planet Tython.” He’s sad, of course he is, but his hand finds the mark on your skin again, and you can’t help but mull over the memories, the connection you shared on that ship eviscerated.

“I’m so sorry.” You let your head hang low, remembering how many conversations you shared hoping he’d invite you aboard as crew. “I loved that ship. I mean not as much as you I’m sure.”

He chuckles, thumb brushing over the silhouette as he speaks, “You don’t happen to know how to rewire an N-1 starfighter engine?”

“I’m sure I could look at it, but I don’t think I’d be much help. Where the hell did you find one?” You’re a bumbling mess, wanting so eagerly for him to scoop you off this planet like he had before, but also knowing your heart couldn’t bear to watch him leave a third time.

“I didn’t think so but I have no idea what you’ve been up to and-“ he pauses, stopping himself to watch you take a sip of the drink after licking some whipped cream off of the straw.

“And?” You prompt him to continue, but he stares between you and the child who have matching bright red tongues and are both sporting some whipped cream out of the corners of your mouths.

You catch a hint of strain in his voice, “We can rest at your place for a while. He’s due for a nap.” You squint at him a little, easily reading his stiff body language and the change of subject.

At the word nap, the baby babbles away while chewing on the straw of his drink, “There’s a lot of sugar in this, so we might have to wait it out.”

Mando lets out an exasperated sigh, “What have you gotten us into.” You’re both sitting on the floor of a modest single room with the little one taking turns climbing up and over the two of you.

“You bought it,” raising your hands in defense, smile splitting ear to ear, “I was going to split one with him.” You reach out to try to grab his surprisingly quick body but he darts away with a giggle.

“He’ll crash, eventually.” You could hear him talk about the baby for hours, to sit with him and watch the two of them play together always felt like a treat on its own. “Get down from there.”

“He’s fine, this place is a dump anyway.” You smirk over your shoulder as he climbs up onto your bed, rolling around and giggling half to himself while chewing on the mythosaur skull pendant around his neck.

“How did you end up here?” Your face falls a little, but he’s kind, and soft, and you can tell he doesn’t want to pry but his curiosity is getting the best of him.

“I was tracking a bunch of smugglers, the republic got word that they were hauling children to Canto Bight, and exporting them maker knows where.” You continue, trying to keep your breath even, “Cara had asked me as a favor, but I had a run-in with a group of pirates who saw my stripes and stole my ship.”

“Does she know?” He shuffles closer to you, folding his knees in so that he can run a hand soothingly across the skin of your leg.

“I don’t know,” You clear the tightness in your throat, “At least I don’t think so.” You find the words pouring out of you as if he is comforting you into realizing something you’ve been fighting for a long time. “I don’t think I can fight like this anymore, and I don’t know how to tell her that.”

He is quiet, giving a simple solemn nod, before pulling the rising phoenix from his back, and laying it on the floor. He scoots closer to you, settling next to you as you both lean against the foot of your bed. His beskar shoulder plate is cold on your cheek, as you lean against him, seeking reassurance you haven’t felt in so long.

Silently a tear falls down your face, and as if prompted by his little superpowers the baby, climbs into your lap nuzzling your cheek and touching your face gently with a warm hand. There are a lot of things this child is capable of, things you can’t begin to understand, over a lifetime that is marred with more violence and confusion than you will likely ever know existed. When he touches you, you can feel his pain and loss, but he also shares with you a joy and unfathomable curiosity over the smallest things he remembers.

“I can’t take you on the N-1,” his voice startles you out of your stupor with the baby, “but if you’ll give me a few days, I’ll be back to pick you up, and you can stay with us on Nevarro until you find somewhere else, something else to do.”

Your breath is shaking, and you’re not even sure the last time you felt safe enough to cry. A small piece of you wants to run because that's what you've been doing for these last 10 or so years of your life. Running from the Empire, running after them, and then running from yourself. “I don’t think I could.”

“Why not?” he reaches for your shaking hand, setting his gloved hand on top of yours, driving the energy in the room with the ease of piloting a speeder bike.

“You’re a family, he has a routine, you’ve settled into this beautiful life that you’ve worked tirelessly for. I couldn’t impose.” You try your best to sound strong like you’ve got a plan ahead of you, and the idea of not being around the two of them doesn't make your heart ache.

He hums, and for a moment your cry is less of confusion and more out of pain. His hand is gone from yours, and the lack of his warmth feels like a slap into reality, as you pinch your eyes shut to stop yourself from being embarrassed even further.

You jump. There's a much larger warm hand caressing your cheek, and turning your head into the dark stare of his visor. You can see the tanned skin of his wrist as he turns your face slightly, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “It is the greatest mistake of my life leaving you on Sorgan.”

