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boldlyvoid · 3 years

Text

ain't it fun?

summary: reader just needs an NA meeting before they have a meltdown, they end up with the best friend they could ever make.

warnings: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Drug Addiction, Trauma Bonding, narcotics anonymous meetings, Strangers to Lovers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, meet-cute,

word count: 3.3K

a/n: this is completely self-indulgent and overly personal but i def recommend writing why spencer would love you as a form of therapy

read on ao3

In the blink of an eye, she was up and racing around her apartment. Her mental health was like a teeter-totter, and right now she was on her way to the top. Mania was creeping in; changing from just anxiety-induced butterflied to the feeling that she could jump off a building and survive.

That was never a good time. All she wanted was to either spend all her money, fuck a stranger or get high as shit. It made her legs jumpy and her ears ring and she couldn’t take it anymore. It was all too much.

She threw on a sweater and jeans, her hair was up in a butterfly clip and she hastily threw on her fanny pack full of everything she needed as well as a big coat, and she then left her apartment. She got to the stairs before realizing she actually needed to lock the door.

Her hands shook and she tried to slide the key into the lock, dropping them as her neighbour rushed out of the room and startled her. “Sorry,” she heard him say.

She picked up her keys and turned to look at him, “can you help me? I can’t seem to stop shaking,” she asked as she held her keys towards him.

“yes, sure,” he rushed the words out as he walked towards her, only looking at the keys, never in her eyes. But that was okay, she was never a big fan of eye contact.

He placed her keys back in her hand and took a step back, “are you alright?” he asked.

“No,” she said honestly. “I’m going to find an NA meeting.”

“Do you have one in the area? I haven’t seen you around before?”

She shook her head, surprised that he was also an addict, he didn’t look like he’s ever even smoked weed.

“No, I moved in only a little while ago on a whim, but I think it’s time I got some support,” she said as they started to walk down the hallway together. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

“Spencer,” he smiled softly. “I’m going to a meeting right now, actually, if you’d like to come? I won’t exactly be anonymous to you, but it’s a good one to go to if you just need one to fill the void until you find your preferred group.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I need.” She smiled at him this time as he held the door open for her. “So, have you lived around here for long?”

“For about a few years now.”

“The building is good then? I was a little hesitant but I needed to get away,” she said, this time holding the door for them to leave the building and turn down the street towards where she knew the subway was.

The moon should be out, she looked up but only sees buildings. It was the one thing she missed the most about not being in the country; seeing the stars and feeling like there was a reason to it all.

“Are you running from someone?” He asks as they start the walk down to the meeting.

“Myself,” she said softly. “I’m on disability and don’t drive and I lived in the middle of nowhere with my parents, well into my 20’s, and I needed a change so my parents surprised me by saving up money for a few month's rent and told me to follow my heart.”

“And you picked Virginia?”

“I stayed in Virginia, just moved into the city. I watch a lot of murder documentaries in my free time, I thought being near Quantico would introduce me to some interesting people, but I have yet to meet anyone from the FBI at all.”

She laughed to herself at how dumb it was that she wanted to meet a profiler like Holden Ford from Mindhunter, “either they are all very good at keeping their jobs secret or Virginia is a very large and densely populated area with a low percentage of FBI agents.”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“How long have you lived here?” he asked, slowing as he walked so he could look at her.

“2 months.”

“It took you two months to meet the FBI agent across the hall from you.”

“You’re kidding?” she said, stopping on the sidewalk abruptly. “I knew that apartment was calling me for a reason.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but, are you really just coincidentally my neighbour or are you secretly spying on me because you have an evil plan to kill me and my co-workers?” he's completely serious, it's almost scary.

“No offence, Spence, but for a supposed FBI agent that’s a dumb question to ask,” she said, pointing finger guns at him, “you don’t think I’ll give up my cover that easily? Do you?”

He points a finger gun back at her, “technically, I’m a doctor.”

The two of them narrow their eyes at each other, slowly walking in a circle, still facing each other with their make-believe guns trying to hold back smirks. She lowered her ‘weapon’ first. “It’s okay, doctor, don’t worry. I’m not a spy just an idiot with an imagination.”

He giggled softly, “I’ve never felt this comfortable with someone this fast.”

“Well, you are with criminals a lot, right? That would be alarming if you bonded with them,” she said, bumping her shoulder into his as they walked. “But I feel the same. I actually haven’t talked to someone in person in forever.”

“No?”

“I do most of my work and socializing online,” She felt embarrassed, but in today’s day and age, it wasn’t that weird. “I’m not very good outside or with people.”

“If it wasn’t for my job, I don’t think I would go outside very often either. My co-workers are my only friends, they’re more like my family actually.”

“That’s so wonderful to hear, found family is very important,” her smile disappeared as she thought about how alone she was. “Um, can I ask what it is you do at the FBI?”

“Behavioural Analysis.”

“Holy shit," she gasps, knowing way too much about that unit thanks to fucking Netflix, "that’s what the BSU became right? Do you work with the really fucked up shit?” she asked softly.

He laughed, “oh yeah, I really do.”

“Do you share a lot at NA?”

“Kinda, I tend to ramble about facts when I’m nervous so sometimes my short talk becomes more like a ted talk and what was supposed to be just me saying I haven’t relapsed on Dilaudid becomes a lesson on how the human brain works,” he explained, rambling just like he said he would.

She nodded along as he spoke, “funny, that was also my drug of choice.”

“Liquid or oral?”

“Oral. I was given it after I had my appendix out when I was 17. They get you started real young now, big pharma has its hand in everyone's pocket,” she presses her lips together awkwardly, “it was rough.”

He hummed in agreement. “I was held captive by an unsub with multiple personalities. One personality drugged me till I died and the other one brought me back.”

“Spencer, Holy fuck?” she stopped and stared at him so incredibly concerned for someone who just met him. She reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder and looked him in the eyes, “I know I barely know you, but if you need someone to talk I’m literally always across the hall.”

“Thank you,” he smiled softly as he looked back into her eyes. “The meeting is right there across the street, do you want a coffee first? The place beside it is amazing.”

She nodded and he took her hand, looking both ways before J-walking across the street with her to buy her a coffee and a snack. Maybe that would help her stop shaking, he looked like he worried about her and she wasn't used to that at all.

He didn’t talk at this meeting, he sat in the chair beside the group leader, she sat down across from him in the circle so she could focus. When the floor was opened up to new members, Y/N stood at the first chance she got.

“Hi I’m Y/N,” she said, to which she was welcomed by the crowd.

“I’m new to the city and looking for a new home group, not sure if I’ll stay here because I know Spencer outside of here but I really just needed to come today.”

She takes a deep breath as she thinks of how to start it, opting to just explain it and let the rant go where it may.

“I’ve never lived alone before and it’s incredibly hard to occupy my time without drugs. I still smoke weed to help me sleep at night but my addiction is with Dilaudid and then Benadryl a little after having surgery in high school. I don’t know if it’s my trauma, my disability or my Autism, maybe it’s my OCD, I really don’t know, but I just feel so useless and alone and boring and lonely, the drugs used to help but they don’t anymore and I really just don’t want to feel this way anymore.”

They all looked like they understood, small smiles grew all around the circle as she took a lookout at the crowd, “Thank you for letting me get that out.”

Everyone clapped as she sat back down and wiped a tear off her cheek.

The meeting ended shortly after that, Spencer walked from his seat in the circle to where she was sitting, reaching a hand out to help her to her feet. “For the record, I think you’re funny, smart, kind and pretty. And you don’t have to be alone anymore if you don’t want to be.”

She slapped her hand into his and stood up with purpose, “Did we just become best friends?”

“I believe we did.”

The walk home was much like the walk there. They traded facts, they flirted, they laughed, she pushed him into a pole at one point, by accident as they laughed. The two of them stopping to sit at a bus bench, laughing so hard she felt like she would pee her pants right then and there.

By the time they were back on their floor, it was well after midnight. “I don’t think I’ll be able to go back to meetings with you.”

“Oh, why?” he looked disappointed.

“Isn’t rule 13 that you’re not supposed to want to sleep with your group members when you’re healing?”

“Wanting to and doing it are two very different things,” he corrected her as he waited at his own door.

She smirked, “you’re right. Still don’t think I can go back with you, however.”

“I’ll probably have a case tomorrow, they normally take me out of town for at least a week, but when I get back, can I see you?” he asked lightly.

“Knock on my door when you get back,” she said before standing on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “See you.”

“Bye.”

They waved from their doors before departing, excited by something that felt better than drugs.

—

120 hours later there was a light knock at her door, she knows exactly how long it’s been because she’s been counting and looking out the door at every noise for the whole time he’s been gone. Waiting for him like a wife whose husband went off to war, not knowing when their next correspondence would be.

“Coming,” she called, stopping to fluff her hair and straighten her glasses before she opened the door.

“Spencer!”

“Hi,” he said softly.

She took a moment to look him over, a little in shock at what she saw. He was in a plain t-shirt and track pants, he had not one, but two black eyes, bandages on his brow bone and scrapes all along his arms.

“Are you okay?”

“You should see the other guy,” he giggled softly, rolling his eyes.

“Come in, let’s sit you down.” She worried, taking him by the elbow and helping him inside.

“I’m fine, really, I’m used to this.”

“Well I’m not,” she reminded him with a nervous pout, “am I allowed to ask about it or is it classified stuff?”

He sat on the couch and patted a seat beside himself so she would join him. He rested his arm against the back of the chair so that she could slide in beside him.

“Did you hear about the child abduction in Tampa?”

“Yeah? The two boys?”

“I was trying to talk the unsub down and he dropped the gun but he grabbed me as I turned him around and punched me in the face and we fell into the ditch and I luckily managed to flip over him and get his hands behind his back and cuffed faster than I ever have before.”

“You’re amazing,” she whispered.

He laughed, “if I really was, I would have waited for backup before talking to the guy.”

“I’ve always wanted to help other people get justice but not being able to go to school makes it hard to get a job doing anything meaningful,” she whispered, ashamed of the fact she wasn’t successful like most people her age.

“Our technical analyst was hired because she was an amazing hacker, they will hire anyone who is valuable.” He shrugs and watches her face light up at the idea.

“You know what, we have meetings all this week unless there’s an emergency, if you want I can show you around the office?” he offered. “It’s not illegal for you to pass by what I’m working on and notice something I missed.”

“Spencer, I don’t even know your last name and you’re inviting me to your government job? When just last week you asked, not so jokingly, if I was a secret agent trying to kill you and that you’ve been kidnapped before?”

“Doctor Spencer Reid, and what can I say?” he said shyly, “I’m trying to find excuses to see you smile all the time.”

She placed her hand on his cheek, the tips of her fingers lightly resting on his purple and yellow bruised eyes. She leaned in slowly and kissed him on the lips, so gently as if she’s afraid he’ll break or turn into a frog… he was too good to be true.

“You can see me whenever you want, Doctor Spencer Reid…”

He kissed her again, letting his hands roam her back and she trailed her free hand down his chest. She pulled back slightly to throw a leg over him carefully and sit in his lap. Holding his face in her hands now, she peppered kisses over his bruised face.

She stopped to look at him, still holding his face in her hands as his hands now rested on her hips. “I really like you, Spencer.”

“Really?”

She looks at him carefully, analyzing his response and seeing the hurt that rested deep inside of him, “I take it you’re like me?”

“What does that mean?”

“You try to not get too involved with people because no one has ever shown you true genuine interest or love, and you never think you’ll find it anyway so you push away all small acts of kindness, thinking it’s friendly because then you can’t get your hope up, just to have that person drop them?” she explained herself in a whisper.

He nodded, “you get it.”

She kissed his lips again, and then over his cheek and up to his ear, “I do.”

He looked extra sad when she pulled away, she just held his face gently as she mirrored his puppy dog eyes. Communicating with their eyes, she knew he was okay and he didn’t want to talk about it anymore, so she smiled.

“Want to watch a movie?” She asks softly.

He nods, looking behind her to see she doesn’t have a tv in the living room. “How?”

“In my room, the TV is on my dresser if you don’t mind sitting in my bed?”

He shakes his head in a simple no, picking her up and taking her to her room. He knew where it was purely because her apartment was just his but backwards. She laughs, holding onto him tight as she rests her head on his shoulder.

He sets her down gently, watching her move up to the headboard and wait for him. They got under the blankets and she found the remote in the sheet before she cuddled into him.

“You’re really cuddly,” she complimented him as he wrapped an arm around her and held her close. He kissed the top of her head as a thank you.

“I think I’m going to end up falling in love with you, Spencer Reid,” she whispers the words, afraid of them more than his response.

“I beat you to it,” he whispers right back.

She shoots up, turning to look at him with surprise. “How?”

He looks at her like she grew two heads, “what do you mean how?”

“How did you fall in love with me? You don’t even know me?” She’s so confused, no one has ever loved her before and it’s a lot to take in.

“Y/N…” his face drops, his heart physically breaks in front of her. “I don’t know you, you're right. Not all of you, at least. I’m sure you have your hidden doors and locked cupboards but from the outside, I see you’re so beautiful, you’re radiant… your mind is lovely. You’re so kind, you’re so brave, you’re everything I wish I could be as charismatically as you are.”

She’s just swallowing over and over as she shakes her head and breathes through her nose, processing it. She’s breathing deeply then, staring off and she feels like she’s having a new kind of panic attack. A happier one, somehow?

“I don’t like myself, but if you like me I guess I must be pretty nice,” she smiles, accepting his praise and believing him. “Yeah. Thank you, Spencer.”

He smiles then, it’s cute and press-lipped and she swears he almost has dimples. His eyes are like honey and his lips are like roses. She leans in, kissing him and reaching a hand back to cup the nape of his neck.

He doesn’t know it, but he’s the first person she’s kissed in a few years. They’re soft, peck after peck as they hold each other softly, eyes open as they watch each other experience the happiness of finding someone good, finally.

“I uh, I wanted to tell you I’m almost exactly everything you described yourself as in the meeting,” he whispers against her lips, the air touching her skin gently as she absorbs the words.

“What part? My diagnosis or my self-hatred?” She smiles, okay with either really.

“Almost both, I’m pretty hard to be around.”

She shakes her head, “I invited you in for a movie, not a pity party. You can tell me everything you hate right now and then we should just share the good parts okay? Brag about yourself. Tell me what you’re proud of.”

She was really serious, keeping a stern look on her face as she spoke. He nodded, “I’m anxious all the time, I’m always worried because I’ve never had anyone to worry about me. I don’t know how to be a real person really, all I do is drink coffee and solve crimes and I barely sleep. And the only time I was relaxed and okay is when I was on drugs.”

She nodded, “it fucking sucks, doesn’t it? Like why did we get stuck like this, I don't care about peaking in high school but didn’t we deserve some kind of love and support? I’ve never understood if souls and shit are real, why did mine pick this terrible meat suit and awful traumatic path?”

She’s crying because she’s angry and because she’s never said it to anyone before. He cries because she understands. She truly knows.

“I love you,” he announces. “Just because of that.”

Taglist: @blanchardsbk @shemarmooresfedora @spencers-dria @spookyspence @reidsfish @manuosorioh @mochionly @samuel-de-champagne-problems @jswessie187 @k-k0129 @calm-and-doctor

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid request #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine

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jangofctts · 4 years

Text

Are You in Or Out?

Rated: Explicit

Word count: 11.5K yall I am SORRY

Warnings: good lord y'all here we GO-- smut, explicit language, violence and mentions of blood and gore, injuries, unprotected sex (don't be a dick, wrap that stick!), oral (m&f receiving), blindfolding, vaginal and anal fingering, vaginal and anal sex, double penetration, spit is used as lube but for the love of GOD doNT DO THAT, there are some dom vibes on Paz’s end

Summary: The job you’re on takes a turn for the worst--Paz comes to your rescue and you're brought to the Covert. There you meet Din Djarin. though during a good natured sparring session, you’re suddenly stuck between an age old rivalry that spirals out of hand. Hopefully an agreement can be met.

a/n: hey...how y’all doin....SO lemme explain you smthn. I said helmets must be OfF--giv me them LIPS BABEY so this is a slight AU in which mandos can see other mandos’ faces. ya get me? I also tHot that it would be nice and fun to set the timeline 5-6 years BEFORE the plot of the Mandalorian so we gots a younger din here. anyway, as always enjoy and I hope you like!!

Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes—

Some as little as burning your finger on the nozzle of a smoking blaster or tripping over your own shoelaces. Simple things. Mindless things.

Nothing that could ever compare to the catastrophic decision of picking up bounty hunting as a reliable source of income.

The little ones were easy—tax evaders and deserters of the Empire—most who’d yield and gladly follow without complaint just at the sight of your blaster pointed between their eyes. And the gag of it is—most of the time you never bothered to load the damn thing.

Reckless.

An invitation for disaster.

But skirting that precarious edge, one little slip up away from plunging head first into inevitable trouble is better than Bracca. Stars—anything is better than Bracca. There’s no glory in bounty hunting but there’s even less in ship scrapping. Abysmal pay in exchange for risking your life on rain slicked metal with only the Ibdis Maw to break your fall.

The guild you work for is considerate—scratch that. Greef Karga is considerate. Sure the flirting is a touch unbearable but it saves your ass in the long run. All easy money bounties set aside for you in exchange for a cheap drink, hollow laughs and sugar sweet smiles.

It’s enough credits to get by—more than plenty to rent a room and charter a ship.

But there’s only so many bounties to capture within the limits of the guild and oh so many people the empty blaster trick works on. And so the credits begin to thin; it gets too expensive to buy off a pilot and the debate over buying food or being able to pay for your room becomes more frequent than the scraprats that skitter inside the walls.

It’s suicide to snag a higher paying bounty because....well—these bounties shoot back.

Whatever.

Might as well die trying. Who knows, maybe you could score big time if you manage to pull this off.

Maybe.

-=-=-=-

You’re not sure who’s more surprised—Karga when you asked for the bounty or yourself when he actually gave it to you.

“Are you sure, kid? This could—“

“End in a fiery shitshow? Yeah—I figured that,” you sigh, swirling your drink with a little complimentary toothpick. “But I need the money.”

“Hah! You’ve got guts, girl.” He flashes you a smile and smooths down his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Tell you what. The last assignment was just taken but I’m sure if you run you could catch him. Work somethin’ out.”

Jumping from your seat, you throw on your coat and toss a couple credits onto the table to cover the drink. “What’s he look like?”

“Big fellow—Mandalorian. You’ll know when you see him.”

You shout your thanks over your shoulder and hightail outta there. The landing docks aren’t far, you can see them from here. It’s finding the guy that could pose a problem.

If he hasn’t already left, you bitterly think.

However, it seems the universe is on your side today. Karga was right. He is big. Stands out like a sore thumb against his ship that glitters dully in the overcast sky. Kinda like an oversized blueberry. A yellow and blue blueberry….not important—

“Hey! Hey, you!” You’re so close, just a couple yards away. You swear and hurry up your pace as he steps onto the loading ramp. “Big guy! Large...blue man?”

You trip over your own feet as he turns his head. Fuck—

No way are you gonna be able to bargain with this guy. Built like a fucking AT-AT and probably just as stubborn. After all, no one would ever be dumb enough to come between a Mandalorian and their quarry. You grimace, and suck in a breath—

Before a word even leaves your mouth he interrupts with a steady, unwavering;

“No.”

Your brows furrow. “I didn’t even say anything!”

“I know what you were going to ask,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I work alone.”

Ok, then. You didn’t want to resort to begging, but you’re kinda running out of options here. You take a steadying breath and plant yourself at the bottom of the ramp. “C’mon man. Look—I’ll let you take seventy percent of the cut and I can—“

“You’ll let me?” He repeats, the staticky tone of his voice dropping into an edge more cutting than broken transparisteel. The metal platting on the ramp vibrates from the weight of his step to move closer; Stars it takes every fucking inch of willpower to hold your ground. “You’re lucky if I let you leave with your life. Get lost.”

Fuckfuckfuck—you should listen. You wanna fucking run for the hills and never look back in case he comes looking to purge your name from the kriffing galaxy. You clench your jaw and steel your nerves. Too bad—you’ve dug your heels so far into this empire of dirt and false bravado that your only way out is continuing to poke the sleeping bear until he snaps your spine or caves.

You have to crane your neck to glare into that dark strip of his vizor, seeing as he’s invited himself into your personal space. “No.”

“No?” He mocks, now toe to toe with your scuffed up boots.

Your teeth clench, a scalding flush burning through your cheeks and all the way down to your chest. He’s toying with you—finding amusement in your stubbornness and apparent lack of braincells for challenging him. “You don’t scare me.”

The man hums, a deep purr that rumbles through his entire ribcage as he raises his gloved hand. You curse yourself for flinching because surely he’s about to crush your skull like a fucking grape, but no. All he does is fix your rumbled collar then pat your cheek.

“I don’t need the extra baggage.”

“I’m not baggage,” you sneer, slapping his hand away. “I can handle myself.”

“With an empty blaster?” He points out, tipping his head to the side. “Your parlor tricks won’t do you any good on this job.”

“I’m a good shot!” You sputter, placing your hands over you hips and mustering up your best glare. “W-when I have ammo…”

“Right.”

Meeting Paz Vizsla, could have gone far better, to put it into the most simplest of words. Jagged and hard to settle into a routine around each other for the journey to Nar Shaddaa in a tiny, old, and cramped freighter ship. Most cycles you have to wedge yourself beside a cargo crate to sleep. In addition to that, how it’s able to break through the atmosphere let alone fly is beyond you—an entire mystery on its own.

At least you’re able to sit in the spare seat inside the cockpit—one of the only places available to stretch your legs. The only problem is that it’s also where Paz Vizsla likes to lurk (well, not lurk—it’s his ship and it’s where he can comfortably fit but—to each their own).

There’s a net of tension still woven between you—each interaction like tiptoeing over eggshells. Though, like all things, it becomes simpler. There’s not exactly any ongoing conversations—you don’t want to pry into a life you know nothing about—it’s not your business despite the cumulation of questions that linger in the back of your mind. You know when to take a hint—not every person is willing to indulge you about their livelihood, and surely not something as secretive and well guarded as the Mandalore.

Familiarity is what you want to call it. Comfortable with each other’s presence with small talk speckled in throughout the never-ending vastness of hyperspace. Compared to the infinite turmoil in your life, slippery footholds and uncertainty—Paz Vizsla is steady. In a way— predictable and safe in the confines of this ship.

You’d even go as far as to label him kind, a friend maybe—if you look past the grumpiness and rather poor taste in corny jokes. You know it’s stupid, no doubt stemming from the deep ache of loneliness that comes hand in hand with staking it out on your own in the galaxy; but you can’t help but wish that this could be a new normal. Not some once in a lifetime thing where you both part ways, fade into the recesses of memory and leave it at that.

If things go well—and rarely do they on a job—maybe you’d pluck up enough courage to ask him if you could stay. There’s no harm in it…right?

-=-=-=-

Well—the cynical part of you was right.

It did end up in a fiery shit show.

Turns out the stupid quarry you’d been tracking excelled in long range weaponry. A former marksman for the Empire to be exact. Guess that tidbit of information wasn’t pertinent. A need to know sorta thing, if you will.

You feel the molten bolt of plasma connect with your side before your ears pick up the sound of a weapon firing, like a crack of lighting in the empty alleyway. And before your body even connects with the duracrete, Paz is returning fire. A brilliant neon red against the hazy blur of shadowy buildings.

Kinda weird how knocking the back of your head hurts worse than the literal blaster wound burned into your side. Shock maybe. Or the heat from the plasma cauterized each veins and artery it tore through and ate away at flesh and nerves. Hm…

You’re sprawled in a wet pool of something—either your own blood or a puddle of stagnant gutter water and damn—you’re wearing your favorite shirt.

It doesn’t matter at this point…

You’re choking on your own air from the big ass hole blasted into your diaphragm, so to say things are looking grim is an understatement.

Nar Shaddaa isn’t your first choice to kick the can on, but hey—not everyone gets the luxury of dying on Naboo. And just as you’re ready to slip away into that sweet, sweet abyss, it seems your fellow armored friend has other plans.

The beskar is freezing against your cheek after he deadlifts you off the duracrete—you remember that plain as day. That and the hushed rumble of Paz’s voice insisting you save your dwindling supply of air instead of apologizing to him—or ordering you to stay alive for kriff’s sake. It’s impossible to argue with Paz—like trying to bite through durasteel, and while those beckoning tendrils of eternal slumber are mighty tempting, you cling to your life with all the strength you have left. After all, inconveniencing someone with a corpse is such a party foul to the highest degree.

The rest is muddled—like dredging up silt and clay in a murky river that just leaves you with a pounding headache between your eyes. It’s a terrible mess of pain and bouts of temporary consciousness, mistaken with fever dreams and yup—more pain. The only consistent is Paz—hovering nearby or settled beside you—through thick and thin as you heal.

There’s no solid reason your brain can conjure as to why he brought you to the Covert—it’d have been easier to just dump you at the nearest hospital and be done with it. You’re not his responsibility and you’re too afraid to ask what it means. Too many possibilities—too many answers you aren’t in the mood to face or untwist.

And so you leave it be, set aside for another time—which brings you to the present day…

You’re splayed over your little makeshift cot, feet propped up on a spare pillow as you scour through a cheesy Coruscanti gossip magazine. It’s years old—the only piece of entertainment you could find other than a weapon in the Covert. And seeing as a massive hole had been blasted through your ribcage, picking up the clever art of throwing vibroblades or shooting targets to pass the time was out of the question.

Even if you’d rather fall into a Sarlaac pit than stare at the wall for hours on end yet again—it hasn’t been all that bad. It’d taken weeks before you regained enough strength to sit up on your own, let alone walk—and walking is putting it lightly. It was more of a stiff legged shuffle better suited on a two hundred year old woman seconds from disintegrating into dust at the mere hint of a breeze.

Not to mention—your right lung was all but shredded. Ripped apart from the plasma bolt and miraculously reconstructed by a more than questionable bacta tank, hopeful thoughts and well wishes. To this very day you still sound like a broken air filter.

Eh.

Could be worse.

At least you aren’t dead.

Just another setback that adds on the growing pile of reasons why never to leave the Covert. Free food, free board and mild entertainment to top it off. Paz had stayed at your bedside for the most part while you recovered—stuck with babysitting your sorry ass until you regained a bit of mobility. The times Paz hadn’t been at your side to stave off the boredom, it was up to you to find your own fun.

Snooping is what Paz had labeled it—but you saw it more as an adventure. You met Din Djarin exploring (lost is what you actually were) in the dimly lit underbelly of Nevarro, after all. Yes, you may have scared the ever loving shit out of the poor guy and yes, he may have singed off your brows with a five foot jet of fucking fire—but hey. No one got hurt.

And you made a new friend. Sorta…Din is difficult to read, subtler in his soft spoken words and quiet demeanor. A bit like a skittish loth-cat at the start, but nowadays it’s not uncommon to find him lounging in the same space as you or hovering over your shoulder, awfully curious in whatever it is you choose to do. Like Paz, Din isn’t overly fond of sharing much information about himself but he never complains after you regale tales of your own vastly fascinating past. He seems interested enough—tilts his head a tick to the right when you speak to indicate that yes, he’s listening despite the unforgiving dark line of his visor.

There are others in the Covert too—some so elusive you have a hard time believing they exist. Shadows of what they once were before the rise of the Empire. And so, you count yourself lucky that you’d been introduced to two others—Aeris Fenn, a young man nearly as tall as a Wookie, and a woman named Ives Arrey; her armor a flashy green—damn near florescent in the light.