You sniffle, the words sorting through the emotional fog of your brain, searching the blank emotionless canvas of metal for a hint of human connection, a flutter of an eyelash, anything. You can’t find anything, until you hear the faint sound of his breath from beneath his mask, stuttering and insecure, his chest rising and falling like he’s fighting a battle with his own emotions.

You feel it again, a swell in your chest of love and admiration and then you feel the tiny claws digging into the skin of your bicep. You look down at the tiny man as he steps between where your chests are separated by mere inches, “Could I have her come and get us?” You’re quiet as a loth cat, voice heady and rough. “I don’t think I could watch you go.”

He lets the little one settle into his lap after a moment, this time you can hear relief and a half-broken smile in his tone, “Let’s just wait until he falls asleep, I’ll go to the ship and send a transmission. I’ll come back with his pram, and then where we go. You go.”

You clear your throat again, wanting so desperately for this to be real and aching to touch him. “Okay.” your voice barely makes a squeak, he pressed the cold beskar helm to your temple.

Wondering if he feels as raw as you, you place your hand on top of his suppressing the need to comment on how large it is, and tangle your fingers with his. You stare at his hand, tanned and massive and warm. Human. You fold your legs in on themselves and shift your body so that you may properly look at him.

The glove sits in his lap, and he looks so imposing in this tiny half-furnished room, polished and chrome in the dingy and ill-lit space you've called ‘home’ for these last few cycles. You take his other hand, and look up to see if he’s going to stop you, but he is still and silent, so you slip the glove off his hand. You trace from the tip of his middle finger, down his palm and up towards the pulse point of his wrist.

He shudders beneath your touch, thankful for the mask to hide the crimson flush of his cheeks. He’s never had the opportunity to enjoy a tenderness like this, to feel his pulse quicken and the nervous butterflies he’s heard described during love stories on a holodrama. It’s terrifying, he feels like he could vomit, but the way your delicate fingers trace circles over the palm of his hand makes him want to run his hands over every last inch of your body until he knows it inside and out like his blaster.

The child settles into his lap, leaning his head against your arm as his head and eyes grow heavier with sleep. “Why don’t we walk to your ship together?”

Your eyes are bright, and he can tell by your posture that you feel better, but he can’t stop the audible grumble, not ready to let you or even your hand slip from his. He nods and swallows harshly to clear his throat, “Alright.”

You walk across the market again, and the crowd parts before the two of you except this time you are holding onto his hand, and rather than trying to avoid his gaze like every other soul walking the market, you cling to his him trying to suppress the smirk curling the corners of your mouth.

Nevarro has changed so much, you spend the first few days just getting accustomed to the new layout of the town. Dropping the child, ‘Grogu’ (it took a while but it grew on you) at school, and then going to spend time in the market picking up some rations and some of the seasonal veg you’ve been coaxing into the little one’s belly.

The domestic bliss that comes with living with Mando is both welcome and intoxicating. You’re awake at odd hours of the night, talking and sharing stories about Jawas and your run-ins with Ewoks, and sharing your dreams and hopes for the galaxy.

He shares stories about Mandalore, about visiting there for the first time and bathing in the healing waters, about Bo Katan seeing a Mythasaur alive. All things you heard about as a young child, and symbols that brought hope and purpose to the entire creed were real and were aiding to heal the planet and its inhabitants.

Then there were times when you both laid on the floor, watching the little one interact with a metal sphere, using his magic to hover it just out of your grasp and giggling himself to a peaceful sleep. You’d lay together, wrapped in the comfort and protection of his house, and stare at the little man as he sleeps occasionally peaking into the reflection of yourself in his helmet, and blushing when you catch your own heart racing.

You want to tell him how you crave to be with him, how addicting his presence and his mind are to you, but you’re afraid. Afraid to move too fast, to step over his barriers, but also knowing that each second without knowing the softness of his mouth is torture.

The first time you see him in his sleep clothes, a plain dark green shirt with three buttons on the top and loose-fitting black canvas pants, no metal aside from his helmet, you choke on your cup of Jawa juice. He’s large even without the metal beefing up his silhouette, his back broad and the fabric thin enough for you to see his muscles move as he opens a drawer for silverware. Even treating yourself to a glimpse of his waist and the way it tapers to his ass and hips.

It’s become more common, in fact when he gets home, he almost immediately strips out of the armor in favor of something more casual and comfortable.

Tonight the energy is different. The kid passes out early and you’re soaking a pot you used for dinner in the sink when he emerges out of his room. You hear his footsteps, but they’re muted and soft, he’s barefoot. As you glance over your shoulder as he offers you a glass from his bedroom you see he’s in briefs, (the house is admittedly warmer as the seasons change) but the shock is plain as day as you turn so quickly away the glass slips from your hand and shatters on the floor. But the image of his chest spattered with hair that trailed down his soft belly and into the top of his black undergarments.

You both are silent for a moment, hoping the noise isn’t loud enough to wake the baby, in his silence you swear, “Kriff, don’t move I’ll get a broom.” You shy away, looking to the ground for a safe path.

He cuts you off arm darting in front of you to halt your movement, “I’ll get it.” His hand comes to rest on your hip stalling your movements with his warm palm.

His other hand reaches out and before you can grumble in discontent he's lifting you onto the counter. You sit there, flustered with your hands tucked between your thighs as he fiddles with the control of his helmet flicking through to see which would help him find the scattered pieces of glass the best.

It's moments, but it feels like an eternity as he searches for a broom, sweeping the glass into a neat pile before discarding it into the bin silently. He settles between your legs, silent as a mouse.

“I'm sorry.” You smile sheepishly, struggling to maintain eye contact as he hovers in front of you, inches separating your face, and if it were any cooler you would’ve fogged the front of his mask with your breath.

He chuckles dryly, “Don’t be, I’ll take it as a compliment.” His posture is full of confidence, but also comfortable and relaxed. You long to touch him, to run your hand over his chest and abdomen, to feel the muscles shift in his back as he- “Mesh’la?”

You blink yourself out of a daze, “You should, you’re so handsome.” He braces his hands on the counter next to your hips and leans ever closer.

“Yeah?” His voice is hot like a pant, stroking a fire in the room that neither of you are able to ignore any longer.

“Yeah.” You smirk at him, emboldened and smoothing your hands up the strong plains of his arms, squeezing lightly around the muscles of his biceps. You let your foot run across his calf, urging him closer to your body, his hands find your waist, firm but careful as his thumbs stroke the skin just below your breasts. You curse yourself for even bothering with a bra band.

“I like having you here.” His head tilts, you can almost see the gears turning in his brain as he continues, “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this?” He uses his strength to pull you a little closer to him, so with each breath your chests touch and your core is flush to his abdomen. “Having you in my kitchen, sitting on my counter looking so pretty, so-” He swipes the hair off your shoulder exposing your neck and throat, “edible.”

Any chance you had of playing it cool is gone, you want nothing more than to bend to his will. His hand disappears from your side, and he tangles it in your hair, using it to fix your eyes to his through the helm, as he strokes your cheek with his thumb. You feel completely safe, but there’s something about him thats dangerous, hungry even, and it makes your skin damp with sweat.

He sounds like he’s in agony, like each passing moment without consuming you is torture, and you ache for him in a way that astonishes you, embarrasses you, not even sure that you could stand on your own two feet.

“I need you.” He whispers, breath uneven almost a growl, “Tonight. Now.” He reaches between your legs, letting his fingers ghost over you ever so gently, as if asking, no begging, for permission.

You swallow hard, his helmet tilts, admiring you, and you hardly manage to stutter a yes. Part of you expects him to be quick, tearing at your clothes and taking you right here in the kitchen.

He doesn’t.

He goes slow, letting the crest of his helmet fall to rest on your forehead, taking his time to caress your hips, tracing up your sides and taking your shirt with it. His hands are warm, but bring goosebumps to your skin as he touches you, hands squeezing your breasts and rubbing your nipple. You keen, pressing desperately against his hands. You lean in, placing a kiss to his collarbone, gentle and moving slow so he may stop you if he wants, but he drops his shoulder and tilts his head to expose his neck.

You kiss his collarbone again, letting your tongue dart out to taste his skin, he’s vibrating beneath you. Trembling as you kiss the hollow of his throat and nibble at the skin of his neck. You run your hands down his chest, basking in the intimacy and living for the scent of his skin.

He lifts you in a fluid motion, whisking you out of the kitchen and into his modest bedroom. Laying you on the bed, he runs his hands down your legs and removes your pants. You blush, unable to hide your arousal but noticing the prominent tent in his briefs, your mouth waters and you get to consider getting on your knees for him briefly.

He’s faster than you, and not thinking about himself. Ripping your underwear from your body and running the tip of his index fingers through your folds. “All this for me?” He circles your entrance, gathering your slick before brushing across your clit with leg-shaking precision.

You chase his touch, the pleasure coating your tongue and fogging your brain even more than you can put into words. You beg for him to get closer, to press your bodies together until you weren't sure you'd ever part.

You're expecting to feel shorted by the absence of his mouth on yours. No taste of him, and not getting to hear his words directly from his mouth, but his touch is consuming. Like he's worshiping and waking each cell with caresses and adoration that's as palpable in the air as his sheets were soft on your back.

There are noises, words you think, that he is muttering between each supple squeeze and tease, words you've heard him say before but their meaning is only now defined by his actions.

Love. He loves you. You can feel it in the heat of his hands as he spreads your legs apart and admires the way you part for him, and he sinks two fingers into your fluttering pussy, pushing up and stroking something dangerous.