They’re nice enough company. Aeris is a chatterbox, his wit sharper than a blade but lacking in any forethought before he speaks. Ives is the far opposite—rolls each sentence in her mouth before she voices it, but in no way is she angelic. Maker—you’d bet your entire left asscheek she’s behind each bad decision and silly shenanigans Aeris sticks his nose into. He never learns—not after a harsh chiding or cuff around the helmet from Paz or the Armorer could dampen is childlike enthusiasm or steer him away from repeating the same mistake over and over.

Though if you read one more kriffing sentence of this garbage magazine you’re about to invite chaos himself to entertain you. Good thing too because just as you sit up to find the red armored Mandalorian—Paz rounds the corner and steps into your little broom closet that hardly passes for a room.

“Paz!” You greet, tossing the magazine over your shoulder. “Please tell me we’ll be doing something interesting or else I might start ripping my hair out. Or maybe commit a heinous crime—haven't decided yet.”

Paz grunts and shakes his head. “You’ll be doing neither. But today we’ll be sparing—hopefully that will curve your boredom.”

You scrunch up your face. “Sparring? Er, no thanks—I choose life.”

“You breathe funny since your injury,” he says, jabbing a finger between your ribs. “And all you’ve been doing lately is laying around.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you sneer, tucking your arms over your chest. “Didn’t realize I was supposed to be running laps with half a lung.”

“It’s like stretching a muscle, you need to gain your strength back.” He retorts. “This will be good for you.”

You groan and flop back into bed. “I don’t wanna. I was pretty much dead like three cycles ago—cut me some slack, man.”

There’s a brief silence as if he’s mulling over your words, but he’s stubborn. You crane your head to look at him as he says your name with a deep sigh attached to it.

“Truthfully, I’m surprised you’ve survived this long.” He says it quietly, fragile even, like he’s still expecting you to tip over and die on the spot. You very well might.

You huff. “Wow. Thanks, Paz.”

You feel his heavy stare through the helmet. “What happened to you that night was a mistake. It wasn’t preventable but the least I can do is teach you basic selfdefense.”

You gripe out your complaints but you know you’ve been beat—and well, a bit of your agreement is based on guilt.

Damn it.

-=-=-=-

It’s weird to see Paz without his heavy duty gear—like seeing him naked or a crab without a shell. The only piece he continues to wear is his helmet and padded gloves and under clothes, but it’s still weird. Strange enough that it shocks you tongue into remaining still instead of bitching about this.

He leads you to a wing of the Covert you’ve yet to discover and ushers you through the doorway. The floor is padded, a bit smaller than you expected and already occupied by none other than Aeris Fenn.

It’s a whole other kriffing shock to the head seeing him without the plates and layers of fabric and beskar too. The armor makes him bulkier—fuller and much more intimidating. Now, with only his black underclothes on, Aeris could be the spitting image of a sentient tree. Willowy limbs that stick out like branches as he stretches on the padded mat. He lazily swings his head around as you greet him, his face still covered by the black beskar painted with streaks of red.

“So you choose sparring over knife throwing?” Aeris snorts. “And to think I thought of you as a friend.”

“You think I chose to be here?” You say, grumpy and still upset at the choice of activity. Really, a brisk walk around the Covert would’ve been fine.

Aeris shrugs. “Ah, and I see you’ve roped in my favorite vod. Tch, he uses his fists instead of his words to teach. I wish you luck—you’ll need it.”

You open your mouth to retort but Paz beats you to it.

“Leave.”

“I’ve just arrived, actually,” Aeris scoffs, folding his torso over his other leg to stretch. “Perhaps you could reschedule. After all—our guest is quite free most days.”

Welp—you’re perfectly fine with that. Problem solved.

You spin on your heel and make a break for it but Paz snatches your wrist and pulls you back to his side. “Aeris.”

“Paz,” Aeris mocks, tipping his helmet to the side.

Paz exhales, a long, tired sound and grovels out another plea in clipped Mando’a. Aeris languidly stands and brushes off imaginary dust from the front of his pants. “Sorry, what was that? I don’t understand your accent.”

“Boy—“

“No, no, it’s alright.” Aeris sighs, waving his hand in a mopey display as if he were told that his birthday party were canceled for the fifth year in a row. “I’d have trouble speaking too if my enormously thick head were cooped up in that little bucket of yours all day.”

You wince.

In the time you’ve known Paz Vizsla, he’s never been one to launch into rash decisions fueled by anger—he lets it simmer and build like an oncoming storm over the ocean. Devastating once it reaches land.

Aeris bobs his head and inspects his black leather glove, picking at a loose thread on the inseam over the thumb. He clicks his tongue. “Or'dinii—you’re going to kill her.”

Your offended scoff is ignored as Paz steps forward; jutting his chin up to even out the few inches Aeris holds over the man. “You still haven’t learned to shut your mouth, boy.”

The tension surges and crackles like a volt of electricity through the air—unresolved and ready to ignite with the sparking embers of Paz’s growing irritation. It’s not a fight Aeris Fenn will win. He’s volatile and hotheaded—but his expertise is in long range weaponry. Precise, deadly and swift—not whatever this little pissing match is heading towards.

Aeris clicks his tongue as Paz digs a fist into the black fabric of his shirt. Paz yanks him forward, the metallic clink of their helmets colliding an unpleasant scrape that pierces your eardrums. Aeris snarls out sharpened words in Mando’a as his willowy fingers shoot up to curl beneath the lip of Paz’s helmet.

In the blink of an eye, Paz lifts Aeris up by his collar and launches him across the room like he weighs nothing more than a couple of down pillows. His helmet meets the wall with a resounding clank, chipping some of the red paint outlining the visor. Ouch.

Like a kicked dog, Aeris clambers to his feet, still dazed and swaying and for a fearful second you think he’ll retaliate. But with whatever braincells he happens to possess today—he instead spits out a venomous curse that even yourself would hesitate to repeat. He leaves without another word, bristling with rage.

Your flash Paz a questioning stare. “The hell was that about?”

Paz waves it away with an irritated grunt. “His heart is in the right place but he is young. Aeris doesn’t understand his place in the Covert yet and I doubt he will for years to come.”

You frown. “Poor guy…”

Paz mutters something under his breath. “Enough distractions. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“Y’know…I think that’s enough excitement for today. I think I’ll be going now—“ Your last ditch attempt at weaseling out of this is quickly thwarted the moment you turn your back.

You wheeze as the heel of Paz’s palm shoves into your shoulder blade, the force of it sending you stumbling to the ground. “Paz—“

“Go on. Hit me,” he orders. You squeak, narrowly avoiding the well aimed kick that skims the top of your scalp.

You scramble to your feet, skirting out of range of the oncoming right hook. “So you attack me instead?”

“How do you expect to catch quarries who are bigger than you?” He presses. You hiss as the points of his knuckles dig into the meat of your shoulder.

You dance out of reach and rub your arm, a dull throb flaring up in the muscle. “I dunno—electrocute them?”

“Not if they take you by surprise.”

You screech as his knuckles skim your cheek. Adrenaline pierces you veins and you wildly throw a flaky punch that wouldn’t even impress a toddler. He catches your fist with ease, his entire hand dwarfing your clenched fingers. “You can do better than that.”

You snarl and struggle to rip your hand back. “I’m a scrapper. I don’t fight.”

“No,” he retorts. You fall onto your ass as he abruptly lets go of your hand. “You’re a bounty hunter.”

You roll your eyes. “Hardly—why can’t I just stay here?”

Although there’s nothing to see with that swatch of black covering his eyes, you can certainly feel the look he’s giving you. A deep sigh hisses through the vocoder. “You can stay here—“

A triumphant smile splits across your face—

“—but not without contributing where it’s due.”

You puff up your cheeks and let out a dismayed stream of air. “Booo—lame.”

He sighs again and helps you off the floor. “Even if you leave the Guild, what I’m teaching you is helpful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “I’ll give you a call after I use your invaluable skills to beat up some thug.”

Paz ignores your comment and turns on his heel. “Let’s go through it again. This time use your front two knuckles instead of your whole fist.”

As your eyes land over the stretch of tight fighting fabric over his back an idea pops into your head. It’s a petty move but getting a punch in is fruitless—like trying to beat up a brick wall. You don’t fancy a broken hand and your knuckles are already bruised and swollen to the point where it’s hard to bend them.

And so, without any forethought and with a running head start, you launch yourself onto him, your arms coiling around his neck. It does the job—takes him by surprise and makes him tip to the right.

Aha! Yes!

Your reign of victory is short lived, however—

He latches onto your forearms strung around his neck and yanks. And much in the same way he threw Aeris like a sack of potatoes—you’re no different. For a short stretch of time that feels kriffing endless; you soar through the air, your directional whereabouts violently ripped out beneath you and equally nauseating in the same breath.

Why you ever agreed to this—you don’t know.

Your shoulder blade connects with the mat first, leaving behind a dull sting as you roll and tumble with uncontrollable momentum. Oh, yeah—you’ll feel that in the morning.

Groaning, you thank the Maker that your body eventually settles into a miserable little pile of limbs and pain. But, it seems whatever higher power that lingers in the edges of the galaxy hasn’t decided to put you out of your misery just yet.

A bulky shadow blocks out the dim lighting overhead, and for a brief anxiety ridden moment you’re afraid it’s Paz. You roll onto your back with a pathetic groan, a beg for mercy on the tip of your tongue—but as your eyes flutter open they’re met with an entirely different man.

Din Djarin looms over you, his head cocked to the side as you blink in dumbfounded bewilderment. Ah, hell—

You swallow, a furious heat bitting at your cheeks. “Uh…fine weather we’re having…”

“We’re inside,” he states with a brief glance up to the ceiling.

You purse your lips. “Huh.”

With a pensive hum he offers his hand, you sigh and roll over, accepting his gloved hand. He hoists you up easily and adjusts your rumpled collar. “You ok?”

“Pfft, yeah,” you groan, rubbing your throbbing shoulder. “Never better.”

The low grumble of your name is a cross between disbelief and irritation. Din jerks his head, his attention zeroing in on Paz. “Are you trying to kill her?”

“She isn’t made of glass.”

“She is still recovering—“

Normally you’d intervene, but their bickering is tiring and it gives you the excuse to lie down. By the time one of them caves you’ve counted exactly one hundred and twelve weird ceiling stains. They should get that checked out.

“Very well,” Paz snarls, cutting through your wandering thoughts. “You teach her.”

Din scoffs, his shoulders drawn tight as he stomps over to your splayed out self. “Get up.”

“Geez, fine,” you grumble, not in the mood to test his patience further. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Later he’ll no doubt apologize but right now? He has to prove a point. Din cuts right to it, moves in close to place your clenched fists in the right stance and nudges at your feet until they’re a bit wider than hip distance.

“You have to get in close with a bigger opponent,” he says, stepping into your space until your fists are close enough to touch his chest. “We don’t have much range here—easier to break our guard too.”

“Right. And how would you suggest I do that?”

“You’re always beating me at cards.” Din says, tipping his head to the side. “You have a clever mind. Use it.”

“But I always cheat.” You point out, dropping your guard to swat at a stray hair.

He catches your wrists and returns them to where they ought to be. “Quick enough to get away with it.”

You make a noise of uncertainty but do as you're told. Din takes a couple steps back and with a rough order you begin.

He’s faster than Paz—bats at your guard in quick bursts and steps away when you attempt to hit back. It’s a dance almost—somehow elegant in its brutality of bruises and flashes of pain as you move around one another. Compared to Din, Paz is almost clumsy but unpredictable. Din—despite the rapidness of his attacks and evasiveness, becomes predictable.

He steps to to left—you follow. He rocks onto his toes to jab his fist forward and that’s where you find a break. Punching Din’s helmet won’t do you any good but catching the juncture of his shoulder with your elbow is completely feasible. Too bad that you’re not the only one with a clever mind.

Din uses the momentum of your attack to catapult you to the ground—his own body rolling with you in order to capture you in a headlock of sorts. This sucks. After this you’ll never be setting foot in this Maker forsaken room again.

Din tightens his elbow that’s looped around your throat as you squirm and flail, trapped against his chest. He grunts as your elbow digs into his ribs but holds steady and snakes his free arm across your front, pinning your limbs to your body in an unbreakable vice. All mobility is cut off as his knee pushes between your thighs, locking your leg out into an uncomfortable and frankly quite awkward angle.

Inhaling a shaky breath, you arch as the crown of his helmet skims along the curve of your throat; the bite of beskar frigid and startling against your flushed skin. You can see his visor out of the corner of your eye; glittering and dark like the polished obsidian on Black Spire and endless like the greedy maw of a black hole.

Your breath hitches as he shifts and curls his head closer to your ear. His voice rumbles low and deep through his chest and vibrates against the delicate cartilage. “Yield.”

However much your pride wrestles with the sensible part of your brain, it’s all for naught as you jerk your head in defeat.

In retrospect you should’ve said something—used your voice or made some kinda sound because suddenly Din’s forearm digs alarmingly hard into your windpipe. He read the stuttered jerk of your head as another pitiful act of defiance but no. Nope.

Here you are—asphyxiating.

Not exactly what you had in mind, being strangled by a Mandalorian and all—but a chokehold where you could very well die was not it.

Fuzzy darkness begins to shade the corners of your vision, lightheadedness and a curious warmth that prickles down your spine settling low in your belly. A raspy gasp manages to slip through your blocked off airway, and stars why does this feel good?

“Din—”

Paz’s sharp bark is distant above the ringing in your ears and it all stops.

You gulp in air that burns your throat like refined fire whiskey—hunched over the mat as a large palm rubs soothing circles over your upper back. You cough and roll over, sounding like a dying animal run over by a speeder then hit with a spiked club to polish it off.

You’re quickly herded into Paz’s arms and pulled into his lap. Still wheezing and attempting to recover lost oxygen, whatever Din is trying to say translates into an indiscernible hum against the ringing in your ears.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, though neither of them care to listen. Like bristling wolves, snapping at each other’s heels.

“Apologize to her,” there’s not so much as a centimeter of room to argue. “Now.”

It’s nice of Paz you suppose—defending your honor and what not, but you’re not a vengeful person. It was an honest mistake and you want to explain that so Din quits looking like a kicked puppy, yet the sudden touch over your ankle stops you. All the times Din has initiated contact it’d been a friendly pat to your shoulder or ruffling you hair, and while touching your ankle isn’t exactly scandalous it’s certainly an odd place to put your hand on.

Your fingers clutch Paz’s shirt as you eye the man lingering at the bottom of your feet, his gloved thumb unconsciously rubbing patterns into the exposed skin between your boot and your pant leg. “Cyare—I’m sorry.”

You blink and lick your lips. Interesting. “I-I don’t know what that word means.”

His hand inches higher, resting on the swell of your calf. “Sweetheart…darling…loved one—“

There’s a shift—a dark undercurrent that none of you should be dipping your toes into. There’s a million and one things to say or do to sever this at the root, but are you going to? Nah.

Din’s thumb now rests over your knee, goosebumps following in his wake. “Should I keep going?”

It too hot—stuffy with both of their heavy stares locked on your flushed face. You squirm and glance up at Paz who only offers an impassive stare. Great.

“I can make it up to you,” Din continues, his hand stationary—a warm weight even through the fabric of your pants. “If you let me.”

Your mouth feels drier than the desert on Jakku. This…nothing good could come out of what Din is hinting at. This is uncharted territory—launching yourself into the great unknown without any idea of what’ll fester and grow if you agree.

It’s not like it hasn’t crossed your mind—it’s just…it’s never been both of them at the same time. These men are short-tempered, an open flame to jet fuel with deeply seated ire woven into the very fabric of their beings. You’ve barely scratched the surface on the inner workings of their mutual hostility, but you’re bright enough to question if this will make it worse. Tinder and brittle twigs feeding and enabling the hungry flames of rivalry to spiral and consume with chaotic brilliance of a dying star—

But, oh—

Isn’t it worth taking the risk?

You suck in a grounding breath and slowly extend your leg that Din touches, gingerly skimming the toe of your shoe along the inseam of his inner thigh. “H-how would you…make it up to me?”

Din preens at your answer and shuffles closer, lifting your legs so that they rest in his lap. Devotion drips off his words like a fine liquor as he toys with the laces on your boots. “Anything—say it and it’s yours.”

Sparks of molten heat race down your spine and metastasize in your lower belly, spreading through each vein and artery like a some sort of invasive ivy. You spare a look up at Paz as he shifts.

“Go ahead, girl,” Paz assures. “Answer him.”

It’s an unspoken, buzzing sort of thing like the static air before a storm, crackling and surging with pent up energy. You all know the implications of what’s to come—but it’s your words, quiet and steady that irons that nail into your coffin.

“Take me like you mean it.”

The next few moments pass in a dizzying blur, a mess of anticipation as your shoes are yanked off, your pants following soon after and tossed into some unknown corner of the room. Paz helps you out of your shirt, a shiver wracking through your body from the chill, leaving you bare save for your underthings. Yet the warmth that seeps through his shirt and his hands that linger over your ribcage do a lovely job at making up for the cold.

Din shuffles closer and brings his fingers up to cup the side of your face, lowering his head to rest the crown of his helmet on your forehead. “Wanna touch you.”

Your breath hitches as Paz’s hands sweep up your torso, cupping and kneading your breasts. “Y-you already are touching me, Din."

Paz snorts as the rough leather of his gloves scrape over your skin and unhook your bindings. You hardly hear Din over your own whine as Paz rolls your hardened nipples between a forefinger and thumb.

“I want to feel you—without the gloves,” Din clarifies, fighting to keep your attention on him. “Will you let me?”

Maker that shouldn’t even be a question. You moan out your approval, delighted that both of them decide to slip off the padded fabric. Din touches your bare thigh the same moment Paz returns his hands to your tits and it’s exhilarating. The rasp of their bare palms against your flesh is addicting—something so foreign and warm compared to their usual armor and thick layered clothing.

You arch into Paz’s hand as it curls around the base of your throat, a tentative pressure but still heavy. “You’d let us do anything, wouldn’t you? Needy little thing.”

“Yes,” you croak, already debauched and falling apart at the seams. “Anything.”

You’re all too happy to fade away in the embrace of the larger man but the other participant is far from letting that slide. Din grabs your hand, guiding it towards the front of his trousers, the drawstrings already loose and easy to pull aside. He groans and twitches as your fingertips flirt along his navel, then curl over the waistband, tugging his pants the rest of the way down to pool around his knees.

You reach for the already impressive outline of his cock pressing against his boxers, but Paz cupping your cunt through your underwear just before you touch Din is distracting. You gasp and arch as Paz digs the heel of his palm against your clit, electrifying ecstasy zipping down your spine with each touch.

There’s a twinge of guilt after Din huffs and drags your limp wrist back to his cock, this time encouraging you to palm him by guiding your actions with his own hand until you lazily oblige. Din’s quiet grunts, gravely against the vocoder do nothing but throw more jet fuel to the fire inside your belly. The growing urge to actually touch him gnaws and corrodes the forefront of your brain. With a firm yank his boxers are quick to join his trousers and Maker—

Fuck—

Will he even fit?

Din is thick, rosy brown and flushed at the tip and beginning to curl towards his bellybutton. A bead of liquid shines at the tip, dribbling down the underside as he wraps his fist around the base of his length. He gives himself a languid stroke before he, once again, reminds your hand of what it’s supposed to be doing. Din is searing in your palm, molten and stiffening to hardened steel in your grip.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” Din hisses as his head rolls back onto his shoulders. “S-so pretty holding my cock.”

Your desperation tears at your insides, insatiable and Maker— you wanna taste him. You want to hear every little stuttered moan and feel each twitch of his hips as he claims your mouth as his own.

But before you’re able to ask Din if he’d be willing to fuck your throat, Paz grips your knee and slings your leg over his thigh, murmuring praise as he peels off your underwear. Paz’s hand snakes down to your pussy and runs two thick fingers through your already slick cunt, then delicately parts your folds.

It’s like a fucking bomb going off as his thumb grazes over your swollen clit. His forearm locks tight around your waist, keeping you in place as you arch and tremble. Paz is feather light and teasing, as he strokes over the little bundle of nerves in a painstakingly slow rhythm.

“Paz—“

He nudges your cheek with his helmet and chuckles. “You’re so sensitive, vaar’ika. Such lovely noises too.”

Paz trades in his light touches for using his two fingers instead. They form a relaxed ‘v’ shape, trapping your clit in between the digits as he massages in a steady up and down motion. You cry out, every nerve shocked and flooded with saccharine pleasure, shoving you so treacherously close to that precarious edge of release.

You have no fucking chance as a different set of fingers, leaner in length but just as bulky, carefully prod at your entrance. Din’s pointer finger slides into your cunt, quickly adding a second as your core clenches and stretches for him. The dual sensations over your clit and Din’s fingers steadily pumping and curling inside you send you hurling into that dazzling white-hot pleasure.

Throwing your head back, you cry out—a jumbled mess of their names or just nonsense— pleasure crackling out from your core and all the way down your legs. Your cunt tightens like a vice around Din’s digits, your legs twitching as your high dips into prickly overstimulation. You whine, and swat at Paz’s hand, Din pulling out his own fingers a moment later and wiping your wetness on the inside of your thigh.

Your head rests in the crook of Paz’s shoulder as your breath fans across the side of his helmet, fogging up the metal where the blue paint is chipped and scraped away. The shirt he wears smells a bit like sweat but the underlying scent of him is comforting—worn leather and something crisp, like fresh laundry. You don’t mean for the words to slip out—

You know better than that, but everything feels muddled and silly and, and, and—

“I wish I could kiss you.”

It’s like dousing ice cold water on a pile of smoldering coals. A silence, petrifying and like the inhale before jumping off a cliff and into a rocky sea, ensues. Stupid, stupid, stupid—

Paz shatters the fragile suspense with a rich laugh that burns away all the icy worry making itself a home in your ribcage. He moves his arm up, his fingers gripping your jaw to fix your gaze onto the other Mandalorian. “You want his mouth on you too?”

You whimper and nod, but it isn’t enough.

“Use your voice vaar’ika,” Paz hums, pressing the crown of his helmet against your cheek. “Tell us want you want.”

“I-fuck—” Paz’s fingertips sneak up your torso, rough callous catching deliciously on your skin. “I wan’t your mouth on me. B-both of you.”

Paz chuckles and releases his hold on your chin. “You’ll have to be blindfolded, sweet girl.”

Din scoffs, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. “Like she’d want to see your face anyway.”

“Please,” you mewl, turning your head to curl into Paz’s neck. It’s not ideal, but it’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make. “I don’t care. I need—“

“Patience, little one,” Paz purrs, rubbing up and down your bare sides in a soothing manner. All it does is stoke the flames. “You’ll get what you want.”

Paz shifts, reaching for your abandoned shirt and stars—

You can feel his cock, firmer then tempered durasteel and poking into your lower back. Oh, hell—these men are going to ruin you.

You’re nudged forward, your vision going dark once your shirt is securely tied around your head. The knot traps a few hairs that pull sharp against your scalp but the measly pain is worth it. Oh so worth it.

“Is it too tight?” You hear Din ask, concern lacing his gravely vocals.

You wave your hand in dismissal. “S’fine.”

“Cant see anything either, right?”

You squirm, your patience spreading thin. “Din, please.”

“Fine.” There’s no bite to his tone and under different circumstances you’d have more composure. Acknowledge that they’re putting their religion, their whole being into your hands—a fragile trust that could so easily be shattered.

Your ears pick up their subtle movements, their helmets landing onto the thin mat with soft thunks. With bated breath you wait for them to jump into action, seize every spare moment to taste your skin and breathe the same air. But—

“You need a haircut, vod.”

“And you need to shave.” Retorts Din with bitter indignation.

“It’s hardly even stubble.” He chortles. You giggle and twist away as he scrapes his prickly cheek up and down your neck. “Besides—she likes it.”

There’s another lull, and with the blindfold everything is amplified—the quick and quiet breathing of Din on your right and the slide of fabric against skin as Paz shifts. Your attention is captured by Din’s bare palm, warm and calloused like weathered leather left out in the afternoon sun. He caresses the outside of your thigh in smooth, longing strokes, enraptured by the softness of your skin. You whimper and let your leg fall open, exposing more of your thigh for his curious exploration.

The sudden touch on your cheek is jarring. You know Paz is there—it’s not an easy thing to forget the solid chest you’re leaning against but it’s hard to focus. Difficult to settle on one thought before it slips away like grains of sand between a clenched fist. Paz’s touch is heavier than Din’s, ambitious and greedy but…mindful. Even as his fingers spread along your jaw and drag you into a deep, mouthwatering kiss. It’s…stars—

There’s nothing that can describe this. No word that could ever hold a candle up to the way his lips, plush and soft, move against yours. His nose brushes against your cheek as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his warm tongue sliding against the seam of your bottom lip.

You whine and bury your hand into his hair as Paz groans, a low rumble in his throat. You wonder what color it is, but carding your fingers through the curls atop his head suffices for now.

Your curiosity is abruptly ended as Din’s hand snakes around your forearm. You’re forcibly yanked away, only to be met with another pair of lips. Din murmurs an apology at the sting of his teeth bumping into your upper lip, but the pain is hardly the first thing on your mind.

Din’s kiss is devouring—

Scalding and bright—the galaxy, a thousand suns, all there ever will be and all that ever was. The way his lips move against yours is a devastatingly sharp contrast to the steady, syrupy sweet kiss Paz offers. Desperate and eager to surround you in his own arms—steal away any lingering thought and replace it with him. Din Djarin—

You gasp as Din’s teeth nibble and pull on your bottom lip, only a moment before he surges closer, wrapping his hand around your jaw to hold it open as he licks deep into your mouth. Breaking for air, Din tangles his fingers into your hair at the base of your neck and yanks, baring the column of your throat. His travels down, the tender kisses morphing into teasing nips and lingering sucks that’ll turn into tender bruises in the morning.

Din hovers over your breasts, his heated breath and cooling saliva the catalyst to the goosebumps that rush over your skin. He lightly tugs on your nipple using his teeth, then plants a sweet kiss over your sternum.

“Can I taste you?” Din murmurs, his lips ghosting over your flesh. “Maker—wanna put my mouth on you.”

“Din—“ A different set of lips latching onto the juncture of your neck and hijacks your train of thought. Wipes your mind clean until Paz is the sole thing you can consciously focus on.

Paz laves his tongue over the shell of your ear and urges you to lean back against him once more. Your nose scrapes against his stubble as you tuck your head into the crook of his neck, his hips lazily rolling his hardened cock into your backside.

“Or…” Paz rumbles, capturing your hand and interlacing your fingers with his. You marvel at the sheer size of his palm—astounded still when he leads his and your hands to palm his cock. “I could give you this. Fuck your pretty little cunt until you’re screaming for me.”

It’s a punch to the gut. Why the fuck do you have to choose? You squirm as Din points his tongue over your nipple then sucks it into his mouth.

Working through the fog in your head, the answer is clearer than fucking crystal. Because who in their right mind would turn down a Mandalorian’s request to eat you out? Not you, that’s for sure. “Din—want your mouth.”

Din huffs in triumph and slips between your legs that part to accommodate his broad shoulders, leaving no patch of bare skin untouched and worshiped. You shiver as his tongue circles around your bellybutton then retreats. Din settles his head beside your knee and mouths a kiss there.

You whine his name and buck your hips, heart beating wildly in your ears. The teasing is unbearable and, stars—if he doesn’t start now—

He nibbles on the inside of your thigh, laving his warm tongue over each mark he leaves behind, buffering the sting of his teeth. Din snake his hands under your ass, hooking your knees over his shoulders as he heaves your cunt closer to his mouth. Din’s thumbs part your soaking pussy, his breath hot fanning over your cunt. His tongue his scalding—like liquid velvet as he dips the tip of his tongue from the base of your slit all the way up to your clit.