His erection is nestled against your leg, and he shifts his hips with every twist of his fingers for a few moments, pressed between your bodies he feels a glimmer of relief with a groan, as much as he wants to bathe you in attention, he thinks that if he waits any longer his heart might give out before the best part. “Mesh’la,” he twists his fingers as if to be sure you're listening, “Please.”

“Yes,” you nod, swallowing harshly as he slips free of his underwear, cock springing free of its confines. You gawk, unabashedly, as he did to you just moments ago. He's large, intact, leaning slightly to his left, and the skin is tanned brown, slightly darker than the rest of his body, thick and weeping out of the brilliantly flushed pink tip, the base adorned with sparse but dark hair that trails up to his navel deliciously. When he steps between your legs and lets it rest on your abdomen to press your forehead together again, you feel its heady weight against you and stoop so low as to beg, “Please.”

You're echoing each other's moans as he grinds against your folds, coating himself in your slick before sinking into you in a single brutally slow thrust. When he bottoms out, you do your best not to squeak as the girth of his member breaks you open, it doesn't hurt, rather it feels like you've both waited an eternity to come to this very moment, euphoric and fulfilling the needs of your body and soul.

He grinds his pelvis against yours letting his hand shift to cup your cheek, staring at you, he hopes somehow you can sense it. How he is barely able to stop passing between the pout of your lips and the deep pleading look in your eyes, begging him for the same thing his heart is calling for. He could weep, having finally shorn the armor to dedicate himself to you, because the truth is, all you needed was to ask. He would've dropped his creed, everything he had achieved, and the meek life he'd planned for himself to grovel at your feet for the rest of his human life.

Devotion, that's what it was called. He had felt at many moments of his life that he was in the right place, blessing along his journeys that started out as miracles, friends, familial bonds he didn't think he deserved. It felt misplaced, the little blessings that had entered his life so quickly that he swore they had to have been accidents. It had taken losing the child and abandoning you on that god-forsaken planet, for him to reflect, and to realize that the life he deserved was not determined by some blasters and an army, nor his home planet. He had the life he wanted in his palms once, and watched it slip through his fingers with the charred remains of his ship. His grip tightened instinctively, twisting the sheet in his fist.

It was you. You were the representation of all of the things he wanted but never thought he deserved. A family, a place to call home, and you even had committed something as passing as his ship to your skin with a permanence that scared him.

Here your skin was warm, surrounding him, nurturing him, squeezing him, and his mind was trying so hard to be a person, not a machine, loving someone else for the first time.

He found the words, he said it to you, over and over with his pelvis angled just right as he ground his hips into you.

He was throbbing inside of you, you could feel the slick slide and pulse of him with each thrust. The pleasure was so intense you were whimpering and mewling beneath him, wetness smearing onto your thighs and running on the sheets below.

You've had sex before of course, and now you seriously doubt you've been doing it right. You kiss at the hollow of his throat, and in response he hunches over you, arms on either side of your head, animalistic yet praising affirmations go straight to the building heat in your core.

You let your hands, come up to his back digging your nails into his skin. He moans in shock as his thrusts grow more frenzied, spurred on by the bite of pain at his back. He reaches between you and circles your clit with his thumb, pulling you headfirst into your orgasm. You're body goes taught and relaxes all at once, the pleasure blinding you as your vision goes white and each tilt of his hips makes you stutter out an overstimulated moan.

The fluttering of your sex around him would be enough to send over the edge but as you catch your breath you begin to beg for him to finish inside you. He does, still feeling you shivering through the after waves of your own, as he groans and revels through the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, complete with curled toes and a knuckle-popping grip on the sheets. He’s still looking at you, the rise of fall of your chests bumping into each other and your breath fogging the front of his helmet so much that when you kissed right over his eye, he could see the imprint of your lips for just a passing moment.

“I can’t believe we waited so long.” You chuckle, all smiles but looking as dazed and spent as he felt. A shiver coming over him as the small sounds cause you to tighten slightly around him as he softens, his body incredible sensitive.

“I’ll spend the rest of our life making up for it.” You note the sound of him speaking through the grit of his teeth, and do your best to lie still, not wishing to be parted just yet.

Months later, you’re married in a private ceremony in front of friends and his brothers and sisters of the clan. It's quick, and everything you had expected of a warrior’s wedding. You get the mudhorn symbol tattooed into the skin nestled behind your ear, wearing it proudly and with your vows you are made a family, a clan of three in front of all the important people you care about.

You’d be remiss if what had you most excited isn’t the filthy promises he’s made to you about that night, taking his helmet off and kissing you everywhere he can for as long as he wishes. Promising to leave a mark over your new clan sigil as he marks the rest of your body for him, as you’ve done to him many times over. You get to admire his face and the most handsome man in the galaxy who kneels before you with reverence and vows to take care of you with more than just his words.

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