Din sucks on the little bundle of nerves, rolling his tongue until you’re crying out, molten pleasure zipping through you. He grunts as your fingers tangle into his hair—fuck. Fuck, you need more.

Arching into his mouth, all thoughts are obliterated; nothing but the warmth of his tongue, and his lips, devouring you as if he were a man seconds from death and you’re his saving grace. That frenzied desperation lingers on the edges of his movements like he’s afraid you’ll fade into smoke—but you’re not going anywhere. Not even a million credits could convince you to push Din’s head away.

He sinks two fingers into your clenching hole and curls his fingers, stroking and curling his fingertips to make you sing. Zeros in on that little spot that causes the involuntary twitches of your leg and wrenches embarrassing, high pitched mewls that fill the room. You’re careening towards your high, the sensitivity of your last orgasm amping up the influx of pleasure.

“Shit—Din. Close—I’m so close,” you gasp, pulling his hair tight enough that you know it must hurt. He makes no sign that it does, just groans and buries his tongue into your dripping hole, licking alongside his fingers that shovel more of your wetness into his mouth.

Your release unfurls through your body like sticky molasses—smoldering embers that seep into each limb until they’re heavier than lead. Fuck—it’s so hard to think and at this rate your brain is as good as gone.

You pay only a fraction of attention to Din as he kisses his way back up your body and lands a final one over your lips. His thumb grazes over your chin, his gravelly words of praise cutting through some of that foggy haze, how good you were, how fucking delicious you tasted when you came on his tongue. You taste your own arousal on his mouth as he noses your cheek and captures your lips in another kiss.

“Are you done?” Paz asks dryly, much too barbed to be thrown your way. You groan when Paz jostles your limp body as he hoists you back into his lap.

“Just starting, actually,” Din quips. “Why don’t you hand her back over? I’ve got some more things I wanna try.”

Paz scoffs and secures a heavy arm around your middle. “Greed will get you nowhere.”

“Neither will your arrogance.”

“Shut up—both of you,” you interrupt. Your voice is raw and choppy but it does the job. “Just fuck me already.”

For now their little spat is sidelined—it’s not worth ripping off that bandage of a temporary truce. There’s a chaste moment of quiet, like they’re considering tearing into each other’s throats instead, but with a touch to Paz’s thigh the standoff fizzles out.

“We need to work on your manners,” Paz suggests, curling his large, calloused hand around your neck in a loose hold. “I believe it’s please fuck me.”

Maybe if you weren’t practically a pile of brainless goo, you’d argue. See how far you can push—though this time you fold. “Please fuck me. P-please—I need it.”

Seemingly satisfied with your answer; Paz wedges a hand between your bodies to grip his cock and run the tip through your folds, soaked from you own wetness and Din’s saliva. The head of his member nudges at your entrance, and wether it’s his size or the fact you can’t see anything—you panic.

Your hand shoots out, nails harpooning into the meat of his forearm. “W-wait—you’re too b-big.”

Paz freezes and moves you up his lap and presses a kiss over you hairline. “We can stop. Just say—“

“N-no, I’m fine,” you assure, planting an apologetic peck on his stubbled jaw. Stopping is the last thing you want to do—it was just…overwhelming. A sensory overload testing the very fringes of your being. “Go slow?”

You feel his head bob in compliance as he moves you back to where you’re hovering over his cock. You relax this time, not as many alarm bells clanging through your head as your cunt flutters around the fat tip and then that glorious, first thick inch. Paz’s thumb bumps over your throbbing clit, coaxing your pussy to take him further.

“Yeah, that’s it vaar’ika,” he grunts, his breath fanning over your neck in quick pants. “Taking my cock so fucking well. So nice and pretty.”

Your pussy flutters, fresh waves of arousal hot and burning.You nearly keel over when Paz starts shallowly rocking his hips, easing your body the rest of the way down his length until the back of your thighs touch his. Maker—how the hell is he all the way inside? You can feel him in your fucking guts—

“See?” Paz purrs. He sucks a bruise into the meat of your shoulder and pushes his palm against your lower stomach, making the fit even tighter. “Fits fucking perfect.”

The noise your cunt makes pulling out and the debauched moan that filters through his vocal chords is obscene. If anyone where to walk by, well—it’s certainly not training that’s going on, for the better lack of words.

Paz holds true to his word—keeps his pace limited to deep, languid thrusts that brush up against something that makes your whole body shake—like strumming a golden chord molded to a musician’s fingers. Fuck—he’s doing all the work too. Lifting you by the swell of your hips and pulling you down onto his cock with a rough buck of his hips.

Abruptly, he slows to a gentle rocking—quick to lock you in place as you thrash and roll your hips. “Paz—n-no. Keep going. You n-need to—“

Paz silences your please with a wet, open mouthed kiss. “Our friend looks lonely. Why don’t you use that pretty mouth and suck his cock?”

Din.

You hear the man curse in Mando’a, probably some stab at Paz—

But with a pat to your outer thigh, you don’t need any more prompting—you’d give up your left hand to get a chance to suck him off. With the help of Paz, you’re eased onto your hands and knees, shocks of white-hot pleasure zipping through your core at the change of angle. Like this Paz is seated deeper inside, stabbing into each spot that makes you sing.

Fuck—your arms are shaking—only able to hold yourself up for half a click and then you’re sinking face first into the floor, ass in the air as he fucks into you. Paz clicks his tongue and wraps his arm around your front, pulling you back up from your slumped position.

“I told you to suck his cock, girl. Not take a nap.” Paz accentuates his words with heavy, well measured thrusts—the kind of force you know will leave your whole lower half throbbing and sore in the aftermath.

You whine as Paz grabs a hold of your jaw, digging into the tender joints until your mouth falls open. “Good. Keep it like that.”

Paz’s hand falls away, replaced by a softer touch. The pads of Din’s fingers hook under your chin, guiding and tempting you nearer to what rests between his legs, hot and heavy and large.

You feel the tip of his cock, flushed and pulsing, rest on your bottom lip. You lap up the beads of sticky precum with kitten licks that morph into suckling the entire head. Din grunts out your name and tangles his hand into your hair as you tongue at the ridged frenulum. He never forces you to swallow down more of him—lets you cradle the first few inches in the wet warmth of your mouth and languidly roll the pad of your tongue around him.

You want to take him deeper, let Din fuck your throat raw, but your jaw already aches. Your lips are pulled tight around his shaft, drool dribbling down your chin and landing on the mat below. You’re not sure if you could take more of him without the danger of your teeth catching or dislocating your jaw. So you manage like this—hollowing out your cheeks and and using the momentum of Paz’s thrusts to pleasure Din.

It’s frustrating—it must be each time you let his cock slip out of your mouth to breathe or the fact Din isn’t able to fucking fit his cock into your mouth. Annoying that you aren’t able to think properly to help him out a bit ore when that said brain is being fucked straight outta you, put through the wringer and then body slammed onto duracrete.

Din cups your cheek, strokes over your skin with his thumb and maneuvers himself out of your mouth. You whine and lean into his palm, his touch addictive like smoldering coals in the dead of winter.

“You want me there instead of him?” Din purrs, using the tips of his index and middle fingers to tilt your chin and drag you into an open mouthed kiss. “Fuck you like you deserve.”

The profane imagery of Din between your legs instead makes you clench tight. It only takes a couple seconds and a few more feverish kisses before you’re nodding to his request. Paz mutters a swear, hesitates, and reluctantly pulls out, leaving your cunt empty and aching with need.

Din, however, is speedy—quick to hoard you to himself and yank your legs over his hips so that you’re draped on his lap. He jumps straight to the point, no fancy maneuver or drawn out teasing—just grabs the base of his cock, slides the flushed tip between your folds and sinks into your cunt. Even after your pussy had been stretched and molded around Paz’s length, you struggle to take Din’s entire cock into your aching center. It’s easier than Paz but, Maker—not by much.

You whine, harpooning your fingernails into his shoulder once he bottoms out. Din snarls a curse and latches his teeth onto the juncture between your neck and shoulder, prickly pain shooting directly to your belly. “Fucking tight. H-how—fuck.”

There’s no time to adjust before Din sets a pace, harsh and desperate—his hands digging into the flesh of your ass for better leverage. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end before it could be yanked out from under him. Din’s staggered exhales below your ear are interlaced with subdued moans that start low in his ribcage then dip into a higher, airy pitch. A delicate sound you’ll guard closer to your chest than any secret you possess for the rest of your life—precious and yours.

Din turns his head to steal a kiss. “You feel fuck—fucking good. Wanna feel you cum around me. S-squeezed so fucking hard around my fingers—“

You choke out a groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter. Heat sizzles down each vertebrae in your spine, burning up each and every cell with the brilliance of a wildfire. Stars, this is gonna destroy you.

Din’s hand sneaks between your bodies and rubs tight, little circles over you swollen clit. There’s no build up to your orgasm—just a blinding surge of blistering warmth that knocks you off your feet and steals away all the air left in your lungs. Your nails dig into Din’s back as you shake and grapple for a foothold in your own consciousness—the steady warmth of his body a much needed anchor for the madness that threatens to drown you.

“Good girl,” Din praises, pace faltering from just how tight your pussy squeezes and flutters around his cock. “S-such a fucking good girl for me.”

Regaining some semblance of control, you realize he’s still fucking going—still rock solid and throbbing, fucking you through the aftershocks of your release. Your arousal turns sharp, like rough cotton over a fresh sunburn as it dips into overstimulation. It’s not unpleasant but Din has to slow his hips to a delicate roll for you to recover.

In the time it takes to inhale, a different calloused hand kneads into your lower back then smoothes up your spine. A second later you feel the scrape of Paz’s stubble prick along your exposed shoulder as his tongue drags along your sweat dampened skin—all the way up the curve of your neck and ending at the shell of your ear.

You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but as Paz crowds closer the tip of his cock pokes at your other hole. With a surprised mewl, you tense and shy away—but he follows, molds his chest against your back to sandwhich you in. The hand gripping your bicep jumps to your neck and pulls your head against his shoulder.

Two of Paz’s fingers dip down the curve of your ass and brush along the puckered skin—far less jarring this time. “Do you want to be fucked here too?”

Maker—

You’re gonna fucking explode.

Stuffed to the brim already, it’s hard to imagine Paz cramming himself in along with Din. A little red light blares in some corner of your mind but it’s quickly soothed as Paz plants soft kisses over your cheek and jaw. You trust him—there’s no reason to think he’ll hurt you or push you to the point of pain.

You catch his mouth with a kiss and rock your hips back. “Y-yeah, ok. I trust you.”

You feel his smile curl against your cheek. “Don’t worry vaar’ika—I’ll take care of you.”

Paz strokes your bottom lip with his thumb and kisses the crown of your hairline as you sink into him. With his ring and middle finger, he pushes past the seam of your lips. “Suck.”

You obey, sealing your lips around his two digits and coating them in your saliva. Paz pulls them out with a pop and moves them between your legs, and with the added wetness dripping from your cunt, the first finger is easy enough. The second and third have you gasping as he scissors them and stretches your tight hole wider. You claw your nails into Din’s shirt—and he’s no better—Din’s own hands are clamping around your hips, struggling to keep still and biting back moans each time your cunt constricts.

Your hips begins to meet the thrusts of Paz’s fingers as your body familiarizes the feel of him there. It’s a deep thrill that rushes up through your spinal cord—much different from anything you’ve felt before.

“You like this, don’t you?” Paz goads, chuckling when you whine as he extracts his fingers. “I think you’re ready to take my cock, yeah?”

You shudder and nod, your voice no more than a squeak as it pilfers out. Paz strokes the top of your head and tips you forward into Din’s eager arms as Paz slicks up his length in a mix of precum and your dripping arousal. He touches the swell of you ass in warning, lines himself up with your hole and wedges the tip of his cock inside of you.

Involuntary tears dampen your makeshift blindfold as Paz buries himself deeper, his rumbling tone urging you to relax—relax even though your mind is drowning in an ocean of arousal and swirling emotions you have no hope to pin down and analyze. It’s for the best—thankful as Paz bottoms out that it wrenches you back to a feasible reality you’re able to manage.

“Shit—I-I’m gonna die—“ You sob, writhing at just how full you are. But there’s nowhere to fucking go—

“Easy,” Din breathes, and you wonder if he’s said it to keep his own head on his shoulders. “Easy.”

Din’s gravelly rasp cuts through the fog in your head, and stars—you sound like you’re fucking dying. Your wheezy breaths and lightheadedness would certainly suggest that—but no…no, you’re fine. Better than fine.

A rush so acute and devastating launches up your spine as Din’s patience cracks. He experimentally rolls his hips and that’s the end of it. You’re swallowed up in that riptide you fought so hard to avoid—fuck. You won’t be the same after this. How can you?

You can feel them both, separated by a thin wall as they sprint towards their own highs. You’re never once left empty—Din reaches the end of you as Paz pulls out and while there’s not exactly any finesse involves it’s the best fucking thing you’ve felt in your entire life. There’s no bickering—no teasing and you’re struck with an idea that makes you clench tight around both of them. You wouldn’t mind if this was the way they decided to settle scores or finally see eye to eye.

This time you can’t discern your high—just a constant overflow of ecstasy and dazzling arousal like an imploding supernova. You cry their names—sob and shake in their hold with such fervor that Paz traps you tighter between them to keep you still.

“Fuck—you get so fucking tight,” Paz growls, blunt nails digging into your hips. “And so fucking wet.”

His fingers touch the inside of your thigh and stars—he’s right. “I get to fuck your cunt next time—see how much you’ll drip for me.”

Even if the blindfold were off—there’d be nothing to see but a white wash of nothing. Blinded by pleasure and bursting at the seems.

Jealous, Din steals your breath away with a kiss, licking and nipping at your swollen lips until you whine his name. His jagged pants fan across your chin—chapped lips and patchy facial hair tickling across your bottom lip as you breath the same air.

Din whispers your name like a prayer, his fingers clutching tight around your thighs as his pace starts to flounder to choppy jerks. “Shit. I-I’m close—“

Your fingers twist into his hair. “Yeah—ok baby. Let go.”

Din’s teeth sink into the base of your throat and cums. His seed coats your insides—hot and copious and fucking shit—if there’s a next time you want him to cum in your mouth.

You don’t get time to relish Din’s stuttered gasps of your name, laced with praise and a show of a tender and bleeding heart before Paz is gathering up your hair in a tight fist and jerking your head up. “You—you want me to cum too? Say it.”

Without a breath of hesitation you beg for it, cry and arch into him. It does the trick—

Paz is loud—shouts a thunderous roar and buries his cock deep into your hole. Din is still recovering from the aftershocks of his release when Paz pulls out after what seems like ages pumping you full. His cock no longer there to plug you up, his cum begins to dribble out and mix with the mess between your legs. Your legs shake and you wobble--crying out as Din slips out, your body dreadfully empty and aching.

You're lowered to the mat by Din and if you weren't still trying to formulate words, you'd thank them. Lips dart over your cheeks and hairline, and for once nothing needs to be said. It’s nice...the radiating warmth from their bodies and the simmering flush through you body is something you could get used to. But you’re no stranger to the shifting tides of the future.

You shrug it off.

Your eyes are heavy and with one of them stroking your hair and the other your thigh, you drift to sleep. Later—later all unspoken things and disastrous words can be dealt with tomorrow. You must be dreaming when it’s said--careless and bold, but the words nestle into your heart and sprouts with fear.

“You love her, don't you?”

translation:

vaar’ika--pipsqueak

or’dinni--dumbass idiot

vod--brother/comrade

tag list:

@bobafctts @djxrxn @teaofpeach @corrupt-fvcker @nelba @datmando @ben-is-a-hoe @dreams-like-clockwork @aerynwrites @auty-ren @huliabitch @anxiety-riddled-mando @phoenixhalliwell @trippedmetaldetector

#happy SINday :)#pls accept some mando schlong #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #paz vizla x reader #paz vizsla x reader #paz vizla #paz vizsla #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #star wars #sw #fanfic #my writing #reader insert

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prorevenge · 3 years

Text

Shady boss lies about me to coworkers, I have her fired and in dept for several years after.

I have been lurking around here fore quite some time, and wishing I had a good story for you, until suddenly I realized I do! This happened back in 2011/12 when I was the ripe old age of 19 years old. This is a long one, so do strap in.

I got a part time job at a fast food place specializing in subs, not subway, but very similar, when I was 17. It was located in the towns mall, and was fairly busy. It’s a national chain where I’m from. When I started there the owner at the time was really nice, and she started that branch in my town. She was very strict on following all the cleaning requirements and took real pride in her shop. The way it was set up financially was that the franchise taker basically had to work from open to closing (9 am-7 pm) to even have a chance at making a decent living, and preferably only have one part timer helping for a few hours when it was at its busiest. It’s like the MLM of fast food. Why anyone would take on such a business wager is beyond me, but I digress. However, this owner actually managed to make money off it.

A year or so after I started, the owner decided she would move to a different part of the country and sell her branch and have someone else take over. That lucky individual was my co-worker who was three years older than me. (From now on Bosslady) She had worked there since it opened and was the natural choice to move up the ladder. Because she didn’t have the money to pay for the share in the franchise, about $5k, and nobody else was willing to pay that and have to work their ass off for minimal revenue, HQ allowed her to take over while they bought the old owner out, and HQ kept the share.

Now, Bosslady had no idea how to run a mile, much less a business, and small things started happening quite soon after she took over. I would normally work there after school, by myself, but she would often hang around the mall when she had finished work. Bosslady always complained about how little money she made, and would often come by when me or the other part timers were working and tell us to give her $20-100 right out of the register. Considering total daily sales never reached more than about $1200, that was a lot. I barely made $12/h, so my motivation was too low to care, and neither did the rest of the part timers, so we complied and gave her the money. My spider sense was tingling a bit, telling me it was fishy to grab money right out of the register, even if she was the owner, but if she wanted to dig her own grave that was fine by me.

I was friends with Bosslady and we would hang out and often hung out on the weekends, and we worked saturdays together. Which ment we would go out on Friday nights, get shit faced and work the next day hung over. Oh to be young. I would only go out during the weekends and never missed a day of work no matter how hung over I was, and saturdays were the only days I would be hung over. Besides school and work, I was in a dance company, and had dance classes everyday, mostly after 7pm, but a few days I had them earlier and couldn’t work no matter what. This is important.

Every night we would count the register, leave $100 dollars in change and small bills for the next day, and deposit the rest in a safe at the mall. I’m not entirely sure, because it’s been a long time, but I do believe Bosslady would tell us to take the difference out of the $100 for the register, somehow believing the money would magically show up the next day. After a while we started having problems with the distributers, we were not allowed to order on credit, and had to go to the bank to pay the bills in person etc. After that things started getting really weird, and Bosslady refused to let us make the cash deposits at night, insisting that we put the money bags in one of the cabinets inside the shop, which after a month or two culminated to a lot of cash. We had also had trouble a few months with getting paid on time. Since I worked the most out of all the part timers, I had the biggest salary, and the people who administered pay decided to pay the smaller checks first. This girl had bills to pay so that did not sit well with me. I was also the hardest worker out of all of us, Bosslady included.

Then one lovely Tuesday while I was at school, one of the other part timers asked me to cover her shift, to which I said I wasn’t able to because not only did I have back-to-back dance classes I also had a paper to write for school. Later that night I get a text from the girl saying “if you were hung over you could have just said so, you don’t have to lie..” and I’m like “excuse me? I don’t drink on school nights, and there’s no way I would have had the time to do so last night with dance class right after work and working on my paper” to which she just answered “yeah sure, Bosslady told me you were out last night”. The funny part is, this was a fairly small town, so there where nowhere to go on weeknights, so even if I wanted to break my own rules and party on a school night, I couldn’t. This really pissed me off, and figured I would stop playing nice and saving Bosslady’s ass.

Que the revenge: One day out of the blue, during summer, Bosslady declared she was going to go on a last minute, two week vacation to the states, and told me to take care of the shop while she was gone. I said fine, but would like more notice next time. I also asked her how she paid for it, considering she wasn’t able to take out any salary from the shop, and she just said “oh, I had some savings”. I just thought “Hmm, that’s weird considering you actually don’t make money”, but didn’t say anything.

The first day I was in charge HQ called, and the conversation went like this:

HQguy: “hey, is Bosslady around?”

Me: “No, she took a last minute vacation to the states and put me in charge, didn’t she tell you?”

HQguy: “No, she did not indulge that information. But maybe you can help me. Do you know what happened to all the cash deposits from the past few months?”

Me: “Yeah, they’re in one of the cabinets here. Bosslady told us not to deposit them, she even yelled at me when I was about to, because I felt really uncomfortable knowing we had what must have been more than $15k lying around in the shop, and gave me an excuse about having to look them over”

HQguy: “Are you serious?!”

Me: “Sure am. What should I do?”

HQguy: “I know the previous owner is in town, maybe you can call her and ask if she can come help you? She knows what’s what, and please deposit all the cash today!”

Me: “Sure, no problem. I will look over all the cash bags to see how much there actually is and make sure they’re all there and deposit them ASAP” and we hung up.

I called the old owner and told her what was up, and she sounded really surprised and was there within ten minutes. Together we quickly looked over all the cash, but didn’t count it. They where in these little pouches that had a form on the front where you filled in how many of each bill and coin was in it, so we figured the right amount would be in each bag. They weren’t sealed, because Bosslady had told us not to seal them before putting them in the cabinet. I then put them all in a bag and discretely made my way over to the safe where we deposited them. It was on the other side of the mall, and the mall was open so my heart was racing. I felt like everyone knew I was carrying a shitload of cash.

The old owner started asking me if we kept up with the cleaning requirements, and I answered truthfully that Bosslady never told us to do any of the time consuming stuff, like the ice-cube machine, saying that we would have to do that after closing and she didn’t have the money to pay us for the extra hours, so she said would do it on the weekends herself. Old owner just shrugged and told me she had to leave. Since I was all alone in the shop and it was fairly quiet, I started looking around for things to clean. This was around 4 pm. I quickly realized that she had never cleaned anything like she said she had. Under the fridges and workbenches there where LAYERS of dirt, the water tank in the ice cube machine was GREEN with algae, the cooling fans in the refrigerators where covered in mold. I started cleaning, but quickly realized this would require my full attention, so I closed the shop early. I called the old owner and she supported my decision and called the mall manager for me to let them know what was up.

I have never cleaned that much in my life. I scrubbed everything. I pulled all the refrigerators out and scrubbed thoroughly behind everything. What took the longest was the ice cube machine. I wasn’t done until 11 pm that night. Being the petty bitch I am, and being pissed Bosslady went on vacation with the shop in the state it was, I took pictures of everything before I started cleaning and sent them all to the food safety agency, telling them that nothing had been cleaned for over a year. I also got to clock all the hours I spent cleaning, getting an ok from HQguy. Looking back now and seeing how little I was paid, I would have just not cared, but at the time I was afraid people would get sick and die from eating the food.

The next day I called the old owner and all the part timers asking them to meet at my place saying we needed a staff meeting without Bosslady and now was the chance. They all came and we started talking, telling me what Bosslady had done when they were working together and other things they had observed her doing. I took notes, and later that night I wrote a seven(!!) page document listing all the things we knew she did wrong, and how we suspected she was stealing money from the shop etc., and I emailed it directly to HQguy. He emailed me back saying he would look into it.

HQguy called me a few days later thanking me for notifying him about all the things she was doing, and told me that when the cash was registered the amount listed on the form and the amount in the pouches wasn’t the same, and asked me if I knew where it had gone. A light went off, and I realized the “savings” Bosslady had used to pay for her trip was actually money she had taken from the pouches, and that’s why she wouldn’t let us seal them. I told him as much and he said he would dig a little.

When Bosslady came back from vacation, she seemed very stressed. I acted like nothing had happened when she was gone, but chuckled when she opened the cash cabinet and saw that all the money was gone, and her face turned so white she was almost see through, but she said nothing. She was in the back most of the day on her phone and came out asking me if I could cover for her the next few days as she had to go to HQ for a last minute meeting (HQ was 8 hours away). I agreed and went home.

Over the next few days I was seething with excitement to find out what happened. When she came back she tried to play it cool and said “I’ve decided to quit. I feel like doing something different, so I’m just working until the end of the month, and then I’m leaving”, and I just acted sorry and oblivious. I knew the old owner was kept in the loop by HQ, and she told me what really happened.

Bosslady had met with HQ who had questioned her about the missing money and lack of cleaning etc. (there was more, but this is already longer than the Bible). She had denied it all at first, trying to pin it on of us, and saying she had suspected someone was stealing the money and that’s why she didn’t deposit it etc, but eventually broke down and admitted it all. She was then given the option of quitting and paying them back all the missing money in installments or having charges pressed against her. She obviously chose the former. Personally I would have pressed charges no matter what, but they wanted to help her out because I guess they understood she was in a bit of a tough situation with not making any money on the shop, and also didn’t want it blow up in the media.

I kept working there for a few more months, but quit because i found a job that paid more. Word spread about what Bosslady had done, so she really struggled to find a new job to pay what she owed, since no one trusted her. She eventually did, but had to pay them back for several years later. We did not keep in touch.

Guess she shouldn’t have lied about me to my coworkers.

And I’m all out of breath

TL;DR: shady boss lies to my coworkers about me being too hungover to cover their shifts, I tell HQ about all the shady stuff she’s doing and she loses her job and has to pay them back the money she stole for several years, and lost her good reputation.

(source) story by (/u/Dachshundsandwhisky)

#prorevenge #by /u/Dachshundsandwhisky #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #last10

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hydra-collector · 4 years

Text

Whole: Chapter Five

AO3

Fic Page (all chapters listed here)

Second Fic in the Series

Chapters Finished: 6/6

Ship: Intrulogical

Characters: Logan Sanders, Remus Sanders

TW: self-harm, kissing, food, crying

Words: 1,229

Summary: Remus and Logan have a day out.

“God, we really need to go on more proper dates.”

“Preferably ones that aren’t as expensive as this restaurant,” Logan commented, studying the menu.

“There’s some cheaper places, plus places like lakes and abandoned buildings that don’t cost anything. How cool does a picnic in an abandoned building sound? Once I got a bunch of people to come with me, and my brother Roman-”

“Roman’s your brother? I fucking fell in love with one of my best friend’s brother?”

“You know him? You?”

“Since seventh grade.”

“I started dating someone who’s friends with my brother. If I learned that when we first met, I would’ve probably stopped talking to you that exact moment.”

“Well, you don’t talk about him very much.”

“...Yeah,” Remus leaned back in his seat, looking away, “he doesn’t like me very much.”

“My brother’s not much of a fan of me either. Well, he makes sure I know he loves me, but that’s mostly just his personality. I think he thinks I don’t talk about my feelings enough. No shit, Patton.”

Remus chuckled, sipping his water before glaring at it and shaking a bit of salt in it. He swished it around before noticing the look on Logan’s face.

“What? It’s supposed to help with digestion.”

“I know, but… well, if it tastes drinkable to you, I suppose it’s worth it.”

“So why are you friends with my brother?”

“I- I don’t know, Remus. Virgil liked him, and so does Patton. Although they all seem to prefer talking to my brother at this point.”

“Talk to whoever you want, then. And if Patton’s stealing your friends, you steal them right the fuck back, alright babe?”

Logan laughed, the waiter appearing from behind him, taking both of their orders. He wondered vaguely if they should’ve left by this point, considering that they were spending a good deal of their money on just the restaurant. They’d planned to go to a thrift shop afterwards, but whether it would be worth it to only be able to get a very limited amount of things, they didn’t know quite yet. Although Remus might end up changing their plans for the two of them, considering he had good reason to.

“Well, that was thoroughly disappointing.”

The meal hadn’t been worth the money, Logan decided as they exited. It hadn’t even been that expensive, Remus just hadn’t brought a lot of money and Logan didn’t have very much money to bring. He had been trying to get a proper job, not just doing odd jobs around his neighborhood and saving the little money he got for college. But he’d indulge with his boyfriend, at least once in a while.

“Next time we’ll just go to a food truck.”

“I think that’s a much better idea.”

“So, where’re we going? Unless you really wanna go to the thrift store, I think we should wait for another day. I tend to buy a lot of stuff at thrift stores. Once I found little octopus figurines. One of them broke, though.”

“...So, where else?”

Remus paused for a moment. “I realize that it also involves spending money, but we should really go to the record store.”

“I don’t think-”

“Too late, we’re going.”

Logan smiled as Remus grabbed his hand and led him down the crowded sidewalk, past shops and alleyways. The restaurant was soon far in the distance, and Logan couldn’t tell if Remus actually knew where the record shop was. Soon, though, they arrived there, stepping inside to see the stacks arranged neatly. Remus immediately began sifting through them, picking up one with a rather interesting cover and showing it to Logan.

“What do you think?”

Logan examined it more closely. “I think you don’t enjoy jazz.”

“But it looks so cool.”

Logan took it from him to put it back. “But you’re never gonna listen to it.”

“...Yeah. But most of the stuff in here I’m not gonna listen to.”

“Think a little more critically at least, though.”

Remus didn’t end up finding anything that interested him, but he did sweep up Logan in a dance to the music playing in the store. Logan tried to convince him that they were likely disturbing the other customers (especially considering that they weren’t buying anything) to which Remus replied “we’re gay, they can’t stop us.” Logan could do nothing but sigh and lean into the dance.

Before they left, though, one record did catch Logan’s eye. Remus convinced Logan to let him pay for it, likely so his boyfriend wouldn’t steal his record player again, and also so he’d have a reason to bring Logan over to his house, where Patton wouldn’t accidentally interrupt their makeout sessions.

“You wanna hang out on the docks until one of our parents calls to yell at us to come home?”

“I’d love to.”

Remus grinned, wide and excited, again pulling Logan by the hand. They steadied into a slower pace, Remus’s grip tighter than it probably should be. Logan listened to him talk endlessly about whatever came to his mind, whether it was spurred on from their surroundings or completely unrelated thoughts.

The river was quiet at this time of day. Most boaters had gone home, and few people hung around the area anyway. There was a breeze as they walked out along the wooden dock, removing their shoes to dip their feet in the water. Remus pulled his pants up to his legs, kicking around the river water. Logan hesitated.

“You don’t have to.”

Remus looked towards his boyfriend, edging his hand closer so their fingers touched. Logan stared at his bent knees, then pulled his hand away to pull them up as well. It was mostly older scars littering his legs.

“I’ve been doing better. Since I told you.”

Remus’s face immediately brightened. Most of the scars were old now, the worst ones thin strips of pink as he placed his feet in the water. Remus took Logan’s hand again, tracing the lines in his palm.

“Hey.”

Logan looked up at him, almost worried.

“I’m proud of you.”

Logan’s cheeks turned a little pink at the soft expression on Remus’s face, so genuine he could nearly believe it. Maybe he did believe it.

“And Remus?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“I think I’m gonna tell her.”

They both paused for a moment, the orange light casting a glow on their faces.

“Maybe not everything, but… I’m at least going to tell her I need therapy. I’ve known I needed help for a long time and it’s… really stupid that I’ve never properly sought it out. Now, I guess… I’m ready to help myself. And that’s partially your doing.”

Remus pulled him close, holding tight to his torso. Was he crying into Logan’s shoulder? They must be happy tears, at least, for the whispered ‘I’m proud of you’s and ‘thank you’s. It was a good feeling, knowing that he’d made Remus proud, happy. It was satisfying, like Remus feeling good that Logan was going to have the chance to get help made some of his… negative feelings fade away.

“You’re really that happy?”

“Logan, you’re- you’re gonna get help, of course I’m happy.”

“If… if it makes you that happy, I’ll keep trying until I’m okay. I’m gonna make sure I’m okay for you. If not for me, for you.”

“You’re gonna be okay.”

“I’m gonna be okay.”

#intrulogical #logan angst #logan sanders #remus sanders #ts logan #ts remus #sanders sides #intrulogical fic #tw self harm #tw food #tw crying #ts fic #sanders sides fic #grays fics #whole

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taww · 3 years

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First Take Review: Gryphon Essence Preamplifier & Stereo Amplifier

Okay, let’s get this out of the way: with a combined retail of over USD $40k (and that doesn’t include another $6k for the optional Zena DAC module), The Gryphon’s Essence preamplifier and stereo amplifier are by far the most expensive electronics I’ve ever had in my home! They might be the Danish firm’s entry point into separates, but that’s akin to calling a $146k Aston Martin Vantage “entry level.” There was a time in the not-so-distant past when spending such sums of money on stereo gear struck me as pointless excess. Perhaps I’ve been numbed by flipping through too many issues of The Absolute Sound or walking the halls of an audio show; perhaps I’m just entering a life stage (mid-life crisis, anyone?) where I’m allowing myself to indulge in such luxuries. Whatever the case may be, I’ve now had the good fortune of several months with the Essence combo, and despite a number of people prodding me for this review it’s been quite difficult to put into words how they perform. Why? Because every time I sit down to do the “work” of reviewing I just end up getting sucked into the music and forget to do the reviewing bit! But, here goes...

The arrival of the Gryphon components was a case of one thing leading to another. My first experience was when I strolled into Gryphon’s room at RMAF 2018. After being disappointed by so many other mega-buck systems at the show, I was delighted that this one actually sounded like music! Frankly, a lot of über-expensive show systems landed on my ears like amusical hi-fi effects or whimsical fancies of what some people think music should sound like, rather than an actual musical performance. Like other big systems, the Gryphon rig was imposing and fancy-looking, but with a decidedly purposeful, even stark, aesthetic. And the sound - so tangible and luscious, maybe a little dark and brooding, but in a way that connected me emotionally to the recorded performance rather than distracting me with sonic affect.

At the time I was happily running the Valvet A4 Mk.II monoblocks, and also had @mgd-taww’s Pass Labs XA30.5 at my disposal. Both delivered the pure and colorful musical flavors of Class A amplification, and both are superb amps. But things got thrown for a bit of a loop when I settled on the Audiovector SR 6 Avantgarde Arreté speakers as my new reference. I had auditioned them at AudioVision SF with the Gryphon Diablo 300 integrated amp ($16k) and the sound gave up nothing to high-quality separates - big, bold and dynamic with tremendous poise and nuance. Coming back to the Pass and Valvet amplifiers (coupled with a Pass Labs XP10 line stage) certainly wasn’t a let-down, but they didn’t have quite the same level synergy with the Audiovectors which sounded more complete and visceral with the Gryphon integrated.

This combined with the strong aural memories from the RMAF room led to a call to Gryphon’s US distributor, Philip O’Hanlon and Pandora Pang of On a Higher Note. Philip acknowledged that the Diablo was indeed excellent but teased that Gryphon had recently introduced a new line of separates worth consideration. The Essence had just arrived in the States and he had one more set in stock if I were so inclined... and next thing I know, a pallet loaded with what my wife lovingly referred to as “an illegal arms shipment” landed at our doorstep.

Serious crates for serious gear

Like all separates in The Gryphon’s 35-year heritage dating back to the original DM100 amplifier, the Essence line features pure Class A operation with minimal negative feedback, but brings it at a lower price point ($22,990) with more conservative aesthetics and practical packaging. Prior to the Essence, to get a Gryphon amp one had to shell out anywhere from $39k for the Antileon EVO to $57k for the flagship Mephisto (double those if going for monoblocks). The tradeoff is a lower power rating - just 50wpc, albeit in pure class A and doubling into 4 ohms and again into 2 ohms - so you’ll want to pair it with a reasonably efficient speaker. The Essence preamp meanwhile is a repackaging of the Zena preamplifier launched in 2018 (also $17,500), reskinned with cosmetics to match the amp. It features fully balanced operation via a discrete DC-coupled Class A circuit with zero global negative feedback, and can accommodate either of two optional internal modules, the Zena DAC ($6,000) or an MM/MC phono stage ($2,250). Being strictly digital I opted to evaluate the DAC, which I’ll talk about in a later installment. I’ll also save more details about the design and operation of this beautifully-crafted gear, including Gryphon’s unique Green Bias system, for a more in-depth review. For now, let’s get down to the business of how it sounds...

The Essence Preamp

When the Essence components arrived I clearly needed my wife’s assistance to safely unpack and set up the 45kg/99lb Essence amp. But she was busy making reeds for her oboe that evening, so I initially made do setting up the preamp (it weighs in at “only” 13.4kg/29.5lbs) and comparing it to my Pass Labs XP10 with the Pass Labs XA30.5 amplifier.

Firing up the Essence preamp from a cold start was one of those “damn, I don’t understand how a preamp can make this much of a difference” moments. Even though the Pass XP10 is a very solid performer - I find the sound of my PS Audio DirectStream significantly improved by it vs. feeding an amplifier directly - the 3x-as-expensive Gryphon outclassed it from the first note, taking musical resolution from the micro to nano level.

The first thing I noticed was how the entire back of the stage opened up. I never realized how triangular it sounded before, becoming narrower as you went deeper. With the Essence it suddenly feels rectangular and whole, with winds, brass and percussion able to naturally spread out and breath on the stage. It didn’t even take a big orchestral recording to experience this - my very first track was an intimate vocal with piano accompaniment, soprano Elsa Dreisig singing Strauss songs with pianist Jonathan Ware (Qobuz). The sense of the space - a church, as you can see from this video - and where the performers occupied it became strikingly tangible. Piano has starting clarity, with all its complex overtones unfolded and laid out for your ear to sample at its leisure. Dynamic resolution is also unlocked - subtle gradations in vocal intensity flow so organically. Going back to the Pass pre, macro dynamics weren’t Iacking, but the transitions somehow came across more synthetically, as if the volume dial was being turned rather than the performers modulating their instruments in the original performance.

One thing that didn't change too much was overall tonal balance. I find the Pass pretty neutral and extended, if anything having a subtly warmish character to it, at least by solid state standards. The Gryphon doesn't deviate notably from that, leaning slightly in that direction though with more sophisticated and varied tonal richness and density. The quality of the frequency extremes, however, is a different matter. Most striking is how triangles sparkle and ring with startling presence on the Gryphon. With a claimed frequency response out to 1MHz, the Essence pre delivers the highest highs with a sense of ease and finesse. And the bass is everything people have come to expect from the Gryphon house sound - deep, taut and powerful with beautiful tonality. The Pass Labs wasn’t missing any of the music per se, but the deepest bass notes and highest overtones sounded constrained vs. the effortless and wide-open delivery of the Essence.

So, yeah - a preamplifier that costs 3x as much as the Pass XP10 sounds clearly superior. Not much of a news flash, and a much fairer comparison in the Pass lineup would be the XP32 ($17,500) or at least an XP22 ($9,500). But what took me aback was how a preamplifier like the Essence could bring out so much life and nuance that was being curtailed by an otherwise fine piece like the Pass. The net effect was to make the musical performance feel significantly more tangible, visceral and unclouded - something that even the change of a DAC or amplifier doesn’t consistently achieve. The Gryphon Essence pre is simply an incredible conveyor of the musical signal.

And we haven’t even tried the amplifier yet...

The Essence Amplifier

Once I got my wife to assist in positioning the hefty Essence amp in the cabinet (safety first!), I hooked up the Audiovectors via my usual Audience Au24 SX cables and powered up the Gryphon using the stock power cord (the amp requires a 20A IEC connector, so standard cords won’t work). I played a bit with the Green Bias settings but obviously settled with it in red-hot Class A operation for serious listening. And while the amp has since benefited from multiple months of break-in, it was apparent from its first notes that the Essence had resolution, clarity, dynamics and tonal completeness on an altogether different level from any amp I’ve experienced in my system. But there was something else remarkable about its presentation that’s taken me many months to put my finger on, and I think I might be finally getting it.

The Essence amp has a very special ability to deliver the leading edge of a sound with incredible speed, precision and clarity. I’ve heard amps with fast leading edges (some attribute this to high slew rate), I’ve heard amps with very clean ones (lack of distortion and ringing). The Essence delivers a combination of fast and clean that is truly exceptional, and perhaps close to the state of the art. Every impulse and note attack hits you with perfect timing and delineation, then decay with similarly impeccable control. By comparison, amps like the Pass Labs that struck me as very pure have a bit of fuzz to them. Ever listen to an AM radio station when the signal gets weak, and all the starts and stops of sounds get staticky and fuzzy? There was a bit of that feeling going back to other amps in my system... no, they weren’t literally fuzzy and distorted. It’s just that the Essence amp sounds exceptionally lithe and clean, removing an extremely subtle layer of distortion that became difficult to un-hear in other amplifiers.

Coming from the Pass XA30.5, the Essence’s midrange was less overtly warm but even more substantive in tone. The Pass is certainly on the warm and lush side for a solid state amp, but past Gryphons I’ve heard had their own dose of chocolatey richness, so I was initially surprised by the balance of the Essence. It has the midrange density and lush tonal colors I was expecting from a Class A Gryphon amp, and yet it also sounds close to dead neutral in character. There’s a crystalline transparency that makes everything else sound a bit cloudy by comparison. Class A amps usually get the tonal part right, but can sound a bit sluggish or rounded dynamically; Class AB amps often have great transient speed but with some roughness around the edges and a bit of tonal hollowness. The Essence backs its exceedingly snappy and clean transients with real tonal substance and an infinite palette of realistic tonal colors. It can simultaneously preserve the gravitas of a string bass ostinato, the glowing warmth of a French horn, the delicate nasality of an oboe and the ethereal lightness of a flute all in balance. Orchestral recordings have never sounded this vivid and realistic in my home.

An interesting display of the amp’s prowess was in violinist Hilary Hahn’s recording of the Vieuxtemps Violin Concerto (Qobuz). The album also contains Mozart’s popular “Turkish” concerto which probably gets most of the plays; the Vieuxtemps is infrequently performed and mostly known by violinists as a sort of advanced student concerto (yes, my teacher made me study it). Vieuxtemps was a Belgian virtuoso of the romantic era and while the concerto has its charms, its orchestration is rather clunky. This actually made for a fascinating sonic experience in the concerto’s orchestral exposition, where different instruments pass melodic fragments back and forth in somewhat disjointed fashion rather than the more cohesive harmonization and counterpoint you’d get from a German master. A flute here, a clarinet there, a timpani roll or violin flourish coming and passing - the Essence conveyed each one with striking clarity and trueness of timbre and dynamics, arranging all the instruments across the stage in perfect proportion. So much of the feel of an instrument lies not just in its tonal makeup but the shape and feel of its notes - the reedy breathiness of a clarinet, the ringing “bong” of a timpani, the firm attack of a trumpet, the brush stroke of a violin. This is where the Essence’s leading-edge precision and lack of electronic haze help it truly evoke the feeling of sitting on the stage with the musicians, each and every instrumental entrance having that tactile realism.

Having been a classmate’s of Ms. Hahn’s I also have first-hand experiences of her playing, and the Essence strongly evoked memories of hearing her performing in recitals or practicing in our conservatory. Though we were both teenagers at the time, she had already developed her distinctive tone and focused intensity, and hearing that reproduced so vividly through the Essence and Audiovector speakers is uncanny.

The frequency extremes of the Essence amp, particularly in combination with the Essence preamp, are also something special - the crazy-wide specified bandwidth of Gryphon components is no joke. The speed and tautness and slam of the bass brings realistic clarity to the foundation of the music. It’s bass that I like to call “sneaky” for the way it doesn’t unduly call attention to itself, but then will come out and smack you in the face as in a live event. Instruments like string bass or contrabassoon are naturally portrayed in the orchestration, rather than getting buried in the mix. The top end is extended and articulate, capable of bringing out all the energy and brilliance of string, brass and percussion instruments, and yet certain recordings that tend towards brightness actually sound warmer and smoother than I've heard before. It sounds so pure and free from distortion, so that if there’s any distortion already present on the recording it does nothing to aggravate it. Sibilants and tape hiss and clipping are still there, yet come across less obtrusively, making them easy to tune out in favor of the music.

Case in point: the DSD remaster of Strauss Don Juan, recorded in 1958 by the Cleveland Orchestra under George Szell (Qobuz). My wife and I have listened to this recording dozens if not hundreds of times and while the performance is riveting, the recording quality has always been a bit hissy and strident. My wife asked to listen to it again on the Gryphon setup for study purposes and halfway through I remarked, "does this recording sound a lot less bright to you?" She concurred - we had never heard it sound so clean and natural, and for the first time I didn't notice the tape hiss at all. The Gryphon gear really does excel at extracting the essence of the musical performance locked in the recording, neither artificially filtering nor amplifying the distractions of its mechanical limitations. I’ve heard far too many ultra high-end systems that need absolutely pristine audiophile material to sound their best. With the Gryphons, every recording in my collection has never sounded more distinguished and compelling.

The sense of space that the Essence preamp conveyed with other amplifiers becomes even stronger in combination with the Essence amp. I have never heard the different sections of a symphony orchestra arranged so palpably. Winds and percussion have clearly delineated space behind the string section, and delicate clarinet solos that are typically a bit hazy in recordings are conveyed with both clarity and intimacy. There’s something about the Essence’s blend of clean transients, tonal rightness and harmonic resolution that bring out the distinct ambience and texture of each recording - the aural equivalent of the “mouth feel” of a wine. Going back to otherwise excellent amps makes everything feel a bit more homogenous, a hair less stimulating.

There are a couple of potential shortcomings to call out, and they may be interrelated. The first is that the bass in combination with the Audiovector speakers isn’t quite as hard-hitting as with, say, the 600wpc Class D Legacy iv2, or as what I heard with the Gryphon Diablo 300 integrated; nor is it as plump and room-filling as with the Pass XA30.5. Quality-wise it’s exceptional - fast and deep and pitch-perfect in ways they can’t match - but sometimes I just want it to fill out the space a bit more and punch me in the gut a little harder. I mostly miss this when listening to pop tracks, e.g. anything from Billie Eilish where the raw punch of the Legacy amp factors more strongly than the n-th degree of refinement from the Gryphon.

The other nit is that the soundstage, while vividly painted, feels a bit less “generous” than bigger-sounding amps like the Legacy or Pass Labs, or the Gryphon Diablo for that matter. There’s a bit more emphasis on the precise constituency of an orchestra, as opposed to its sheer scale - a little more of the trees, a little less of the forest. To some, this may make the Essence feel a hair light in presentation, despite its rich and layered midrange. Ears I trust tell me moving up the Gryphon line to the Antileon EVO or Mephisto can give you the best of both worlds, but those are obviously at increasingly exorbitant price points.

I’ll need to try tweaking these area of reproduction more (e.g. cables), but as it currently stands, I could see the Essence best matching with speakers that are tonally richer and a bit less critically damped on the bottom end, vs. requiring care with something leaner and more laser-focused. It’s slightly lean with some recordings on the Audiovectors, and I’d definitely want to check before paring it with the likes of a Magico. It goes without saying that when you get to this level of fidelity (and cost), you should expect to spend a fair amount of time and effort on component matching.

As a side note, I was able to further extend the capabilities of the Essence via Furutech’s DPS-4.1 power cord (custom built with 20A connectors) and DSS-4.1 speaker cables. These upped the clarity and transparency yet another notch or three, opened up dynamics further and created a wider sense of space on recording after recording. I’ll have more on these excellent cables and how they synergize with the Gryphons in a future installment.

Capturing the Essence

It’s been challenging pinning down the character of the Essence system, the amp in particular. Even more so than other great Class A amps I’ve heard, including from Gryphon, the Essence amp has a combination of purity, openness, refinement, clarity, speed and dynamic life that defy the usual idiosyncrasies and limitations of Class A vs. AB vs. D. It’s dynamically fleet, rhythmically incisive, tonally sophisticated, dimensionally resolving, and sneakily powerful and punchy. In combination with the superb companion preamp, it uncovers a sense of space in virtually every recording I throw at it with greater detail and palpability than I’ve heard before, without seeming artificially holographic like some tube amps. The tonal purity and resolving power of this pair are simply at a level I have rarely experienced anywhere at any price. Moreover, the name “Essence” couldn’t be more apt - all these sophisticated qualities are squarely focused on conveying the beauty and quirks of the original recording without need for enhancement or editorializing to make it enjoyable. The closest aural recollection I have of this sort of musical resolution was the MSB Reference + Magico M3 system at RMAF 2018, which had a significantly superior DAC and a total cost approaching $300k.

As for the price... well, I can say that the monies spent on a piece by The Gryphon clearly go towards obsessive engineering and craftsmanship in the service of state-of-the-art music reproduction, rather than ostentation or frivolous excess. This is musical fidelity of the highest order, and my new reference in amplification.

#review #firsttake #gryphon #amplifier #preamplifier #dac #audio #audiophile #hifi

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baekchelor · 4 years

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ａｓｈｏｒｅ[iii]

pairing: bodevan cash x reader genre: Doctor! AU, Romance, Angst summary: After a fall out with your fianceé, and an opportunity to chase your dreams, you embark into a medical mission trip to Namibia where you run into self-taught doctor Bodevan Cash. Love ensues. word count: 3.8k

❝the sea beckoned to me, and all reality was lost —swept away in the entrancing song of the tide. ❞ ―meredith t. taylor

TWO ｔｗｅｌｖｅｄａｙｓ

◄ ｐｒｅｖ

Bodevan's eyes looked like the morning sky every day after the first one you met them. Per diem, Bo's mood was bright as the sun too, although you did notice the tears confined on his bottom lid once ―when he concluded nothing else could be done and called 20:16 as Moharerwa's time of death. Bo summoned you to the OR after practising the caesarean section, as the doctor responsible for keeping Moharerwa's baby alive. Meanwhile, you were transporting the newborn into the incubator, Moharerwa went into cardiac arrest, and despite all his efforts, Bo couldn't keep her alive.

She did, briefly, meet her son, and the few minutes were enough to announce his name was Bodererwa. She thanked Bo and expressed her gratitude by naming her infant with the first two syllables of Bodevan's name.

Baby Bodererwa wasn't the only patient under your care. You treated an Irish girl who suffered from nausea and developed rashes. Rellian (Bo's younger brother) and you bonded over an uncanny case of seizures, muscle weakness and vision loss, you later diagnosed as Tay Sachs Disease. Tjiruru, a Himba man on his forties, came in with an acute case of Hepatitis C. Later, Tjiruru brought his sister, who two weeks ago, at Henties Bay's clinic, was prescribed with azithromycin for bacterial pneumonia. Bodevan figured out the medicine killed pneumonia's bacteria and caused other bacteria (that usually lives in a symbiotic relationship with the body) to produce toxins AKA Tjiruru's sister illness.

On day eight, you met, for the very first time, Danny Dupont. He was from Australia, with Kiwi heritage, and the reason why Bodevan got himself a kind-of-nurse.

Danny was diagnosed with viral cardiomyopathy, which caused his heart to fail. He came to Namibia because he didn't want to spend the rest of his days trapped in a hospital, waiting for a heart transplant. During a Safari across the Skeleton Coast, he fell in love with Peera, his tour-guide. Peera became Danny's reason to live, so he accepted to spend most of his days laying on a hospital bed if it meant he would win more time to enjoy alongside Peera. So she asked Bodevan to train her as a nurse, and Danny requested Bodevan to treat him. Now Bodevan has an Organ Donation Program running on the Himba village so, in case of any death, he can get a heart for Danny.

Today, Peera will host a "western" Birthday Party for Danny. It will be held at the hospital because Danny can't leave his cot, but Reillian will microwave a cake in a mug for him ―he saw the receipt somewhere on Pinterest―, and Bodevan managed to buy a few candles and balloons.

Also today, you're running late for your rounds. Dr Gandy video called early this morning, not to inform you about old patients, but to have breakfast with you. It was 2am for Ethan, but he ate pancakes and orange juice, the same receipt he asked room service to bring to your cabin, with the bacon crisped just like you like it, and with blueberries marmalade instead of syrup. You talked bout your medical experiences in Namibia, and that he will keep the Hamptons' beach house and Harper will have the pent-house in Soho. Ethan also said he misses you like crazy.

Guilt substituted the sugar in your coffee, souring the moment, and making clear that you wish you could say the same to Ethan. And you did, of course, you did, you lied. Truth is, Danny and his heart transplant, Bodererwa and his chances of survival, and every patient you've treated so far, keep your mind busy to the extent that, when you collide on bed, the only thought on your mind is to finally be able to rest.

Or so you tell yourself. Considering that dreamland and the pillow talk with your subconscious revolve around a particular wonderful being named Bodevan Cash.

"Morning!" all smiles, you greet as you walk into the teepee. You've grown to love the place.

"Morning, Intern!" and you've grown to love the nickname he calls you. Bodevan is teaching you about surgery, and yoga, and Hambi language, and about why the globe's entire population should be Maoists.

The boy is erudite. He was homeschooled, and his parents did a hell of a great job. To the point, Bodevan received college acceptance letters from numerous Ivy League schools. "I've got something to show you. Come here."

Bo hands you a pile of old letters. Right away, you know what they are, and you can't help but stare at each of them with your mouth agape.

"Holy Cow," your wide eyes travel to meet his. "Why didn't you go to any of this? Harvard is the best school for medicine out there."

"I never pictured myself as a Doctor," he says, while you check the charts for today patients. "I just wanted to go to college, be a normal guy. But when mom died, well...life has a funny way of trampling dreams, huh?"

"Yeah, it does," you murmur softly. "Sometimes, I just feel as if life controls me, instead of it being the other way around."

Bo looks at you knowingly, but careful of his own words, "Why do I get the feeling you're talking about your marriage?"

"I love Ethan. I'm just... if you've asked me what I wanted to do at my twenties, I would answer joining Doctors Without Borders, not getting married," you answer quietly, surprised at what has just left your lips. Hearing the inner thought that had been plaguing you for the past months being said out loud unnerved you.

"Was he upset about your trip here?" asks Bodevan.

"No. He encouraged me to do it, he even paid the ticket. I guess only because I was upset about him being married before. I know Ethan. He did this to erase the guilt from his system, to try to indulge me," you tell, fiddling with your white coat.

Bo eyes you in surprise, startled, "I-I didn't know he was married."

"He is married. They'll sign the divorce papers in two days. He never really told me, I just found out because his wife made an appearance at the hospital we both work at."

Bo remains silent for a while.

"I'm sorry. I have no idea why I'm telling you all this," you intervene awkwardly, suddenly feeling ashamed. He probably thought you were an idiot for sticking with a man who blatantly lied to your face. And you were likely making it worse by ranting on about your fiancé whom you swore a thousand times before that you were madly in love with.

But Bodevan just smiles. "No, it's alright. It helps to let things out. But if I were you, I'd tell him how I felt. If you're going to be spending the rest of your life with him…"

You sigh. He is right.

"Forget about it. What about you?" you pipe. "Any significant others?"

"N-no," he is all shy again, averting his blue orbs to the floor, as far from you as possible, and stuttering.

"But I assure you, he has ladies lining up for a shot," Peera quickly meddles, grinning. She's grabbing serum and a needle from the cabinets, probably for Danny.

You raise your brow, teasing, "Oh? Even with that 70's hairstyle?"

Peera gasps, clutching her chest dramatically. "I'm offended! I think it looks quite sexy on him, or so I heard..."

You giggle as the girl wiggles her eyebrows, Bodevan flushing red.

"I was kidding. It does," you confess.

"D-Does what?" asks Bodevan.

"Look sexy."

For a second, you don't quite realize what you'd said. But as Bo smirks, a bell goes off in your head. You feel your cheeks burn and you hastily look away from him, embarrassed. What is wrong with you?

You clear your throat, gaze hiding from Bo, "I should start my rounds."

These past few days were what you could only describe as confusing. And you had a feeling the confusion started when you accidentally told your mentor that his eyes looked like the morning sky.

It didn't help that during one of your night shifts, you dozed off on his shoulder, only to wake up sensing the weight of his head resting on top of yours, his breath on your hair, your lips near his neck.

It didn't help that over your clumsy attempts of getting into crow pose, you noticed how lovely his crooked smile was, and how when he chuckled, his eyes crinkled up at the corners.

And it certainly didn't help that you woke up to skies as clear and blue as Bodevan's eyes.

Nevertheless, you kenned something was seriously wrong when Bodevan touches your hand, and you actually feel sparks fly ―although that's medical impossible and you are a doctor, you should know. Or that when he, for some miracle, looks you in the eyes, your heart somersaults ―another impossible medical matter. Or that when he leans in to whisper some of his intellectual jokes that most of the time, you don't understand, goosebumps wash over your skin.

Something is happening, something is definitely happening, you just refuse to admit it to yourself.

At downfall, Peera and Danny urged you out of duty so you could go back to the cabin and get changed. With pleading brown eyes, Peera asked you to wear something special. She's been saving money for a while ―turns out Bodevan not only built a miracle in the middle of nowhere. In like manner, he helps the Hambi to sell handicrafts and jewellery at a souvenir store―, and the past weekend, Rellian drove her all the way to Henties Bay to buy a beautiful emerald dress. Therefore, you stopped by the hotel boutique and used Ethan's credit card to buy a gown made by a fluttering pink fabric.

When one of the hotel vans dropped you off at Bo's clinic, you're welcomed by the melody Bodevan and Danny are crafting through their guitars. They are singing Guns N' Roses' Patience, and although the one with the good voice is Danny, you can't seem to drag your attention away from Bodevan. He is wearing a suave, intricately patterned mustard jacket, buttoned low so that his chest peeks through. You hate that he looks so good in it.

A wide smile spreads across your features as you cheer for both guys once they've strummed their last chords. And then, the smile is stolen away when a tall, leggy blonde [you've never seen before] is suddenly leaning next to Bo, a flirty smirk on her lips. The girl whispers something to his ear, Bodevan goes beet red but nods anyway. To your annoyance, he follows her to the drink station Peera put together ashore.

Bitting down on the inside of your cheek, you watch Bodevan lean close into her, turning on the charms he ignores he posses. You force yourself to turn away, squeezing yous lids shut to get rid of the disappointment that is dawning your heart.

Why the hell are you getting this affected by him? He is your mentor, your peer. You've known him for a grand total of six days. Most importantly, you are engaged.

A hand carefully resting on your shoulder, pulls you off your thoughts. You turn, only to come upon Peera. "Her name is Elise. She's been trying to get in his pants since he fixed her sprained ankle a week ago."

"She hasn't managed," comments Rellian, handing you a red cup filled by what you presume to be wine. Chardonnay. 80's music blasts from the speakers shove over Bodevan's desk, and Rellian offers you a hand, "Do you want to dance?" His voice is bright and warm, and his enthusiasm washes over you. It is challenging to pint-point him as the angry teenager Bo told you about.

"Absolutely," you take his hand easily. "I should warn you, though, I'm not very good."

"That's fine. We'll take it slow." Rellian's grin is so inviting that you can't be worried about your poor dancing skills, so you happily follow him out to the beach. The song is an upbeat one, which suits his mood.

"It seems you've fully recovered from Bodevan breaking your heart a couple minutes ago," he jokes

"It's a shame he didn't do any damage," you shoot back, obviously kidding. "If I was heartbroken, I wouldn't have to dance with you."

Rellian laughs, "I'm glad you're as funny as everyone says you are. I hear you're my brother's favourite, too." It sounds as if it is common knowledge. "And that your engagement is troublesome―"

"I wouldn't call it troublesome," part of you is sick of people saying that. Another part yearned for it to be different, although you know people speak the truth. It is troublesome. Sighing, you confess, "Ethan lied to me. He is married, about to get divorced but married still. We' have been engaged for over a year, and I just found out about it a month ago."

Rellian stops dancing for a moment, shocked at what he's just heard. He quickly picks back up, studying your expression for a moment. "I didn't realize that was what was going on," he says softly, apologetic. "I mean, you know I want my brother to get the girl, but I didn't want you to get hurt."

"Thanks," you shrug. "I feel stupid more than anything."

Rellian pulls you in a little closer, yet keeping a respectful distance. "Trust me, Intern, any man who passes up the chance to be with you is the stupid one."

"Bo just passed me up..." <<Oh my god. What is wrong with you?>>

"That's how I know," he replies, followed by a thread of giggles. On cue, you glance over Rellian's shoulder and find Bodevan dancing with Elise.

Seven glasses of wine have paved their way through your system, Rellian keeps throwing jokes as you swing your figures to the beat of the music, when you hear his voice beside you, "My lady?" Rellian freezes in the spot, a knowing smirk appearing on his features. Complicit glances are exchanged, and finally, you turn on your heels to find yourself face to face, lip to lip, with Bodevan Cash. "May I have this dance?"

That feeling, that indefinable something, courses through you. As dejected as you'd felt, as embarrassed as you'd been, when Bodevan offers that moment, instead of to Elise, you have to take it. Because the song is slow, and it is Guns N' Roses, and the waves are crashing on the shore...And you're drunk.

"Of course."

Bodevan, clearly drunk as well, entwines your hands together and walks you near the seaside, where the water can dance as well, underneath your feet. He doesn't seem uncomfortable, or as if he fancied to dance with someone else rather than with you. On the contrary, Bodevan holds you so close you can smell his cologne and feel his stubble against the skin of your cheek.

"I was wondering if I was going to get a dance at all," you comment, trying to sound playful. Bodevan succeeds to pull you even closer.

"I-I needed to drink up my courage, so my second-thoughts are over. Now I'm brave enough to enjoy the rest of the night with you." This time you can blame it on the alcohol, but as both always do near each other, the two flush furiously. Sometimes Bodevan's words are like single lines of novels or movies. After dating Ethan for so long, it is weird to flirt with a guy that turns beet red on the cheeks, shy to speak bluntly. Ethan does it without an effort, he always speaks his mind, whether to compliment or with the sole purpose to hurt. They are poles apart. In every way possible. Bodevan didn't go to Dartmouth like Ethan did, Bo acquired his vast knowledge out of countless books. Still and all, he is as good a doctor as Ethan Gandy.

You are kneen on different and too stubborn to accept it, but the racing on your pulse betrays you.

"You look lovely, Intern. Much too beautiful to be on the arm of someone like me."

"Someone like you? This has been perfect, Bo."

"Agreed," he giggles. "Let's do this next year. Danny will have a new heart by then."

You look at him. Next year?

"Would you like that?"

"I won't be here next year, Bo..."

He stops dancing. "Why wouldn't you?"

On a dime, it hits him. Thank God, because you don't really want to say out loud the reason why this won't happen next year, at least not with you present, is that you'll leave in a couple weeks, get married and never come back. Despite the words ain’t articulated aloud, you know Bo has heard them, and you know he espies the water welling up in your eyes and how hard you're trying to hide them.

"Intern."

You gaze down at the wet sand. The water suddenly feels cold.

"Intern, look at me," he says gently. "I'm such a nincompoop. I had just discerned tonight is all we have and I-I misused half of it by dancing with Elise." His voice is hoarse, frustrated. "I thought you felt secure in your standing." What? You are missing something here. Bodevan sighs, not relieved, but hugely nervous. The following words are said as his ocean orbs are settled elsewhere, anywhere, but your face. "Honestly? From the beginning, I've really only looked at you, wanted you." Bodevan manages to meet with your eyes, and his gaze is emotional, and blue and so deep that it overcomes you. So, for a moment, you duck your head. "I'm having a hard time accepting that you will leave... It's fine though, you'd be surprised how infrequently I get what I truly want."

You've treated with patients for years now, you've been trained to tell when they lie, how they're really feeling, find out their buried truths. And you can tell Bodevan is hiding something, some sadness he isn't prepared to share. But he shakes it away and resumes the talking, starting to sway to the music again. "But we have tonight, haven't we?. . ."—Bo looks at your eyes. Unwavering. —"There's only you, and me, and this beach. Tonight."

It takes you a moment to attain the correct rhythm of your breath and heart. You could understand the feeling— that it is unlucky, a kick in the ass from fate. Deep, deep inside you, you feel like that daily as well.

"We do," you whisper into his neck. "We have tonight." His lips are at your ear, kissing your earlobe. The arm resting on his back draws him nearer, and he mimics the action until you're physically closer to each other than you'd ever been.

You jump over a wave, and a chuckle bursts out when you turn around and notice Bodevan chasing you out of the sea. The level of alcohol is higher in your system, and your fancy dress is soaked by saltwater.

Bodevan runs faster, and as you're about to reach the back entrance of the teepee, he reaches for your hand, dragging you against his chest.

Before you can speak, he has you up against the wall, his body covering yours entirely. Bo is breathing heavily, panting, and you're just as breathless, not only because you'd just run like a madwoman. Bodevan's proximity to you and the way you can literally feel his chest rise and fall against you with his unsteady breaths is making your brain melt —even though you know, that is medically impossible too.

“What's wrong—”

He hisses and brings his hand up over your mouth. You halt, your breath stopping as you hear Peera and Danny's grunts and moans and pants.

With a crimson streak across his cheeks, Bodevan shuts his eyes and swears softly, not removing his hand from your mouth. You keep very still, trying to stay calm by breathing in and out through your nose.

"How do we proceed?"

"The hotel van will pick me up soon."

The pants grow fainter, but you're still able to hear Peera moaning Danny's name. You don't want to disturb them, or announce your presence outside, mere meters away from they having sex. This is their special night, and who doesn't enjoy a dose of birthday sex?

Bodevan doesn't let go of you for another 5 minutes. He just stands there like that, his forehead pressed against yours. Only when you are blinded by the lights of the van approaching, he quickly drops his hand.

"Peera and Rellian will take over tomorrow. We both have the day off. So see you M-Monday."

You swallow, "Do you want to come with me? I have wine in my cabin's mini bar—"

"Alright," mutters Bodevan, shaking his head at his very own embarrassment. "I-I would love to."

"Okay."

He smiles.

Breathless. That's how you'll describe your symptoms at this precise period in time. And you had been standing still for the past 15 minutes.

Why is he making you like this?

You catch his eyes widen in surprise as you grab his hand and lead with to the insides of the van. You greet the driver and set off.

After you’ve reached Shipwreck Lodge, and you fidget with the keys to open your bedroom door, you remember Elise and their shared laughter, their noses almost brushing as they talked, and how Bo dismissed the whole thing. Uncertain about the weird feeling stirring in your stomach, you say, "So you really don't like Elise, huh? She must have been upset to see you running away with me like that..."

Bodevan raises his eyebrows, "Oh, it's no problem at all. I don't care about her. A certain other girl caught my eye, you see. And I can't ignore her. Not when she robs my attention with every small detail."

Your heart hammers in your chest. "Oh. Good for you."

Bodevan shakes his head. "Not really. She's engaged."

You almost believe he will talk further, because of the way he glances at you, his eyes sparkling with things unsaid and his lips parted. Or maybe he is about to kiss you...

But he just drags his stare back to his converse, and you grab two cups and pour white wine, hit play on your Guns N’ Roses playlist and invite him to sit down with you at the edge your mattress.

You aren't sure how long you lay there, talking to him. At some point, your eyes start drooping, as are his, and you fall asleep like that beside him, bodies over the undo bed, feet tangled together, and your hair sprawled across his chest. Without even noticing that at some moment during the night, your engagement ring fell from your finger, leaving it empty.

ｎｅｘｔ►

#sorry for taking longer than usual #IT REALLY IS HARD TO WRIT E BO #ashore #ashore:two #George mackay #George mackay x reader #bodevan cash #captain fantastic #1917

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clydeloganisababe · 4 years

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What I Wouldn’t Do (1/3)

Sometimes, you just need to write the incredibly niche, indulgent smut you wish to see in the world. So, in honor of Adam’s latest SNL appearance, please allow me to present a flower shop ABO au featuring the one, the only, the king, Robbie the Biscutie.

The whole thing is going to be 3 chapters, with the third chapter being a no holds barred smut-fest. Chapter 1 is the meet-cute, Chapter 2 is the date, Chapter 3 is the heat/rut. Now on AO3.

I’d love to dedicate this fic to other writers whose work has sustained and nourished me over the years and to other Robbie enthusiasts, especially @theweddingofthefoxes. Let me know if you want to be removed or added to any updates!

Author’s note: Robbie has a girlfriend at the start of this mess, but there’s no cheating.

And now, without further ado:

~~~~~

Many customers, regardless of their designations, liked the sweet smell of the shop. Actual product varied by day but there were almost always roses and lilies in stock, which incidentally were among the most fragrant flowers. When customers weren’t looking for floral arrangements they could also sample the various soaps, diffusers, oils, candles, and perfumes that littered the store front. The barrage of scents was almost overwhelming, but that was how you wanted it. You took great care to hide your own scent, but it was still difficult to hide the odor of an unmated omega without a little extra help. Working in a fragrant shop made it that much easier to blend in, and for that you were grateful. Decorum, and at times your safety, depended on it.

There was an enormous wedding this weekend so by Tuesday you were already in pre-production. You were in the middle of taping floral foam to a tray when you heard the tell tale tinkle of the door bell.

“Welcome! Come on in, I’ll be right with you!” you called, drying your hands on a nearby towel. You were almost to the front when it hit you: the unmistakable musk of alpha pheromones. You whipped around, trying to find the source.

Striding up to the counter was an absolute beast of a man. His navy suit draped attractively against his broad frame, but his languid strides revealed rippling muscles underneath the wool. The first button of his brightly patterned shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a flash of gold at his throat. His messy black waves were pulled back into a knot at the back of his head. You typically thought that man buns were silly, but this guy was pulling it off.

The rational part of your brain said that he looked like a bad New York stereotype. But the secret, primal part of you whispered he’s big and broad and smells like sandalwood and cinnamon, he’d give you healthy pups and a big fat knot.

How could you smell him this clearly? You were on very strong suppressants and shouldn’t be able to smell him, let alone separate the notes of his scent. Maybe he wasn’t on blockers? He looked like the type.

As you slipped behind the counter, his dark gaze finally found yours and a ripple of understanding passed between you both. There you are. Judging by the look on his face he could clearly smell you too.

“Hi, do you need some help today or are you just browsing?” It’s easy to slip into the friendly, customer service persona, even when you are beginning to tremble at his proximity.

“Yeah, I need something for my girl.” His voice is a deep, rough rumble. Fuck. Of course he has a girlfriend. You sniff delicately, trying to be subtle. He’s got a girl, but you can’t smell anything lingering on him. Beta.

You go over all the details as professionally as you can: he needs the bouquet tonight, she likes roses, money’s not a problem because my girl deserves the best. “I wanna pick it up at 5 o’clock sharp. I’m surprising her at dinner and I wanna to be on time.” He’s going on about his girlfriend, but his dark eyes linger over your form. He feels it too.

“Of course! I’ll have the bouquet ready for you right at 5.” It’s an innocuous statement, but his eyes darken at your quick obedience. He pays with a shiny black card.

“Thanks sweetheart, I’ll see you at 5.” He turns to leave and you can’t help but watch his thick thighs as he slips out the door, bell chiming in his wake. You want to be mad about the pet name, but you aren’t. You hope he’ll say it again.

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

5 pm rolls around and the hot alpha from before is punctual. His credit card had the name Robert on it, but you don’t think it suits him. Robert sounds much too formal. Does he go by Bob? Maybe Rob?

As promised, his rose bouquet is waiting for him on the counter, spilling out from a delicate crystal vase. You chose pink and white roses, but added some burgundy ranunculus and white anemones for texture, framing everything with eucalyptus, salal, and seeded eucalyptus. The effect is soft and romantic.

“I wanted you to see it before I wrapped it up for you,” you explain. He remains silent, inspecting the bouquet. “Do you like it?” You shift nervously. He’s taking a long time to answer.

“It’s perfect,” he finally announces. “Better than I imagined. She’s gonna love it.” She’s gonna love it. Right.

“Excellent! I’ll wrap that up for you.” You snap to work, trying not to waste anymore time.

“Did you make that?” he asks, leaning against the counter. You catch another whiff of his sweet, spicy scent and you stifle a whimper.

“I did!” you offer, topping off the plastic wrap with a cream ribbon. He whistles lowly. “Stunning work, sweetheart.” He takes the vase from you, his hands engulfing yours for the briefest moment. “I’ll have to remember this place for next time.” You practically gulp. “Please do! I’d be happy to make you something else.” He holds your gaze for just a moment too long, then turns and slinks out the door, off to a date with his girlfriend. Goddammit.

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

Life moves on and you try to forget about the hot alpha with the incredible scent, who pinned you with his gaze and complimented your work. Until the next week when the store bell tinkles and the warm telltale notes of sandalwood drift through the shop. Your gland itches and you snap to attention.

“Welcome back!” you call to him as he swaggers confidently up to the counter.

“You remember me?” he teases.

“I do. You’re very memorable,” you admit, blushing. He smirks, pleased with himself. Your gland prickles and you clench your fists, resisting the urge to scratch it in front of him. “So what can I get you this time?”

“I need something classy. Elegant.” He looks at you expectantly, like you know exactly what that means.

“Of course. What’s the occasion?” You hope your probing isn’t too obvious.

“I wanna surprise my girl. She’s been going through a rough time lately.” He briefly looks away and seems momentarily embarrassed. Trouble in paradise? You suddenly feel bad for flirting with him.

“Absolutely. Would she prefer pastels or jewel tones?”

“Whichever one, just make it real pretty.” Fair.

“You got it. What’s your budget?” You hate this question, but it’s necessary.

He smirks. “Money’s not an issue.”

“Alright. Do you want to pick up your arrangement or should I have it delivered?”

“I’ll come by around 5.”

“Perfect! I’ll see you then!” You flash him a winning customer service smile and he extends his hand. “I’m Robbie, by the way.”

Robbie. His hand is huge and warm. You give him your name and unable to resist, you overextend your hand, slipping a finger outside of his grip to brush the gland at his wrist. His scent spikes with arousal, flooding your nose with his intoxicating scent. He growls softly, sending a shiver through you. You know you’re playing with fire, but you can’t let go. Don’t leave me, alpha. He finally releases your hand and stalks out of the shop, leaving you an itchy, unsatisfied mess.

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

You fall into a routine. Robbie comes in every Friday, orders an arrangement for his girlfriend, you both flirt, then he leaves. You look forward to it. You know it’s not going anywhere, that he’s just the hot alpha customer and you’re just the cute omega shop girl, but seeing him still makes your day.

In fact, he’s due any minute to pick up his arrangement. The bell tinkles and you immediately perk up. But the scent is off, it’s a little too woodsy. It’s another alpha.

“Welcome, how can I he-“

He cuts you off. “Hi, do you have any yellow roses?”

“I don’t believe so, but let me check.” You scan the back room and peer through the coolers. You’ve got a handful of spray roses, but you can tell that’s not really what he’s looking for.

“I’m so sorry, we only have small spray roses, were you interested in an-“

“Well, do you have anything yellow?” he huffs. His smell is bitter.

“I’m sorry, we really don’t.”

“You really don’t? What kind of florist doesn’t have yellow flowers?” You miss the tinkling of the shop bell, but it’s impossible to miss a sudden waft of sandalwood.

“I’d be happy to order some for you, I could get them by tom-“

“My anniversary is tonight! What good does that do me?” You fumble for an answer, but Robbie doesn’t.

“The fuck you say to her? Is that how you talk to a lady?” Robbie barks from across the shop. He barrels towards the front and the other alpha visibly shrinks before him, his damp scent souring with fear.

“This is so unprofessional,” the other alpha whines. Robbie starts to crowd him but he immediately backs away.

“Then find another florist before I throw you out myself,” Robbie growls. The other alpha shoots you one last glare, but slinks out of the shop with his tail between his legs.

Robbie finally turns to look at you and you exhale a shaky breath that you didn’t realize you where holding. “Robbie, you didn’t have to do that,” you insist weakly.

“Yes I did,” he comes behind the counter and wraps you in his arms. “I couldn’t let him talk to you like that,” You bury your face into his chest and he purrs, a deep rumble. A shudder ripples through you. “Thank you for saving me,” you murmur, running your hand along his spine. “Any time, doll,” he chuffs.

You linger against him, much longer than is appropriate, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You nuzzle into his chest, soothed by his purring. Robbie’s hands wander up your back and one settles between your shoulder blades, fingertips just shy of your mating gland. You tremble at its proximity. The other snakes its way along your ribcage, just shy of your breast.

The shop bell tinkles and you break away from him, the moment shattered. ‘I’ll be right back with your arrangement,” you murmur. You hand him the flowers and he fixes you with one last smoldering look.

“Have a nice dinner,” you offer weakly. It breaks the spell and he finally looks away. “Right,” he grumbles, taking the vase. He moves towards the door but he stops, looking back. “Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone,” he calls. You smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Robbie.” He gives you one last lingering smirk, but then he’s gone.

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

The week drags by slowly. Robbie hasn’t placed an order yet, which is odd, and you wonder if you’ll ever see him again. Maybe your obvious connection is too much, too inappropriate. He has a girlfriend and that should be the end of it, you begrudgingly remind yourself. But you’ve been itchy and antsy all week, and you’re worried that you’ve started something out of your control. Like your heat. You should have another month or so to go, but the close proximity of a compatible partner can still mess with even the best suppressants.

The shop phone rings and it’s a welcome distraction. “Hey, doll,” he rumbles through the receiver. Both relief and anticipation shudder through you.

“Hey, I was beginning to wonder if I would hear from you this week,” even you can hear the needy whine in your voice. “What can I get you this time?”

“Actually, I was hoping you could help me with that.” You can hear him shifting on the other end of the line. “I want you to make something that you would like. Can be anything you want, big or small, any budget, I just want you to make something that you would want.”

“Really? I’m surprised you are letting me decide, you always seem to know exactly what you want.” You can’t help but tease him. Designer’s choice was always a popular option, but it’s odd coming from someone as decisive as Robbie.

“Oh, I do babydoll, make no mistake about that,” he growls. “When do you get off work on Friday?” You gulp. “Usually around 6 unless there’s an event. Nothing this week though.”

“Good. I’ll pick it up at 6.”

“Sounds great, see you then, Robbie”

“Bye, babe.” You both linger on the line, but you finally disconnect the call. It’s not weird, Robbie just likes your designs, you reason. It’s expected that a floral designer should design an arrangement.

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

Unfortunately for Robbie, you have expensive taste. You lose yourself in the creation of the handtied that you are making, an asymmetrical bouquet spilling over with greens, black baccara roses, plush dahlias, ranunculus, anemones, queen anne’s lace, and thistle. It’s wild but soft, dark and deep. You throw in some carnations for a pop of color. You have no idea if Robbie’s girl will like this, carnations can be controversial, but you like it, and that is what Robbie had asked for. That thought makes you smile to yourself.

You are a little nervous to see Robbie when he rolls in at 6 pm on the dot. “I wanted you to see it before I wrapped it up,” you explain, handing him the bouquet. He’s silent, inspecting it on all sides. His thorough examination puts you on edge. “I can change it, if you want, that’s not a problem,” you can hear yourself blabbering, but you can’t stop yourself. “It’s unexpected,” he finally offers, looking over and pinning you with his dark stare. “But so were you. This is perfect.” He leans closer and you instinctively inch towards him.

“I got a confession. These ain’t for Sophie. We broke up a week ago,” he pauses, scanning your face for a reaction. “If you want ‘em, they’re yours. If you don’t want ‘em, then I’ll keep ‘em to remember you by. But I hope you want ‘em.” You are stunned into silence. No one has ever done something like this for you before. You gape up at him.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” the sour taste of nerves invades your senses and he begins to back away. “I can be pushy, I’m sorry if I-“

“Robbie,” you reach up and rub the glands on his neck and he moans openly. “Is that a yes, baby doll?” he rumbles. Taking the bouquet, you reach up on your tiptoes and gently press your lips to his.

“That is definitely a yes, Alpha.” He groans, scooping you up and burying his face in your neck. You shiver at the hot swipe of his tongue against your gland. You can feel the gentle rumble of a purr beginning in his chest and you clench around nothing.

“I’m taking you to dinner.” He presses his lips to your neck, eliciting a soft gasp from you. “And then after that, I’m taking you to bed.” He draws back, tilting your chin so you look into his eyes. “Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect.”

#robbie the biscutie #robbie x reader #adam driver snl 2020 #adam driver snl 2016 #adam driver x reader #abo hell

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miximax-hell · 4 years

Photo

...This should have been published the 10th of January. I queued it ages ago (back when my last post was published), but Tumblr farted and decided not to post it. Which is just fantastic. It’s not the first time it decides to screw up the queue, but it’s the first time it happens to me on this blog. So annoying. This means it’s coming a few days late, but I hope you all still had a fantastic EnYaga Day!

As I prepared for True EnYaga Day back in October, I found again this old doodle of mine--the base for what would later become the final design of EnYaga. I thought it might be fun to share it and use it as an excuse to talk about this subject AGAIN, and... that was good enough for me, really.

You guys know me and there’s probably very little reason to do so, but I have never really talked about the reasons behind this miximax, have I? Well, if there is a day to indulge in that, it’s EnYaga Day, so let’s get to it!

As usual, more under the cut.

Despite Tumblr’s betrayal, this does have a perk: I get to revise this post before it’s published, which is great, because I’m happy to report that things are better now than when I first wrote it. In the original version, I mentioned that my life at the time was a little... paused, so there wasn’t really a lot to say. Among the only news worth sharing, I sent an oil painting to a friend a couple of months ago and it arrived very fast and completely safe, so that was great! It was a Professor Layton-themed painting, but now that I don’t have it at home anymore, I’m tempted to make another one... (If I do, chances are more FudoLay content will arrive here swiftly after lol) Other than that, I’d just started my classes again, but I was still desperately looking for a job. At least, classes made me feel like I wasn’t completely wasting every single day, so I was more cheerful than I was during summer. (Funny, because my group of friends at uni used to say that they could only smile during summer, but I was pretty miserable during those months. ww;)

Thankfully, though, I can say I now have a job! And it’s great!! ...The conditions aren’t so great, but at least I’m back to work as a game designer. I’m learning so much and I feel very motivated to work, even if it’s technically a collaboration and I will only get money once the game is published--in other words, when the game starts bringing money our way. This is far from ideal, but I honestly had no other options and I’m having a blast working on this, so I hope something cool will come out of it! For now, I would ask you to keep your eyes on Eskema Games and maybe check out the company’s latest game, Delta Squad? I had absolutely NOTHING to do with that game because it was released way before I joined, but supporting it supports the company I work for, which always comes in handy! It also underperformed, so it could use all the love you guys can give it.

Also, let me quickly point something out: about a year ago, an anon asked me if i was going to include Danganronpa characters in this project. The question is here, in case anyone needs a reminder: https://miximax-hell.tumblr.com/post/181991994534/hey-there-since-youre-doing-miximaxs-with-game Well, I FINALLY got my hands on the DR Trilogy for PS4, so I’ll be looking into that and seeing what I can find! If that anon is still around, I hope I can make them happy.

But let’s cut to the chase already!

As I always make sure to clarify, yes, I do massively ship Endou and Yagami. But there’s thankfully much more to EnYaga (the miximax--if I need to talk about the ship again, I’ll just call it Endou x Yagami) than just “yeah, I ship them.” In order to understand the reasons behind this combination, though, we must venture into two very different subjects: what reasons there are to choose Yagami to begin with, and the life story of yours truly. I swear both are important to get the full picture, but I’ll keep the latter as brief and free of unnecessary information as possible, even if it’s definitely the longest and most complex part. So, without any further ado, let’s see what makes this miximax valid within the logic of this project.

A big chunk of what makes EnYaga work was explained exactly three years ago, here: https://miximax-hell.tumblr.com/post/131215636268/when-the-king-enters-the-room-the-world-stops-and

The tl;dr would be that Endou plays as a goalkeeper, but also as a libero! Being such radically different positions, it’s to be expected that he would need two different miximaxes, because it would be rather difficult to find an aura that improves his field skills (shooting power, speed, etc.) and his goalkeeping abilities at the same time. Thankfully, Yagami gives him the exact abilities a good libero needs to be able to excel--especially when that libero has the pressure of being part of most of the strong hissatsus the team can pull off. So, for more info on EnYaga’s powers, please check the link above. (And note that, of course, this miximax only marginally improves Endou’s goalkeeping capabilities.)

I have also talked in length about the relationship between Endou and Yagami, but here’s a very brief summary. During the in-game events of IE2, Endou gave Yagami hope when all she wanted was to die to atone for her sins, thus saving her life in the process. In return, she wanted to give him the strength to fight when he needed it most as a way to repay his kindness towards her.

Yagami’s innate abilities and the bond they share are the more logical reasons behind this miximax. There is, however, one extra reason to include this miximax in the project.

There have always been three main rules here when it comes to choosing auras:

1. Only characters that come from universes predominantly inhabited by humans (or very human-like creatures, like Zelda’s Hylians).

2. Only one character from every franchise, unless they are Level-5 franchises. In that case, I may use up to two per franchise. Examples of this are Danball Senki/Little Battlers eXperience (with Toramaru and Megane) and Professor Layton (with Fudou and Shishido).

3. One aura coming from every single (and proper) Inazuma Eleven game on the market. Those being Inazuma Eleven, IE2: Fire, IE2: Blizzard, IE3: Spark, IE3: Bomber, IE3: Ogre, IEGO: Light, IEGO: Dark, IEGO Chrono Stone: Raimei, IEGO Chrono Stone: Neppu, IEGO Galaxy: Supernova, IEGo Galaxy: Big Bang, Inazuma Eleven Strikers, IE Strikers 2012 XTreme, and IEGO Strikers 2013. I’m not counting Everyday, SD nor unreleased titles. So far, I have 7 out of 15.

From the beginning, I have wanted Endou to have nothing but Inazuma Eleven-only miximaxes. I mean, he’s the main character and all!

Needless to say, Yagami is part of the Inazuma Eleven miximaxes--in fact, she takes the IE2 Blizzard spot, if anyone is curious about that very specific detail. She is obviously a very predominant character in that game, having a relevant impact during the final match against The Genesis and even (spoiler alert for a 10 years old game) by injuring Kazemaru earlier, because he didn’t just leave like he did in the anime--Yagami sent him to the hospital when he started matching The Genesis’s power. Since she’s a main character in that game, and considering that many of the other important characters introduced in it become part of the teams that make up this project (such as Hiroto, Midorikawa and maaaybe Saginuma), Yagami was the perfect candidate. She was also arguably the strongest among the remaining main characters of IE2, and the only midfielder. Not to mention the bond she shares with Endou, which only rounds it all up even more.

So, as a brief summary, Yagami is an Inazuma Eleven character (which is exactly what I wanted for Endou) and a very strong player, she provides Endou with everything he would need to be a good libero (incredible speed, great shooting strength, being a midfielder and the stamina that inherently comes with it, powerful hissatsus, and so on), she shares a canonical bond with Endou, the contrast between their personalities is super interesting to explore, and there are reasons why even she would want him to take her power. He can hardly have it better! It makes a lot of sense, and it’s all heavily based on canon, so I don’t need to explain much in that regard. That’s always convenient.

But there is another side to all of this. My side.

I first started working on miximaxes with the idea of only making 4 or 5. I simply meant to give extra love to some of my favourite characters to make myself and a few friends happy. This never became a full-fledged project until my good friend Heather, who used to be on Tumblr under the username @ishidoshuuji, said she wanted to be able to reblog the Seitei x Yuuichi miximax I had drawn for her. In other words, this: https://miximax-hell.tumblr.com/post/129863262149/well-it-was-about-time-i-started-using-this-blog

Before that, miximax-hell used to be a private blog: one of those you can only check out if you have the password. I never thought ANY stranger would be interested in it, so why expose myself like that? It would only make me feel bad. I could have never imagined over a hundred people would follow me here, and even less so considering that only about 10 of my friends follow this blog. So I have to thank Heather because, even if 100 isn’t a big number at all here on Tumblr, I still appreciate each and every person who stops by and it’s helped me meet some incredibly lovely people.

Back to the subject, though. This story is directly linked to MamoDai’s. The important part of it was that EnYaga’s design isn’t mine, and so isn’t MamoDai: the former is completely not mine (even if, as the sketch above suggests, the concept was first doodled by me), while the latter was only partially mine. The thing, though, is that the same person made EnYaga and “collaborated” on the creation of MamoDai, which meant I let them into this very personal solo project twice. If you want to check out the full story, though, you can read it here: https://miximax-hell.tumblr.com/post/142160652319/you-should-have-seen-this-one-coming-come-on

As I was saying, miximax-hell is a solo project. It’s something for me to enjoy, for me to think about, for me to develop, for me to improve at designing character, and for me to decide on. I set the rules and I come up with suitable matches--or what I think are suitable matches, that is. ww I’m definitely open to suggestions if anyone is willing to share their thoughts with me, and fanart is always, always, ALWAYS welcome, of course, but I don’t borrow other people’s ideas nor designs. Not because those designs and ideas aren’t fantastic, nor because I’m not allowed to, but because the point of this blog is to have fun and improve my skills. If I don’t do it myself, it’s kind of pointless, so I prefer a bad design made by me over a great design by someone else. Also, if people were to check all of these things out, I wanted it to be because of my work, not because someone super well-known was part of it and people were desperate to get more content from them.

When I first came up with this project, though, someone very close to me wanted to be part of it. Not because they found it interesting per se, but simply because it was mine. I had previously declined an offer to join one of their projects because I lacked the necessary skill, so they wanted to join mine instead. And don’t get me wrong--I appreciate the interest even now! But, again, it beat the point and I had to refuse. Looking back, I’m very glad I didn’t give in, but I felt awful back then and this person must have felt really bad too.

That’s why I made that exception and suggested, “Hey, why don’t we create a miximax together?” That’s how MamoDai was born. But while the interest in working on MamoDai seemed... scarce, this person came up with and gave me something out of their own accord: the EnYaga miximax design I still use to this day.

Now, here’s the thing: EnYaga was a proper gift that person made for me, and I always honour gifts. If it had been a random doodle, like I have received others in the past, it would have ended there. But when someone puts true effort and time into making something especifically FOR ME, regardless of what happens between us later, I still treasure it forever. And this gift came from a person who, apparently, really wanted to be part of this project when I first came up with it, which, honestly, put me in a tight spot. The least I could do was accept this design, which I loved almost as much as I loved them, and incorporate it to my lineup.

EnYaga was going to happen regardless, because I was working on it myself, but this person beat me to it (with such incredible quality, too, which I would never be able to hold a candle to) and, after what I made them go through with my continuous rejections, I had to honour them somehow. It was my way of saying, “I can’t let you do this for me, but I deeply appreciate the thought.”

This person is now out of my life, though. This means that, honestly, I could just get rid of the design. They would never know, and I would be happier with something of my own even if it sucked in comparison. They would never feel offended either--not like they would even if they knew, because it’s obvious they don’t care about me anymore. It would be easy and 100% painless for all parties involved.

But EnYaga is a token of the bond we once shared and I treasure that, even though I don’t want anything to do with that person anymore. It portrays the fun and happy times, not the sad and bitter ending. Happiness is always something worth remembering, isn’t it? And maybe, just maybe, thanks to the wonderful people I’m close to and my eternal love towards Endou x Yagami, I might one day be able to completely forgive the bad and focus on the good, so I can smile when I look at EnYaga and think of this person. I look forward to a day when there isn’t an ounce of bitterness left in my heart (although I am one revengeful and spiteful piece of poo, so it might never happen). And for that possibility alone, it might be worth it to keep making this one exception and let this miximax be someone else’s. Especially now that I have DoYaga to call my own.

So that’s it, folks: not only do Endou and Yagami make for a sick combination in theory, but it’s also a miximax with deep sentimental value for me in so many different ways. So even if it had been someone else’s idea and the two characters were a terrible match in all senses, chances are I would have still kept it. Thank goodness it wasn’t the case. ww

And all because I didn’t finish the design fast enough on my own. May that be the lesson to learn from this: hurry the heck up, self.

#Inazuma Eleven #Endou Mamoru #miximax #mixi max #Original Raimon #Aliea Raimon #Inazuma Japan #reasons behind the miximax #sketch #info #inazuma eleven ares #inazuma eleven ares no tenbin #inazuma eleven orion #inazuma eleven orion no kokuin

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squiishiichaos · 5 years

Note

Maybe a salty vanroku? They find they both are salty about a lot of stuff and bond

(Oof. You mean just Vanroku in general? Okay! Let’s fuckin’ do this!)

____

People make mistakes–at least, that’s what the masters say–but Vanitas sometimes had to wonder if people themselves weren’t just mistakes by their very nature.

Take this fuck-nugget for instance.

Ever since being given a Replica body to live in, the Blonde dual-wielder had basically become a legend among the heroes of both Dark and Light. Vanitas could still remember rolling his eyes a time or two when Xemnas would speak so highly of the Nobody who had single-handedly almost torn his entire organization asunder. As far as the Unversed was concerned, that said far more about Xemnas’s leadership than it did about the kid who cheated his way through life.

What made Roxas special enough that the Organization would save him a fucking chair? There was no guarantee he was even still alive, let alone that he would rejoin them, and even if he did, Vanitas didn’t see why they needed another half-pint to drag their team along. Wasn’t he enough?

Hah, he barked at his own mind. Even he was aware how fucked that sentiment was. He’d never be enough for Xehanort. Never. He could have single-handedly defeated every single last one of the Guardians of Light and still not have been enough.

But no. They had lost, and now, he had to pay the piper here, sitting across the way from his Other’s once empty Look-alike.

Who the fuck decided he should be the one to guard me? “What’s so great about you?”

“Excuse me?” He hadn’t meant to say that, but now that the words were out there, Vanitas found no real reason to stop them.

“You don’t look that special to me,” he continued with a glare. “So what if you can wield two keyblades? That hardly matters if you’re just two-bit trash.”

“As if you’re one to talk. You couldn’t even beat Ventus.”

Vanitas snarled. “He had help.”

“So, did you. What’s your excuse?” This insufferable little–”if you can’t put your money where your mouth is, I don’t suggest opening it.”

“Give me back my keychain and I’ll gladly put your light-loving ass in its place.”

“Afraid I can’t.”

“Why the fuck not? You afraid of what those third-rate Masters will do if they catch you fraternizing with the enemy?” Further evidence this kid wasn’t Ventus rested in the twisted smirk that tilted his lips up on the left in something like amused disgust. Almost like there was something about Vanitas that made him sick to his stomach.

Good. “I ain’t afraid of anyone–especially not you–but I’m also not stupid. I give you back that keychain, you’re just gonna run right back to your Pops for cover.”

Oh, yeah, this kid was definitely not Ventus. “Why? So he can tell me what a fucking failure I am? I’d rather beat your ass any day…”

“Assuming you even could.” Cerulean narrowed on him with a leer that was equal parts testy and amused.

“I don’t see what you think makes you so strong. You’re just another useless Nobody. A shell without a heart, wasting away day by day.”

“I used to think that, too,” Roxas told him on a tone that was fretfully flat, “but I have one now.”

“How are you so sure the others didn’t just lie to you about that?” How did they know what a heart was? Not even Ansem the Wise had been able to pinpoint what made a heart a heart. It was a mystery–just another question no one had been able to explain to him.

“I’ve felt enough hurt to know it’s there.”

“Hurt,” Vanitas snarled, “that’s your answer? A measly feeling?”

“Bet it’s more than you’ve ever felt.”

Vanitas couldn’t help his scoff. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Doppelganger.”

“You’re one to fucking talk.”

“I didn’t choose this face.”

“And neither did I! You think I wanted to be some sort of carbon copy pieced together by two lost hearts?”

“One of those hearts was supposed to be mine!”

Oh no.

He’d said too much. He could see it in the slight narrow of those blue eyes and the furrow of golden brows. The scowl that fell heavy over his taut lips. It was an expression that would’ve looked out of place on his Brighter half. One that was touched by a hint of darkness so disastrously familiar it almost forced a ball of tangible bile up his throat.

He swallowed the flood back down before it could be born anew in the space between them. Roxas swallowed back his own demons where he stood pale across the way.

Vanitas couldn’t help a low growl. “Go ahead,” he goaded, “pity me just like the rest.”

“No,” the Blonde sighed, letting his weight fall back against the wall behind him with a dull thud before sliding down to the floor.

“But I thought you had a heart.”

“I do, and it wants pity even less than you do.” Vanitas actually chuckled.

“I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“Try me.” At that challenging tone, the Shadow couldn’t help sitting up a little bit straighter and meeting that blue-eyed glare head-on.

“What? You wanna compare scars now?”

Roxas shook his head with a frown. “All that does is make the wounds deeper. I’m trying to work on this thing where I don’t pick at my stitches until I bleed.”

That was a feeling Vanitas could understand well. “It’s a difficult stride to maintain. Sometimes, the pain is more grounding than anything.”

“Reminds you you’re alive,” Roxas agreed. Looking at his hand, the Blonde turned it this way and that in the sparse light of the room. “It’s like that first breathless rush of adrenaline at the start of a fight. For that brief moment, you feel invincible–like you could do anything and not a soul could touch you.”

“But then it wears off,” Vanitas drawled, “and you realize that death is still an inevitability waiting for you somewhere down the line.”

“I used to push myself until I was too exhausted to continue,” the Blonde told him. “At least with all my muscles sore and protesting I knew I wasn’t dead.”

“For a Nobody, that’s all you can feel without a heart.”

“For an Unversed, too, I bet.”

Vanitas let out a snort that was more painful than humoring. “On the contrary, I always felt too much.”

“Ah,” there was a tone there that sounded like he might have actually understand, even if he didn’t understand anything at all, “the beauty of emotions, right? Keyblades are easy to control, but feelings? Not so much.”

“Is that how you feel now that you have your own heart? My–” he swallowed down the word that ached at his throat and instead averted his eyes away from knowing blue, “I always thought it would end when I was complete. That the pain and hurt would disappear and it would all come to a balance.”

“It doesn’t,” Roxas told him. “I thought the same thing when I merged with Sora–but it remained there, deeper than before, and there was nothing I could do to assuage it.”

“Yeah,” Vanitas sighed, “I know that now.”

“Then why were you so desperate to merge with Ventus at the Graveyard?”

“That…” He pursed his lips and looked up at Roxas. Would he understand? Would anyone? “It wasn’t me…not this me.”

“Well, I’m glad this you knows better. The last thing we need is Sora coming back from his journey and wondering why Ven and you aren’t individuals.”

Vanitas scoffed. “Like he’d even care–”

“It’s Sora,” Roxas argued with a glare, “he cares about everyone.”

“Well, he’s the only one.” The Blonde let out an aggrieved sigh and sank deeper into his seat.

“That’s a lie, you know. Ventus…cares…sometimes…”

“I think I’d rather he didn’t,” Vanitas admitted solemnly. “It’s easier when no one cares.”

“You’re not wrong…”

For a single beat of silence, neither of them said a word. In this empty chamber located deep in the halls of Radiant Garden, the discomfort of soundless torment hit him a little harder when there was actually someone willing to indulge him. At least that was better than listening to the voices in his head…

A part of him that had been alone for far too long, yearned for a connection to something.

“So,” Vanitas diverted with a sidelong glare at the Doppelganger, “why are you still here? You’ve defeated the enemy and earned your heart, your keyblades…seems pointless to remain here.”

“Where else am I gonna go?”

“Anywhere. You’re complete and whole. There must be something you’ve always wanted to do.”

“You first.” Vanitas rolled his eyes.

“I always hoped to get an actual look at Scala. My…he never allowed me aboard the Islands…”

“And I’ve always wanted to see the Ocean.” With a slight smirk, Roxas leaned forward onto his knees and met his gaze with a light that was so Sora and yet so not. “Let’s go–together!”

“Hah. As if either of us would enjoy that…”

“I would,” Roxas told him with sincere confidence. “Would definitely be better company than Riku, for sure.”

“Finally,” the Shadow grinned–all fangs and malice–”something we can agree on.”

“So, is that a go?”

“You’re serious…”

“Well, yeah,” Roxas shot back, “there’re rarely times I’m not serious.”

Thinking on it a moment, Vanitas sunk back against the wall with a deep sigh and a glare at the blonde. He doubted this would be fun, but compared to the alternative…

“I doubt your friends will let me go freely, even in your…capable hands.”

“Leave that part to me,” Roxas wore an expression only someone who had done horrible things could enjoy, “I’ll make sure we can leave hassle-free.”

“And Void Gear? As legendary as your dual-wielding is, I don’t need some half-pint protecting me from weak-ass Heartless.”

“What, you mean this?” Holding up his keychain, Roxas sneered at the look that came over Vanitas’s expression. “You’re not the only sneaky half-pint around, you know. Now, c’mon, my Stopza will wear off in a couple of minutes and we’ll need the head start without corridors to dash through.”

Alright, Vanitas could admit as he caught his offered keyblade and cautiously followed the Doppelganger, I suppose this could be fun…

It was the first time he almost felt happy. Almost.

#roxas #vanitas #vanrox #vanroku #prompt time #prompt number 3 done #like...11 more to go #gonna try to bang out a couple more today #after I nap #my writing #I hope you enjoy guys!

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komahinasecretexchange · 5 years

Text

Title: hiraeth

Author: @slickandsolangelic

For: @usernamefieldhere

Rating/Warnings: T (warning for existentialism and disassociation)

Prompt: Hinata dealing with the consequences of having Kamukura as a past self, au or canon

Author’s notes: I hope this is to your liking, and I hope it’s okay that the au I picked is dnd-esque fantasy! I had lots of fun with this, and I can only hope that you do, too ^^

The Isles of Jabberwock are oft a pleasant place to be in, their sand a fine gold that lets itself be swept away by the lapping currents from the crystalline blue ocean that surrounds them. Better yet is the sun there, bearing down on them with its golden rays, easing flowerings into bloom and saplings into growth. Hinata is very, very glad that they managed to rescue it from being leveled down by those ambitious bandits from the east.

An adventuring life was unpredictable at its core, but unusually gratifying after a job well done.

Which is to say, it feels really fucking good to beat up some bad guys and get money for it, but such a thought is embarrassingly self indulgent and thus will remain at the very back of Hinata’s mind, where it belongs.

Nanami looks up from the weapon she’s examining. It’s a medium sized spear with a silver tip. She seems to weigh it in her hands for a bit, before letting out a satisfied hum.

“Komaeda-kun, would this be good to use if you ever wear yourself out using your magic?”

“Oh, Nanami-san, that’s really kind of you to think of me,” Komaeda starts to say, looking up from the item he was examining, a small flute embroidered with bronze trimmings. “But I’ve never really been good with sharp things. And as I’m already worn out, I’m afraid I might just point it the wrong way and, as per chance’s design. Being impaled sounds like it’d be inconvenient for our party!”

“Yeah,” Hinata says solemnly, because he’s traveled with Komaeda long enough to know that this is entirely possible.

“Yeah,” Nanami says, and she puts the spear back.

“I like this,” Hinata says. He raises both his hands to show them them silk pouch nestled in his palms. “It’s magical, so you can put up to three hundred pounds of stuff in there.”

Komaeda is at his side then, gliding past the tables laden with strings and wooden instruments. His arm brushes Hinata’s when he reaches from the small card attached to the golden thread around the pouch’s hem.

“It’s also worth five hundred gold pieces,” Komaeda says.

“Oh,” Hinata says.

“Oh,” Nanami agrees.

“If Hinata-kun really wants it, I can-” but Hinata is already putting it back.

They wind up circling the aisles of items for a few more hours, the other two interjecting with commentary when one makes a suggestion. It’s more comfortable than anything, Hinata muses, surfing through their options with one another together like this. Battles where their competence and trust in one another made the difference between loss and success, between life and death; that’s something that’s undeniably special. Something that matters, in a way, and Hinata knows that, and he is grateful- but he much prefers the quieter moments like these, when all that matters in the moment is their group effort at bargaining with the shopkeepers, the sunset’s rays framing their silhouettes as they journeyed through the winding paths of towns they’d saved or served.

There’s something he’s come to appreciate about their regular time spent together as friends rather than adventuring companions. It’s more bothersome than jarring (in a way that makes Hinata feel equal measures irritated and fond) when Komaeda answers a yes or no question with a tangent which existentially questions the universe and when Nanami turns out to have been asleep with her eyes open for the past hour they were going over plans.

It’s nice, Hinata thinks. It’s just… nice, to have moments of quiet in between. Away from threats to their life during the day, and away from his night terrors when it grows darker.

The Isles don’t really have much to offer aside from scenery and impressive craftsmanship when it comes down to it. They have a good time crossing the bridges that lead up to the separate islands, though (it doesn’t take them that long to haul Komaeda out from the water when he falls off one), and the locals aren’t unpleasant folk to converse with.

The third island has a slightly less relaxing ambiance than the others. Of the six, it’s certainly the loudest and most vibrant of the bunch– Komaeda almost immediately identifies it as the art venue when they pass by a Bard-run tavern by the name of “Titty Typhoon”. It sounds like hell in there, but hell in fifty different types of musical instruments and also wildly out of tune.

“Well,” Komaeda says, looking cheerful. “They’re having fun.” His hands are clasped together, and his eyes are widened in something that’s either wonder or contemplation. Hinata’s learnt to recognize when Komaeda begins to form overly complex thoughts over things that really aren’t that deep, but he chooses not to intervene.

“Very loudly,” Hinata says.

“And out of tune,” Nanami adds, but she’s smiling.

“Everyone’s Bardic inspiration manifests in different forms.”

“Yeah, well, it also helps when it manages to inspire without being a Bardic pain in the ass.”

“Hinata-kun speaks very boldly! Well, I guess I can’t really blame you for not finding that kind of music to your fancy, not when your own bardic prowess is unique in a way that’s unrecognizable to most regular people such as myself.”

“That was months ago, holy shit-”

“The sweet melody still haunts my dreams.”

“You’re horrible.”

“You’re the most inspiring artist a commoner like me has ever had the pleasure of hearing.”

Hinata’s shoving him now, trying to stifle a smile behind the sleeves of his leather armour plating, and failing quite spectacularly.

“Asshole,” Hinata says, but there’s no bite to it. Komaeda gives him a smile that’s a different kind of unsettling, only because it makes his insides turn funny. It’s wide, but soft around the edges, and it makes his eyes crease ever so slightly. Then he looks away, and that’s that.

Hinata hasn’t slept in what feels like three fucking days.

In reality, it’s only been about two and a half- the other half he spent goofing around with Komaeda and Nanami in the Isles of Jabberwock, hooking up their party with new shit for the next challenge.

This is bad. With the map of the nearby continent spread out before him on the scratched and damaged inn table, he should be getting in the mood to mark their next exploit. It’s a pretty good map, even if the dim yellow glow emanating from their lamps doesn’t do its details much justice.The sharp strokes that form the peaks of mountains are unmistakable nearby the expertly woven lines of rivers and streams, cutting through grassy landscapes and flat wastelands. There are circles and lines which mark territories and label them, categorizing them as either off limits or safe to explore.

But with how tired he is, Hinata’s beginning to circle around the same thought over and over. In fact, is that a fucking city, or a firefly? Is that a firefly on his map? Hinata isn’t sure if what’s on his map is a firefly or a city. That circular dot of yellow– is it a firefly, or is it a city?

“You don’t look well,” says a familiar voice. The dot of yellow buzzes and leaps into the air and onto Hinata’s nose. He swings back suddenly in an effort to swat it with both his arms. The momentum drives his chair backwards.

The quiet tavern folk don’t care to stop their chatter when Hinata crashes to the ground with a sound thud, and so the warlock is left to stare at the ceiling with unblinking eyes and his palms cupped around his nose as the minuscule sphere rises and floats away. Nanami’s concerned face hovers above him.

Ah, so it was a firefly.

Their next quest is for a blond wizard hailing from an important family. Hinata thinks he’s kind of an asshole, but Hinata also thinks that five thousand gold is maybe a sufficient price to get a job done for an asshole. He wants them to retrieve this artifact called the “Eye of Fate”, something that apparently reflects a person’s psyche and innermost desires. This is worrisome considering the Asshole Status of the person they’re retrieving it for, but according to the client, the Eye of Fate is trapped within the body of a topaz crystal gollum, a probably slightly more dickish creature to bestow such a relic upon.

Nanami helps pick him up off the ground, but he needs to take a handful of moments to gather his bearings.

“You need to take care of yourself. We won’t be able to get anything done if you neglect your health.”

Hinata thinks this is rich coming from Nanami, who never seems to sleep and yet spends half of the time she’s awake in a state of trance that’s impossible to break her out of. He means to tell her this, but instead the words that come out are “Lord Togami is an asshole.”

“He’s not easy to work with,” Nanami agrees.

“He’s a big fucking asshole.”

“Okay,” Nanami says patiently, sitting him down on the chair.

“I hate rich people who offer lots of money for ridiculous quests.”

“Mhm.”

“Nanami, there was a firefly on my map.”

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, there was.”

“It flew.”

“I think fireflies tend to do that.”

Hinata presses his face against the scratchy surface of the map. He traces a finger along the Mountain Range of the Dead, across the Red River, and straight through the continental tunnel into the cavernous entrance of the Cave of Wonders.

“Yeah,” Hinata mutters. “’S cause of their wings.”

“Sure is.” Nanami puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah,”

“Yeah,” she says, and pets his hair gently. “Go to sleep.”

The journey is harsh, but not unbearable.

Through the rocky mountain range they pass, tearing down groups of chimaeras, hopping between camping sights near the valleys. Komaeda picks flowers by one of the crevices, and Hinata feels bad when they wither under his bare hands.

They stop just a clearing away from the bank of Red River for the night. The sun kisses the horizon and turns it a warm shade of purple that lulls Hinata to slumber.

He dreams.

Hinata’s by the Red River.

His pants are rolled up to his knees, and the sky above him is as dark as the waters he’s lowered his feet into.They lap at his skin, icy and unforgiving. He pushes closer to the river side, sinks his legs further in until his calves feel numb.

Below the surface of the water, something is stirring. Moving like a shadow through the already dark film that covers the waters, closer than he wants it to be.

A voice says, “Haven’t they told you that this river is red with the blood of the fallen?”

Hinata doesn’t respond. He watches the figure grow closer and closer, a monster baited to the surface. His legs form ripples in the water when he moves them to and fro. He watches the spray of droplets disrupt the dark surface, and tries to hum away the panic in his chest.

“…You’re not listening anymore.”

The darkness is coming. Hinata is not afraid. He’s not afraid. He’s not.

(He’s terrified. He can’t move anymore, can barely breathe. He is helpless in a way that makes him angry at himself, useless in a way that makes him regret its existence.)

“You’re going to have to. It’s irrational to think you can run away forever.” The voice is calm as it says this.

It is nowhere. It is everywhere. It’s the full moon that lights up the stars above his head, the ripples his legs have stopped making in the river, the all encompassing darkness that wants to eat him whole, devour him until nothing is left of his existence.

Hinata wakes up with a start. His hands aren’t quite steady. That is to say, he’s shaking bad.

Hinata steps outside for a moment. It’s dark out still, so he snaps his fingers and watches a small flame flicker to life in his lantern. Their tent’s still steady against the breezes coming from the north. (Nanami had done a good job hammering it in right, after all. She’s always been good with practical skills like these, even if her proficiency was healing). The leaves sway high above his head on their host of towering trees, though, and the wind’s whistle is unmistakable and sharp, cutting through the night.

Hinata shudders.The bite of the air is akin to the sting of frost at his knees in the dream.

A hand lands on his shoulder, and he nearly jumps a foot into the air.

“Hinata-kun?”

Oh. It’s Komaeda. Hinata tries to be subtle about the breath of relief that leaves him, but he’s sure he failed. Whatever. God, whatever.

Komaeda retracts his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says with the kind of sincerity only he seems to be capable of. “I called for you before, but you seemed preoccupied.”

“…Ah, yeah.” Hinata tries to go for a smile, but it slips off his face at astronomical velocity. He’s exhausted, tired in a way that makes his bones ache and his heart stutter at every step. “It’s just that…” For a few long moments, he contemplates his next words, painfully aware of the tentative silence between them. Komaeda doesn’t break it, and even though Hinata’s looking away, he can feel the weight of Komaeda’s gaze pressing into the back of his head, sharper than the wind that pierces through the thicket of trees surrounding their campgrounds.

Hinata says, “You’re a bard, right?” Of course Komaeda is, that’s out of the question. When Hinata whips around, he sees the look of tempered confusion Komaeda is giving him. His head is tipped sideways, and his gray eyes blink at Hinata questioningly.

“By the standard definition, I am,” Komaeda says. “Perhaps not entirely deserving of the title, but that is the most conventional term to reference what I do.”

“…Right,” Hinata says. He tries to swallow back the lump that forms in his throat, and finds he can’t do it, just as he can’t quite bring himself to dispel the anxiety eating away at the pit of his stomach. “Yeah, I know. You’re a good bard, Komaeda, we’ve had this talk.”

“And you’re changing the subject, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda responds quietly. He’s still looking at him with those intent eyes. Fuck. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Silence. And then a howl from the wind hollow and loud all at the same time.

“Have you heard of the Ender of The World?”

More silence. And then, a laugh.

“Kamukura Izuru… who hasn’t?”

“So he has a name?”

Komaeda sets his own lantern on the ground, then lowers himself and takes a cross-legged position. Hesitant, Hinata follows suit.

“You didn’t know? They named him after the original Wizard, the one whose discoveries helped incorporate the plane of magic with our own.”

“Ah,” Hinata says. His throat is dry. “I, uh, never looked into it too much. I tried to, well- avoid. That sort of stuff.”

“…I see,” Komaeda says, and there’s an obvious question in his tone. To his credit, he doesn’t ask it.

“Well, Kamukura Izuru… Well, to start, he’s beautiful. I saw him, once.”

Hinata’s heart stops. “You did?”

“I did,” Komaeda says, and smiles. There are no creases under his eyes this time, no softness to the edge of his mouth. Only a wide curve that increases Hinata’s unease. Komaeda’s eyes watch the purple flame in his lantern flicker and sway.

“When I was still travelling alone, I took shelter in a sea-side town. I was still young then, maybe in my mid teen years, and so I was still learning how to get around alone, and still learning how to cope with my abilities. Naturally, no one wanted someone whose magical energy was as unstable and harmful as mine.” Komaeda makes animated hand gestures as he speaks, his voice remaining light and unbothered.

“So I tried not to use any, even when it got cold and I needed a fire, even if I had to defend myself. As soon as they realised their flowers wither around me and the grass their cattle eat from is poisoned by my magic, they’d throw me out. I couldn’t afford to let that happen yet, not when I was in such desperate need of a sustainable place to stay.”

“Komaeda…” Hinata starts to say, a crease forming in his brow. But Komaeda just continues.

“This is why I ended up staying by the port, where there was less organic matter for me to visibly hurt. And then he was there, and the stories? They were true,” Komaeda says. “He was- ah, I’m afraid I’m not nearly eloquent enough, but he was something else. He didn’t hurt anyone then, didn’t turn any cities to dust or erase landscapes with the swipe of his hand, but his existence was like…” He holds up a hand over the lantern, and his eyes are wide enough to hold the entire sky within then. Komaeda clenches his fist over the lantern’s glow.

He whispers, “Like fire. It was burning with the demand to be attended to. It was like being charmed, but worse, but better. And where he floated, Hinata-kun? It was over the sea, which had begun to turn inky below him. It was like void. Like nothingness was just overcoming the blue, erasing it.” Komaeda’s still smiling. How is he still smiling?

Hinata tries to regulate his breathing, but he feels sick. His head spins with a thousand visions, of tarlike darkness invading crystal blue, of lonely teenagers by ports, of magical essences strong enough to burn themselves into the hearts of spectators.

Hinata’s voice sounds hoarse to his ears when he speaks. “…And? Was he- was he evil?”

Komaeda laughs again. “Evil… Well, I suppose it depends on the standards of one’s morality. I just think he was hideous.”

“Huh?! Didn’t you just say-”

“I meant what I said.” Komaeda says. “He was the wrongest thing in the world, in that moment. Something that wasn’t destined to be. He was beautiful, too, and it had made me feel something. Now, I can identify that feeling as what it is.”

“And what is it?”

Komaeda turns to look at him then, eyes wide still. He closes them for a moment, but the smile doesn’t fade. Komaeda says, “Disgust,” and Hinata feels like he’s been kicked in the ribs.

“Oh. Um, I suppose that makes se-”

“I think he was just empty. I don’t understand how someone can have such power over destiny and be such a shell.” His smile takes a dip, then twitches back into place. It looks wrong, not that it ever really looked right to begin with. It looks… sour.

“People will call Kamukura Izuru beautiful, or they will call him horrible,” Komaeda says. “I just think that he’s like me.”

“Like you?” Hinata’s heart is pounding.

“I don’t mean to sound egoistical,” Komaeda says quickly, holding his hands up, His smile returns to its default vacancy again, “Of course, I could never hope to be as powerful. But Izuru-san and I have something in common.”

There is quiet now, and even the well timed howling of the wind fails to shake Hinata out of his semi-trance state of contemplation. He recognises that Komaeda’s given him an opening to ask. The tension in his gut notwithstanding, he does.

“What is it, then?”

Komaeda hums. His gloved fingers close around the handle of the lantern and pull it up to his face. Illuminated so closely by the glow, Komaeda looks like a flame himself. It’s a haunting kind of beauty that Hinata can’t fully wrap his head around. (His heart aches). He blows his flame out, and just like that, the world grows dimmer. Komaeda stands up, and Hinata wants to reach out and grab at his sleeve, but he’s too tired, and Komaeda’s too swift, and it’s too cold out here, so cold and dark and god, Hinata’s so tired.

“Well, when I looked in his eyes, I could tell. I could tell that he had nowhere to go either.” Through the mist of darkness, Hinata can’t see his features, he can sense it when Komaeda’s gaze leaves him.

He whispers, “Good night, Hinata-kun.”

Then he returns to their tent, and Hinata’s left alone.

There is a flash of light.

Pillars of light come together to form a gollum, at least 12 feet tall, its arms made of diamond shards which reflect the yellow light pouring out of the empty holes in its head that make its sockets. The gollum is a beautiful, monstrous thing, its voice caught somewhere between roar and song. It’s a compound of light shards taking the form of rocky limbs and sharp shoulders. Like tears, the light that runs down its head burns into the cavern’s ground, acidic.

They get in order. Hinata raises his wand, and Nanami prepares her wooden staff. The amethysts that stick out of the ground by Komaeda’s feet begin to lose their vibrancy as he puts his flute to his lips.

Hinata casts.

Nanami points.

Komaeda plays.

And the gollum unclasps a dark mouth trapped between jaws of silvery-gold crystals, and showers their attacking silhouettes in stunning light.

You are born.

You are a creature! And how alive you are, how real- your hands are small and pale, your hair back length and a light shade of a pretty colour. And you are not clothed, not yet, but you are so alive.

Besides you a person with shaking arms and a trembling form. They say, “O-oh, it worked, it worked,” and they sound like they’re going to cry.

You reach out to them, and you feel concerned.

Disorientation. Fear. Hinata’s head is spinning, and he can’t tell his head from his feet, not anymore. The world is nothing but a dull blur of colour, and all he hears is a the quiet hum of the gollum’s voice, a guttural, chilling sound.

And then the next flash of light comes.

II.

You are alone. Ash falls between the spaces of your fingers, the remnants of the home you once had. The sky cries for you, but you do not cry. You cannot cry anymore, not when you know they were right all along. Right to abandon you, right to throw a creature of destruction and havoc.

You are disgusted with yourself, with the pulse of energy that crackles like lightning beneath your skin.

Your hands dig into the ashes that were once meadows and gardens and homes, homes you grew up in, homes you weren’t hated for existing in.

You let out a scream that tears your throat in two, and you are heartbroken.

He can’t tell if he’s breathing.

He can’t tell if he’s seeing. He can only hear the roar approaching.

But he feels it, too, the third flash of light slamming into him.

III.

Magic is difficult.

Magic is unnatural- it’s strange, because for your family, it seems to come as easy as breathing. Generations of wizards have thrived from their line, after all, each with magical energy in the very air they breathe, clear in the way they carry themselves, evident in the gleam in their eyes.

Except for you, that is. You have grown up looking at your hands and hating them. You have grown up with the words of the divination mistress inscribed in your head from when you were but a youth, her raspy voice calm and factual as she tells your parents, This one’s a branch that’s been severed. He’s dry, he is.

And you are. You attempt to cast spells. Nothing happens. You try your hand at passive magic, tries to see if you can work out divination, or magical forgery, or bardic inspiration.

Nothing happens within. Your hands remain plain, pitiable things, empty of even the telltale scorch marks and scar of a beginner magician. There is disappointment in the looks they give you. There’s judgement. There’s torment in their stares, a searing fire that burns away at you in the expectations you know you’ll never be able to fulfill. A tiresome, constant hum of unease.

So plain.

What a shame, that one- think of the potential!

Maybe he’s just a late bloomer?

But you aren’t.

You press your palms to your face and try to feel for a hum of something more that isn’t there, was never there, will never be there.

Until one day, not many days from now, at the hands of a circle of wizards who promise your family prowess, progress, and most importantly magic- it is.

And you feel… nothing.

You don’t feel at all.

A flash of light.

Your hair is trimmed to your shoulders. You are dressed in a cloak of silver with a green hood, given a staff crafted of rosewood and embroidered with your initials. You are given a name. You are given a purpose.

The person who made you is loving. They are kind. They don’t make you feel like the tool that you are, but you know, and you think it’s okay.

And another.

II.

You learn that the leaves of plants wither first when you play. And then gradually, so do the stems. The petals are last to go, turning a sorry shade of gray that disintegrates to ashen black the more you continue.

You feel sorry.

And yet another.

III.

There is more magic in the air than has even been. More horror in your heart than you ever thought possible. They are chanting incantations, murmuring things in languages you can’t recognise, humming in tones you don’t understand, and you are scared, but your want to stop disappointing overwhelms this fear. Your want to be something that surpasses ordinary, something that beats worthless.

So you stay still.

And you drift, further and further away, into a space where you can’t feel your heart and can’t contain your soul.

And for a while, you don’t return. Not really.

Another.

You learn that you are a cleric. You learn that your name is Nanami Chiaki, and that you can wield light and speak seven languages and be very, very useful.

You find your place among an adventuring party, and you set off to do your job as a cleanser of despair.

When will it stop?

II.

You feel smaller than you should, a quiet mass of stark white hair and shaky hands that suck the life out of every unsuspecting thing. But you learn- you learn to sleep in the hollows of large trees.You learn to survive days without fire and food. You learn what you have to do to live, what you have to do to continue, but often you wonder if there’s a purpose at all.

And then you see Kamukura Izuru turn the ocean’s blue into void, and immediately realise what you have to do.

Hinata hears what sounds like a thump, but maybe it’s just the dull beat of his heart. Does he still have a heart?

III.

It is

Dark.

It is so dark , and so quiet, and you are not there, but you are, but the world isn’t, but you are, but you’re dead, but you’re not, but you’re in pain, but he’s not.

And he’s you.

Or you’re him.

Maybe you’re both and he’s neither. She finds you somewhere between existence and death, surrounded by the skeletal remains of the seven wizards that made you what you are.

She examines the circle of black glass and scorch marks that used to be their mountain, and the grin on her face can cut through the fabric of the universe and weave it into something new. She holds out her hand, and says, “Confused, aren’tcha? I think I have something that’ll work for you.”

And before you know it, the world is ending at your hands.

There is the sound of something falling multiple times all at once.

You love them so much.

You love them so, so much. But you do not, because you weren’t made for this. You don’t know what love is.

Do you?

It’s getting closer.

II.

You are a being of misdeeds, a creature of filth and ugliness.You are a pawn in the hands of luck and a facilitator of fate. And it’s fine.

It’s fine. You don’t deserve to feel this companionship. You don’t deserve the moments when his eyes meet yours and you feel something akin to hope. It’s selfish. It’s foolish.

It’s fine.

(It’s not.)

They are footsteps, Hinata realises distantly at the back of his head, and they fall like hail.

III.

You wake up in another circle of black glass. Your head is full of memories that aren’t your own, your back breaking under the weight of sins you earnt. You hands are pale and unscarred and yours, yours, yours, but you don’t know what’s yours anymore, so you dig them into the hard ground until your nails chip and bleed and you’re screaming because the pain is the only thing that makes you feel real.

You don’t know how long you lay there, but when you come to, you can cast flame, you can create light.

And it takes you so, so long, to pick yourself up, to tear away your memories and the bards’ songs of Him, of You.

You are sick of your own existence, but most of all, you’re not sure when you’ll be him again. You’re not sure how long you have as you.

(You’re not sure when you started to think of this in terms of you and him.)

When you find yourself a party, you worry.

When you sleep at night, you worry.

When your companion’s piercing gray greens look at you and tell you, “Good night, Hinata-kun,” you worry.

What’s a sense of self for someone without one at all?

Crash!

Splinters of diamond scatter across the cave’s floor, yellow and white and shades of off-orange, shattered, sharp and everywhere.

Komaeda is panting by the now screaming, headless gollum, its guttural screeches now reduced to weak yelps that sound more like windchimes. The splinters that caught him in the face send blood streaking down it, and he’s breathing heavy.

In his right hand Komaeda holds Nanami’s abandoned spear of light, semi-tangible and fading in his grasp. Nanami rises to her feet besides Hinata, only a distance away. Cuts and scrapes line her arms and legs where the crystals caught her, but she is healing faster than any of them can process, and she points her staff at the gollum, lips drawn in a thin line.

When Hinata gets into position besides his companions, his heart thrums with something that’s maybe determination, and that’s definitely the desire to beat this fucking thing to the ground.

Their eyes meet. When Hinata catches Komaeda’s, Komaeda gives him a tired, bloodied smile which he tries to return.

They attack.

LEGEND.

There is a legend in the land about a sorcerer. Or at least that’s what they think he is. He’s certainly not human- it’s not clear if he’s much of anything the people of this world can recognize.

He’s like something out of a night terror, spectral and haunting, ethereally beautiful in ways that are hard to encapture. Bards fail to find music befitting of him, and the storytellers, their hands bleed of their efforts to weave tales and tapestries worthy enough. An artist’s maddening, he is, a being of darkness, or maybe light, or maybe divinity.

He razes lands in his wake.

It only takes a flick of his wrist for the grandeur of towering spires, raised peaks and settlements, so many settlements built with caring craftsmanship and loving ambition, to become ash.

There are no scorch marks to tell of despairing fires, no bloodstained marble and cobblestone to tell the tragedy of battles lost. Only the memory of what used to be and the dust that remains of its existence.

Some call him the Destructor. Some call him a God. Most merely call him The Ender of The World.

And he is as beautiful as he is terrifying, the story tellers swear. He doesn’t function on malice, they say. It’s impossible to tell what his motives really are, but he doesn’t thrive off of evil nor off of death. He does not need to thrive, really, not when his very existence is that of raw energy and power, not when he can make himself a living deity on command of his presence.

Others have different stories to tell of him, all with the staples; the beauty, the divinity, the grace. But they speak of different powers- armies of the dead animated for seemingly no reason. Stormy clouds of gray that encircle him, a crown of booming thunder and imminent destruction.

Eyes the colour of rubies, painfully empty despite the ocean’s worth of magical energy they surely have.

The World is ending.

And then it isn’t.

The cities of ash remain as they are, as do the hearts of endless storms continue to beat with the booms of thunder. Every tapestry and abandoned sheet of song remain, but the Ender of the World does not.

At the gollum’s husk, Hinata brings down a spectral axe he summons; once her spear of light is back in her hands, Nanami maneuvers close enough to leave a gaping gash of oozing yellow where its abdomen was; Komaeda’s flute plays notes that manifest into spectral hammers which descend upon it, blown after blow. The amethysts around them are now a darkened gray.

With each hit that lands, crystals shatter across the floor.

Soon, all that remains is a gradient of gold in pieces at their feet.

And their prize reward, the gollum’s heart: an ornate circle of the very same gold, its surface clear and reflective like a mirror. The Eye of Fate.

Komaeda collapses on his knees.

He’s making a noise that sounds like giggling, red faced and dizzy, and then he collapses to the side, spent. Hinata isn’t fast enough to catch him, but he tries anyway. Chest still heaving from the effort of battle, he takes the time to brush away the red that bleeds from the wound on Komaeda’s forehead. The amethysts are more like coal now, a tell-tale sign of the energy he’s expended.

Nanami kneels beside him, and she’s not out of breath at all. But she looks just as tired as he feels. All her wounds have closed up. Hinata almost finds it funny- he always thought the reason her wounds were so quick to heal was because she was an extraordinarily healer. While that was true, he now more or less knows that there’s more to it. And she… they both…

Well, they both know now, don’t they? But the panic hasn’t really settled in just yet.

“I’ll get him,” Nanami says, and she nods towards Komaeda. Already her hand is on his chest. “You have to go retrieve the mirror. Hinata-kun, you know what to do with it.”

Hinata nods. Rises to his feet.

He heads towards the Eye of Fate, back turned to Nanami. It feels smooth and light in his hands. The surface reflects his face, bloodied and plain, and it all feels deceptively simple.

Nanami says, “Hinata-kun? I know you’ll make the right decision. I know you’re a good person, and you can make your own path.”

He feels the smile in her voice as strongly as he feels the sting in his eyes.

“Right,” Hinata says softly, and examines the glassy surface.

He throws it to the ground experimentally. It lands quietly without a sound.

And then he crushes it under his fucking feet. Over and over until it breaks apart for good.

Nanami laughs softly from behind him.

Hinata says, “All right, then. Now that that’s over with, let’s go home.”

Home isn’t anywhere but the three of them.

The journey back isn’t as tiring as Hinata thought it would be, but it’s every bit as emotionally taxing. He wallows in his anxiety on their trip back, just as he wallows in his thoughts.

He and Nanami don’t speak of it.

And he understand that she needs time, and she understands that he needs courage, or perhaps strength of will. But she smiles at him like he means something still, like he’s more than lost identities and failure and magic that isn’t really his, and he’s grateful. He smiles at her too, a bit less patient, a bit more jaded, but he hopes it lets her know that she means something to him like he does to her.

And then there’s Komaeda.

They’re back at their camp grounds when he finally wakes. The sun’s beginning to rise above the horizon, painting its line a faint white and streaking the blank sky with shades of pale blue and orange.

Nanami’s gone to bring them firewood for later on since they’re all too tired for conjuration. Hinata’s fingers clench and unclench into a fist. He counts the fading stars that are eaten by the sunrise, and wonders if he can still see the faint outline of the moon provided he tries hard enough.

Komaeda sits opposite from him. Neither of them says a word.

The silence is quiet and tangible, and when Hinata looks at Komaeda, really looks at him, he pauses. Komaeda’s fully healed and unscarred but for a nick that the gash on his forehead left, and even that is hardly notable. His hair is even messier than usual, dirtied and gray with dust and dirt from their encounter. His pallor is still prominent, but thankfully, it doesn’t look like he’s about to fall seriously ill.

"Hey,” Hinata says.

Komaeda raises his head to look at him. He’s giving him that look again, a look of uncomfortable intensity that Hinata feels in his bones.

Komaeda say, “Hinata-kun,” by way of greeting, and they fall quiet again.

Hinata looks at his thumbs.They’re shredded from the shrapnel of crystal, scarred in little crisscrosses.

He says to Komaeda, “Well. I mean, god. Let’s- let’s cut right to it. Talk to me.”

And so they start to, the rising sun a backdrop to their conversation.

“You know now,” Hinata says.

“I do.”

“You wanted to find me. Or him. Whatever.”

“I do.”

“You still do?”

He tips his head sideways, and light curls frame his curious expression. Very sincerely, he says, “I do.”

Hinata feels a tightness in his chest.

“You’re weird.”

“You’re a god.”

Hinata gives him an annoyed, incredulous look. Now he knows Komaeda’s messing with him.

He says, “You know I’m not,” and can’t help the edge in his voice.

“Of course I do,” Komaeda says, voice hushed in a way Hinata’s never heard it before. “I felt your thoughts, Hinata-kun. We both did.”

He knows this. And it’s frustrating, infuriating even, to have something like that taken away from you and broadcasted so intimately. Looking at the mess he made of his own fingers, Hinata wishes he hit harder, attacked harsher.

And then he looks at Komaeda, and oh. He sees it now, the tightness around his shoulders, the tension in his frame. The sharpness of his present smile, guarded and ingenuine.

He’s hurting, too.

And god, Hinata’s so selfish. This entire time, his own anxieties have been overwhelming him, and he wasn’t able to realise sooner that his companions have their own plates full to the brim.

Of course. Of course he’d hurt. He’s felt it vividly, Komaeda’s loneliness, his pain, just as he had Nanami’s doubt in her existence, just as tangibly as they felt his own aches.

Hinata reaches towards Komaeda, who tenses like he’s about to flinch away, but… doesn’t. He places a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

And Komaeda says, “I was wrong.”

“Wrong?”

His gaze bores into Hinata. “Wrong to call you beautiful and hideous.”

Hinata puts away his hand. He says, “Then what would you call me?” and feels bold for it. The way Komaeda says ‘you’ instead of 'Kamukura Izuru’ or 'The Ender of the World’ or some other superficial title makes him shiver.

“I would call you hopeful,”

“Uh, what?”

Komaeda puts a hand over his heart. And there it is again, that terrifying earnestness in his eyes.

“Hopeful. You’re not like me, Hinata-kun. Despite everything, you’re still here. You’re still doing good after what she made you do.”

What she made you do. The illusion of guilt, the vision of the perfect monster, it’s gone. It’s all gone.

Hinata is shaking just the slightest bit. His hands aren’t as steady as he thought they’d be in his lap. This is hard.

“But– so are you.”

“So am I what, Hinata-kun?”

“You’re here too, aren’t you?”

Komaeda falls silent.

Hinata can’t quite read his expression right, was never quite able to, but the stunned look of bewilderment that twists his features isn’t hard to note.

“But I- that’s not… That isn’t how it works.” Komaeda argues, a confused frown twisting his mouth.

“Isn’t it?” Hinata is smiling, and as he does, he feels the tremors start to calm.

“It isn’t! Hinata-kun, if you’re as good at drawing conclusions as you are at playing instruments-”

“Stop trying to backhand compliment me, I probably can play if I really try.”

“Backhanded compliments? How rash of Hinata-kun to jump to such a conclusion, I was only trying to speak my mind.”

He flicks Komaeda’s forehead. Komaeda doesn’t make a move to flinch this time.

Hinata dares to push back the hair that falls in front of his eyes, heart beat mingling with the songbirds’ melody. He waits for Komaeda to stop him, but he does not. He rubs his thumb over the small scar on his forehead.

“…You were good out there with Nanami’s spear,” Hinata murmurs. “Maybe you should actually consider buying one.”

“Oh,” Komaeda breathes in response.

Sunlight makes him look even prettier.

It’s quiet here in these woods, and it’s not “home” forever. Nothing will be for a while. But the permanence of home and the worries of tomorrow mean nothing when Hinata sees that smile again. A smile soft around the edges that make his eyes crease, a smile that makes Hinata not want to let go.

“Is this okay?” Komaeda says, and his voice is quiet. His eyes begin to flutter. His gloved hands reach tentative towards the back of Hinata’s neck as he moves to lean into Hinata’s touch. Komaeda’s hands are light, their pressure barely there, like he’s afraid to hurt him.

Hinata says, “It’s okay.”

And when he kisses Komaeda, it feels like the relief of something long awaited. It feels like comfort. It feels like something right. Hinata’s hands reach to cup his face, and oh.

He kisses him again, and again, and again, and everytime Hinata pulls away, he sees that smile and just can’t stop.

They’re going to be okay.

#komahina #komahina secret exchange #fanfiction

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mannatea · 6 years

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waiting days are over

i have this nasty, nasty habit of hoarding ideas and concepts for written works. i’ve had plans for years to write certain things that i kind of casually poke with a metaphorical stick every now and again. i like turning them over in my head and considering them from literally every angle. it’s probably my favorite part of writing, sans maybe feedback.

and like, okay, but feedback aside (because that’s a whole ‘nother disappointing set of words) i think every writer enjoys a particular bit about the process of writing. we can all say we love “the process” in general, and “writing” in general, but at the end of the day it’s impossible to divorce ourselves from the fact that one particular aspect of that process is going to be the one we enjoy the most (though we may not always spend the most time on it).

okay, so for me...it’s planning. and specifically when i’m working on something that has the potential to be long. it has to be perfect. i want things worked out because when i was younger i always wrote myself into corners and it was embarrassing to have to try and write my way out again. i don’t want to feel those heavy regrets for things i’ve written later down the road. i don’t want to say, “if i could do it over again i’d have never killed that character” or “i shouldn’t have written that plot at all; it was a waste of time.”

these kinds of doubts manifest so severely that i usually don’t get past the planning stage. it’s one thing to rp out a fun idea in a super casual setting and something else entirely to write that same type of idea but in a way that others will find engaging and fun. i have well over 100 long AU ‘fics planned for previous fandoms (i mean you name it it’s been considered!) but they won’t ever see the light of day, not in written format, anyway. not in narrative form.

it’s a shame. actually, it’s depressing.

and it’s not just with fanfic. i told myself for years i ought to try breaking into the christian media market with things marketed more toward a modern slant on christianity. i know there’s a market out there for that kind of a thing, but i can’t motivate myself to try. i’ve never been good at creating original characters & worlds, and when i do i’m the first one to lose interest. no amount of planning has been able to alleviate that issue.

which brings me to my next consideration, which is that i think it’s pretty stupid of me to always sit around and wait for inspiration, to wait for time to write, to wait for the proper motivation. i’m so tired of waiting. it doesn’t come. it doesn’t happen all on its own and as i get older and deal with boring obligations i’ve picked up via marriage i have come to the very irritating realization that i actually have to make time for this shit. my days of inspirational highs are gone. permanently. i won’t get those back; they were a product of youth and a lack of responsibility. they were from a time when i wasn’t married and only had to answer to myself.

so... i now know i have to sit down and say okay on THESE days i’m going to write. and then i have to sit down and write on those days. no tumblr refreshing, no instant replies to everyone on discord, no wandering around the house aimlessly, no checking emails or twitter or whatever.

and i mean, it’s hard to do that. it’s hard for me to tell my husband: i need you to literally leave me alone these days of the week for hours at a stretch because i want these hours to work on something and if you so much as come in the room and look at my screen all of my motivation flies out of the window. he doesn’t like that kind of situation, where it’s me not wanting to even engage in a conversation while i’m ‘working.’

after all, it’s just fanfic.

and like.

let me just be honest with you guys.

i’m in my 30s and i’ve been writing fanfic seriously since i was about 15/16. more than half my life i’ve been doing this. i still get mocked for it irl. i try to be open about fanfic ‘cause it’s a hobby and i’ve put a lot of time and effort into honing my writing skills. i don’t think i should have to hide that from anybody.

but hey! i still have people who tell me to my face it’s a waste of time. people whose own idea of fun is like, eating food or drinking at a bar or watching sportball or driving a motorcycle or playing video games.

and i mean, they’re all hypocrites because it’s a waste due to the fact that it doesn’t bring me in any money, because i don’t just publish instead.

gee i’m sorry that my HOBBY isn’t a money-making machine but i don’t need to publish to enjoy writing. i just like sharing self-indulgent crap with other people who may also be interested in reading it. and let’s all be honest... you know what would be extremely depressing? publishing only for like, two people to buy it. no thanks. i couldn’t handle that kind of embarrassment. not when i spend so much time working on stuff. i want to be able to enjoy writing my way, not the way other people want me to enjoy it.

at the root of all this rambling is the fact that i’ve been planning a rewrite of a dumb tv show i enjoy, or like, a novelization of it i guess: my own version of the series that’s more character-driven and less focused on drama for the sake of drama.

and like, i just keep planning. and thinking. and mulling things over. i’ve been doing this for WEEKS.

someone i’ve been emailing with recently told me to think about my name and what it represents in the bible; you know, god send down the manna and the israelites were instructed to gather just what they needed during the week and use it up; don’t save it for later. those that didn’t follow those instructions and tried to hoard it found it rotting in the morning, and watched it melt away under the rising sun.

it’s really good advice. i keep thinking about it. and you know what? yeah, they’re right. more doing and less planning. more MAKING things happen and less just idly hoping they will. i’m not an especially ambitious person but i think there’s something to be said about not waiting around for what you want to happen. i’m not passive about anything else in my life, so why should i be about this?

i don’t mind that my audience would be extremely small; i want to write this story. it isn’t going to come at a magically convenient time every week. i have to make room for it, for myself. even if it’s just a few hours a week, that would be a start. that would be words on the paper.

it’s just. i can’t keep waiting: to perfect my ideas, for the right spark of motivation, for the energy, for the time to write. if i don’t clear my schedule and make time, it won’t happen. it’s not exactly ironic that i’m sitting here right now writing this instead of writing this story, but...sometimes typing things out like this helps me clear my head, get things in the right order. i think i’ve learned something today.

#thoughts about writing

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arnoldjaime13 · 3 years

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Blog Tour: WOLF MARKED by @AlexisCalder1 With An Excerpt & $10 Amazon GC #Giveaway!

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the WOLF MARKED by Alexis Calder Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Title: WOLF MARKED (Moon Cursed #1)

Author: Alexis Calder

Pub. Date: July 29, 2021

Publisher: Alexis Calder

Formats: Paperback, eBook

Pages: 232

Find it: Goodreads, Amazon, Kindle

Read For Free With A Kindle Unlimited Membership!

They tried to break me. Now I’m going to break them.

Cursed to never shift, the only thing I was looking forward to about the First Moon Ceremony was that the magic sealing me into Wolf Creek would break, and I could finally leave. Instead, the ceremony reveals my true mate: Tyler Grant, future leader of my pack and the man responsible for my most recent concussion and black eye. He’s as brutal as he is handsome and fate is a bitch to put us together. There’s a rumor that a mating bond could break my curse and just as I’m getting my hopes up, Tyler destroys them all. Instead of bonding with my mate, I’m beaten and left for dead. A hot-as-sin feral shifter finds me and helps me back on my feet. But his help comes with a cost and I’m not sure I’m willing to pay the price. With my former pack hunting me down, even an enemy might be a better ally than trying to stay alive on my own. This is book one in steamy rejected mate series. This is not a reverse harem series. 17+ for steam, language, and darker themes.

Excerpt

Chapter One

The wind rustled the paper calendar hanging on my wall and I glanced at the crossed off days. Six days left. I was so close to freedom. Pulling my jacket tighter around me, I walked over to the window and peered outside. The sky was steely gray and the clouds looked like they might bring a tornado. It was late spring and the weather this time of year was unpredictable.

Maybe I’d get lucky and it would hit my mom’s shitty trailer and I could get out of here permanently. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to get out of here that easily. Whatever witch magic they’d used to seal us in pack lands seemed to also keep the worst weather away. It also prevented us from self-harm. Not that it kept anyone else from beating the shit out of me.

I supposed if I really wanted out, I could have pushed Tyler and his entourage a little more. The penalty for killing another member of the pack was death, but I had a feeling nobody would mourn me. And it wasn’t like they’d lock up the next alpha for getting rid of the broken wolf.

I closed the window. While we were unlikely to get a tornado here, we did get rain and I didn’t need the water coming in and ruining my few meager possessions.

The duffel bag sitting next to the folding table that served as my desk was already packed. It had been for three months. Waiting until the night the magic would free me from this prison. On the first full moon after my nineteenth birthday, I was supposed to shift, and with that magic, I’d gain the ability to leave the magical border around our town. I already knew I wouldn’t shift, but the magic should break, letting me finally escape from the hell that was my life.

For the rest of the pack, that barrier was our savior. It kept us hidden and protected. Away from feral wolves who hunted other shifters for sport. Away from humans who would kill us on sight. Most importantly, it kept us away from witches. At least that was what they taught us. For me, it kept me away from freedom. I’d take my chances with humans and feral shifters any day over the shit I dealt with here. Witches and magic freaked me out more, but I’d cross that bridge when I got to it.

Fucking magic. Fucking witches. They were the cause of all my pain. The reason I was trapped in a town where I was abused daily. The reason my mom spent her days on her back with whatever pills she could find to dull her pain. I didn’t even know who my dad was but I was sure he was an asshole. Just like my mom’s dad. He was the one who pissed off a witch, resulting in the curse that follows my family. No shifting for us. Practically human with a dormant wolf shifter gene. If only my mom had fled while she was pregnant with me and let us live as humans. Instead, she’d stayed here, pining over the fucker who knocked her up. He never came back and I got stuck here.

“Lola, did you grab cigarettes at the store?” Mom yelled.

“Yeah, mom. They’re on the table.” I shouldn’t indulge her habits. It was gross and it cost me a small fortune but it kept her off my case. She didn’t ask where I went or what I did as long as there were cigarettes on the table and food in the fridge. All paid for by my after school job at the pack grocery store.

It wasn’t a glamorous job, but it was helping me save something for when I finally got free of this hellhole.

I took a peek in the mirror and gingerly touched the bruises from my latest black eye. Another gift from the male who would one day be the pack alpha. If Tyler Grant had treated me with indifference, maybe I’d have stayed here. Instead, I got daily reminders that I was unwelcome. One of these days he was going to go too far and I intended to be long gone before then. Huh, how about that? I guess I didn’t have a death wish after all. My desire to survive was barely hanging on by a thread. It would be easier to roll over and give up. Thankfully, I had the reminder of my mom and what her life was like. I refused to become like her.

I considered applying some concealer to cover my injury, but it wouldn’t hide it much. The rest of my classmates would be healed by now, but since I didn’t have the wolf inside me to aid in that, I healed like a human. The purple and blue made my eyes look even more green than they were. Apparently, I had my father’s eyes. Most of the pack had brown or amber eyes. The green in mine was another thing that made me stand out. Add in the red hair and it was impossible for me to hide.

Quickly, I pulled my hair into a low ponytail to get it out of the way. I grabbed my backpack and slung it over my shoulder. Six more days. That was all I had to do. Just a few more days of school, a few more days of work, a few more days of ignoring the over-acting of my mom’s moaning through the paper-thin walls of her bedroom. I shuddered. No kid should have to hear their mom engaging in that. I didn’t judge how she earned her money but I sure as hell didn’t want to listen to it.

With one last glance at my packed bag, I left my room. The thought of leaving was the only thing getting me through the motions. Chin high, I reminded myself that I was almost there. I’d made it this far. I could make it six more days.

Students mingled in the grass in front of Wolf Creek Community College when I arrived. I glared at the building, which was right next door to Wolf Creek High School. Sometime when I was a small kid, they’d expanded the school requirement to make all of us take at least one semester of college while waiting for our first full moon. Most kids who grew up here dropped out as soon as they had their first shift and settled into some mundane job in town. Few left because we all knew being a wolf without a pack was challenging. I wouldn’t ever turn into a wolf so I wasn’t worried. Being alone would be better than being here.

It was the twenty-fourth of May and there were only a couple weeks of school left before summer break. But I wouldn’t be here to finish the year. My birthday was last week, which meant the full moon in six days was my ticket out. I was so close, I could taste it.

As I neared the entry, I realized that a small group of guys was waiting by the front doors. My heart pounded and I froze. Tyler and his crew were gathered there despite the fact that most of them had already had their first full moon. Tyler was one of the few wolves who stayed enrolled in school after his first shift last month. I figured for sure he’d be out of here since his future was set. As the next alpha, it didn’t matter if he had any actual skills aside from being able to throw people around. He could do whatever he wanted and nobody would bat an eye.

Quickly, I changed direction and started walking toward the side of the building. There were other doors I could use and I wasn’t in the mood to get the shit beat out of me today. It wasn’t like I was a pushover but there was nothing fair about three dudes against one non-shifted chick.

I slipped into the side door and walked down the tile hallway. Kids I’d known my whole life glanced at me and quickly looked away. That was how it was for me. When I was younger, it hurt that I was so alone. Now, I was grateful for their indifference. Ignoring me was better than the alternative.

When I finally took my seat in my Calculus class, I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d made it in without sporting a new black eye. Six more days.

Professor Ortiz started writing on the white board and the four other people in the class were already taking notes. I had no deep love of math, but I was good at it and Tyler wasn’t. Another not as proud moment. My schedule was based on things Tyler hated. I reminded myself that it wasn’t like I’d even get the credit for the class since I’d be out before the term was over. It was pure survival at this point.

Soon enough, I was sucked into class, too focused on the numbers to worry about anything else. Okay, so maybe I liked that about math. It forced me to shut out my other worries.

I went through the motions for the next two classes, doing enough to keep the professors from noticing me and not engaging enough to draw attention to myself. It was a balancing act I’d perfected over the years. Keeping to myself and making myself nearly invisible were the only ways I’d made it this far.

The hallways were packed. There were only a hundred of us in this school, but since we all had the same lunch, it got busy when it was time for a break. I walked into the crowd, keeping my gaze down to avoid confrontation. It was especially important this close to a full moon.

Someone ran right into me, their shoulder slammed into mine, shoving me aside. I looked up, ready to find a way out, but when my eyes met Tyler’s I knew I was fucked.

“Where have you been hiding little wolf?” He stared at me with his amber eyes, a vicious smile on his lips. His fingers dug into my bicep as he held me tight. “I waited for you at the front door but you didn’t come. I thought maybe you were playing hooky.”

“What and give someone else the chance to beat the shit out of me? You know we’re exclusive.” Missing school was worse than attending. Tyler and his friends might use me as a punching bag, but the torture that came with being truant was far worse. I’d tried a few times in high school, but it wasn’t worth the pain.

He pushed me forward into the women’s bathroom. The door swung open and two girls standing by the sinks screamed.

“Out. Now.” Tyler growled.

“I don’t know why you waste your time with her,” Tenny, a tall blonde who was a few months older than me said.

Every female at school wanted Tyler. He was going to be the next alpha, after all. Even without the promise of power, his looks would buy him a lot of attention. He was over six feet of solid muscle. With wavy black hair, piercing amber eyes, and a strong masculine jaw, he was like a walking wet dream. Thankfully, his good looks were wasted on me. He’d been an awkward kid and by the time he resembled a fucking Greek God, I knew what kind of person he was.

“Ditch the loser, Ty,” Tenny said in what was probably supposed to be a seductive tone. “We haven’t had a tumble in my back seat in a while.”

“I said, out,” Tyler repeated.

“She probably doesn’t even know what you like,” Tenny whined.

“What exactly do you think he’s doing with me?” I asked. “Because I promise you if he put his dick anywhere near me, I’d bite it off.”

Tyler’s hand made contact with my face, slapping me so hard it nearly knocked me on my ass. The sting made my eyes water and I forced myself to clench my jaw and hold my breath rather than cry out. I’d learned long ago that when I reacted, it made things worse.

Tenny giggled. “Well, since she’s not meeting your needs, you know where to find me if you want a real wolf.”

“Out,” Tyler repeated.

The girls left the bathroom and I pulled free of Tyler’s grip. “What do you want, Tyler?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “My father should have kicked you and your whore of a mother out the day your grandfather crossed that witch. Better yet, he should have let you starve in the caves.”

I swallowed hard. The worst punishment in our pack was being locked in the caves on the south end of town, right near the border. Locked in without food or water with other criminals meant that wolves often went feral and fed on each other. It was gruesome and had only been used once in my lifetime, but the threat was always there. Only, this was the first time Tyler mentioned it. He’d told me I shouldn’t be here in previous encounters, but he’d never talked about the caves. Ever since his first shift, he’d been more emotional and less stable. I was grateful he wasn’t the alpha yet.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be out of here soon and you’ll never have to look at me again.” I glared at him.

Before I saw it coming, his hand was around my throat and he pushed me back, slamming me against the wall. I heard the cracking of my head as it made contact and hoped it didn’t mean I had another concussion. Pain blurred my vision and I winced despite myself.

He was faster and stronger than he was before his first shift. When we were younger, I had a chance against him. As we got older, he got stronger, feeding off the energy of his wolf. I didn’t have that advantage. It was hard to tell if the beatings had gotten worse or if he’d gotten stronger.

When we were in elementary school, he teased me but by middle school, things turned physical. In the last year, I had learned I didn’t stand a chance fighting back anymore. What I wouldn’t give for some of the strength and power that came along with a shift.

Tyler scowled at me. His expression reflecting pure hatred. I never knew what I did to make him so mad, but it had gotten worse recently. Beating me up had always seemed to be a sport, something he did with a laugh to show off to his friends.

That’s when it hit me that we were totally alone. My heart pounded faster. In all the years of dealing with Tyler, he’d always had others with him. There were always witnesses. He liked the audience and there was always someone to pull him back if he took things too far. We’d never actually been alone before. For the first time during one of our little torture sessions, I was worried. This wasn’t just a game anymore.

“Let me go,” I demanded.

“Like I said, you shouldn’t even be here, little wolf.” He squeezed harder, making me gasp for air. My vision blurred, growing darker around the edges. For a moment, I wondered if this was it. If he took me out, I would be free of this place, done with the pain. I considered it for a heartbeat. A flicker of anger urged me forward, I wasn’t ready yet.

Risking retaliation, I kicked Tyler right in the nuts. He let go, groaning, as he grabbed his manhood. I sidestepped him then bolted for the door, sucking in air as I fled. The hallway was empty. His friends nowhere in sight. Whatever Tyler had been after, he didn’t want any witnesses. If he hadn’t already had his mind set on murdering me, he probably did now. I might have just signed my own death warrant. Fuck. Surviving for the next six days was going to be harder than I thought.

About Alexis:

Alexis Calder writes sassy heroines and sexy heroes with a sprinkle of sarcasm. She lives in the Rockies and drinks far too much coffee and just the right amount of wine.

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8/2/2021

TLC Book Nook

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Two Chicks on Books

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Don't Judge, Read

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8/6/2021

What's Beyond Forks?

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delicatefury · 6 years

Text

I’m back in my city, at the LCS, enjoying a coffee on a miserable day. The bar exam is over and I have two days before I go back to work. I still need to do one last thing for my bar application (the state’s a UBE state so I have to do an “educatonal component” on the differences in the state law from the common law. It’ll probably take me a morning or an evening and it’s an open book test that you can keep taking until you pass), but other than that, my time is completely my own for the first time since frickin’ September.

So here’s the plan of what’s going to change going forward:

Back to writing! Good news everyone, I can finally write and plot and all that good stuff without immediately being distracted by the guilt of “you should be studying”. I’ve got some asks to answer, some plots to lay down, and some editing to do but I hope to have a new TDPL snippet at the very least ready to go by Friday. Still no clue when chapter 5 will be ready though. I need to rearrange some plot stuff first.

Also, I plan to have a second or third draft in my one completed original story done by my 30th birthday in seven months, so depending on inspiration, so expect some general writing rants about that too. (I’m going to flood my two best friends with drafts of that once I’m ready. One because she is a nit picker who loves reading more than I do so will easily find every plothole, grammar mistake, and OOC moment for me, the other because she’s been heavily invested in my writing since we were fifteen and I still have some old, old drafts covered in her notes and questions and excited squeeing.)

Reading! My goal is 8 hours a month (at least) which means about two hours a week. I’ve got Terry Pratchett’s Night Watch sitting on the table right now, and I found a copy of The Hero of Many Faces at the used bookstore (warehouse, actually. That place is friggin’ huge), so that’s probably next. I want to finish a book or two a month, so once I reach those goals, I’ll be working on some of my massive tomes from college (Socrates, Plato, some political books and collected writings, some stuff on game theory... etc.)

Drawing! My paper collection habits have left me with a lot of sketchbooks and drawing pads, so if I want to keep indulging, I have to start using them up. Plus, I love having a visual reference for the characters I’m writing. Also, my skills are super rusty. So, I’m gonna try to do a reference picture a day (from Senshistock on deviantart and a couple drawing apps since I can’t do posemaniacs. No computer so the pics don’t load. Which is a shame. Those thirty second gesture drawing exercises are awesome.) I’m also gonna use some time on the weekend to learn/refine a skill. This week? Skin tones. ‘Cause I suck at them. Always have.

Painting! One evening a week (or every other week) just having fun with a canvas and trying new things. I’m tired of bare walls so I’m going to fill them up with my own work and learn as I go. I’ve got so many ideas too, pages of sketchbooks filled with basic designs and rough sketches that I’ve been dying to put to canvas. Also, motivation to get my office clean.

KNITTING! I’m finishing my nephew’s blanket before Easter now that I have the time to devote to learning the new skill needed to complete it. Then finish my brother’s scarf, work on my sister’s afghan, and make myself that pretty summer shawl I want before going back and working on socks for Christmas next year.

Law stuff!

Being Social! Again, no more guilt of “I should be studying” so next time my sister or coworkers say “let’s get a drink” I can say “OK!” Instead of “I really want to but...”

Cleaning! My office and room are nightmares right now. I was doing ok most of the last few months, but the entirety of February... yeah. But it’s spring and I need to pack up my winter clothes (in a new box that I know for a fact my cat can’t get into and which will be at the bottom of a stack of boxes just in case) and take stuff to the dry cleaners and air out the house before we switch from the HV to the AC. So might as well do a whole cleaning/purge, right?

Exercise! I signed up for cardio boxing at the very end of January but have yet to go (you know the drill of why that is), so I’m gonna go get my membership card and try to go at least twice this week.

Job search. My cousin’s wife’s workplace back home (and in the state where I just took the bar exam) is looking to hire people with J.D.’s, and she’s asked for my resume to show to their HR people, so I’ll be cleaning that up and sending it on. I also need to work on a writing sample. My current one is several years old, and, as I’ve been advised, I should probably start doing my own research to submit for publishing (since this is kinda what I want to be doing anyway). Also, my linkedin is embarrassingly out of date and bare, so, yeah. I’ll be working on all that in the evenings too.

Video games. I’ve finally started my Pokémon Sun game (hey, do any of you play it? I’d love to actually know the people I add to my friends’ list for once) and I’ve got a whole friggin’ backlog to get through. I’m gonna save up for a New3DS since the left-trigger of my current one is broke (a mild annoyance for most games, but for some of the ones I really want to play, it completely breaks the game i.e. I can’t aim in any Zelda game and I’m not good enough to play without targeting) as well as a switch.

Work on a side-hustle. Be it producing original stuff here for a Ko-Fi account, finally creating that etsy store for my cute little paintings (remind me to post the fox painting I made for my nephew), or selling my coffee cozies at the LCS, I’ve got plenty of ways to make extra money that I haven’t taken advantage of. No more! If I want to enjoy my daily coffee while still saving up, I gotta start earning extra money.

COOKING! And BAKING! I’ve got so many recipes better suited to spring than winter and so many cookies I’ve been neglecting (macarons and snickerdoodles and fancy iced sugar cookies...) because they take more time than chocolate chip. But now I have time and SUNLIGHT (which makes it easier for me to be productive in the evening. Once the sun goes down my mind says “day’s over” and goes into pre-bed mode. But we’re almost to SPRING so that’s not an issue anymore) so more messing around in the kitchen for me.

Now, is this too much to conceivably fit in a week when I’m still working full time? Probably, yeah. But I’ve always done my best and been happiest when I’m slightly overwhelmed (slightly being the operative word. Last month I was just completely overwhelmed because of that background chorus of “study study study study” going in my head at all times), so Imma try to do it all. Or at least attempt. And if I turn my “indulgences” of reading and video games into important self-care with goals and everything, I think I’ll be more able to healthily fit them into my life and schedule.

And I’m just... so excited to finally move forward. And if I end up failing the bar and have to retake in July? I’ve got nearly two months before I know if that’s an issue and nearly five months before that test anyway so I’m going to enjoy myself until then.

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vesperlionheart · 6 years

Text

The Barn 11

It wasn’t morning when Sakura awoke next, but hours later when the sky was dark and burning with the promise of a not too far off sunrise. She could feel her magic spent and shallow, but the cuts were all but faded across her body.

She stood and looked herself over in the mirror, hesitant to touch the gauze bandage taped over her face and lip. She pulled back half the tape first and lifted the gauze. There was no cut, but a trail of piner skin still showed off even in the dim of the room what had once been there. She grinned like a bulldog, if only she bit as hard as one.

“It’s been years since I wanted to hurt someone,” she mused out loud, speaking to her own reflection like it had an opinion to offer back. “Just like it’s been years since I’ve touched my magic. What a coincidence.”

She channeled magic into her bones around her hand and let it glow green before hovering it over the pink scar. Bit by bit, she worked the skin back into a healthy color that bore no resemblance to the damage it once glared. Healing had become easier in her old age like they said it would. The older you grew the easier things were to control and manipulate, but the less vigor you had over magic. That was the trade off.

‘But a bone witch will hold her magic longer than the others. You won’t have to worry about controlling or manipulating magic when you’re your mother’s age. You’ll be able to outlast them all.’

She let the magic stay in her hand, softly burning in her bones with no real goal or purpose other than to exist and be felt. It was warm with life to the touch, and langnuid in its unformed state. If she closed her eyes she could almost smell it, but the exact nature of the scent escaped her. It was easier to notice other’s scents, but she could never pin down her own.

Sakura was starting to admit to herself that magic was like a bad habit or a warm bed, easy to climb inside of and harder to slip away from.

Why had she given up magic in the first place?

Sakura indulged and it felt like sinning when she channeled what was left of her magic through her body and built up the fibers of her muscles, the tissues and sinews, the knit of her skin and construct of her form to its prime with healing magic. Her bones burned and sang, seeping warm magic through her until it felt like she had run marathons daily for decades. It was a high that sent her brain reeling with glee.

She felt like she had to keep using her magic until it was spent. What else could she do?

She lifted her left hand to try something else and suddenly the magic rubbed raw there. She felt the rough texture like sandpaper under her magic and had to recoil. Her high came crashing down as the shock traveled up her arm and she stumbled backwards, hitting the edge of the bed with her hip and sliding down. She gripped her throbbing wrist and held it tight with her good hand, watching as her knuckles turned white and the skin turned red.

‘Remember what you did, remember what you lost!’

The message was clear as fate and it was enough to bring her back. Sakura screwed her eyes shut and braced with her toes curling into the carpet for purchase. She felt the deep places of her settle and thanked God she hadn’t gone too far and touched the black magic underneath it all.

They spoke of hitting your limit like crashing to the ground after flying, suddenly having nowhere to go. That was true for everyone else, but not for Sakura. She brought her grave digging shovel and she was ready to dig when she got to that point.when others got to the end of their magic they stopped or were stopped, but those conventions held her like wet paper and she knew there was something more than just her limits to explore. There was more to unearth in the moist soil of her magic, and She did so because she knew there was something worth finding there.

She looked up to the mirror and swallowed, searching for any of the telling signs, but her skin was unmarred and just as pale and plain as expected. There were no patches of black blotting like ink drops anywhere, and her eyes were wide and scared, but still hers. There was no voice either.

“Stupid,” Sakura said out loud to herself.

She felt like an idiot. It had only been for a minute, but for that small moment in time she had forgotten what she swore she would never forget. So many years ago she had paid for her greed with the dexterity of her left hand and the peace of mind that came with knowing your magic wasn’t sentient and malicious.

Back then Sakura just wanted to be the best witch she could be.

Now all she wanted to be was sane.

She dressed, threw out the old bandages, and left with a folded note on the bed for Kakuzu to find when he woke. The walk back to the barn was mundane and long, by the time she made it her feet were sore and the sun was well risen, but her head was a little neater. When she opened the door and saw the breakfast cooking she was able smile and joke.

Everything was back to being mostly fine.

“I hope you saved some for me.”

“Shopping?” Madara echoed, already frowning at the idea of it. “Please no, I don’t want to go out today.”

“You don’t have to. I can find stuff for you if you want to stay behind, but I think it would be good to do something a little more mundane and normal. It’s been a little too crazy for me lately and I need to get some of you caught up with the times more than others.”

“I thought you could just magic our clothes,” Gaara said with a wiggle of his fingers to help illustrate his words. “You don’t need to spend your money on us.”

Sakura grinned and held up a black matted credit card. “It’s not my money. The Uzumaki coven will be covering this bill. Kakuzu had one of their cards and I helped myself. I’m thinking of it as payback for their overzealous monitoring.”

“Is that the real reason you want to go out?” Gaara guessed.

“Oh please,” Konan interrupted. “There are reasons other than revenge to go out and spend someone else’s money.”

“Like?” Gaara asked.

“Shoes!” Sakura interjected quickly, because it was the first basic, normal thing that came into her head that had nothing to do with magic or demons or black marks that spread like a plague.

Konan looked backwards over her shoulder at Sakura before facing Gaara again and nodding. “Yeah, pretty things. Besides that, it would be good reconnaissance for us. If we want to blend in here we should study the people and the culture. Madara, you’re the only one with clearance to actually pick up a job here, you need to come with us.”

Madara glared. “I don’t want a job. It would leave the Barn unguarded.”

“What are we?” Konan exclaimed, looking offended.

“Inferior,” he replied without missing a beat.

“I’ll go with you if there are star drinks,” Gaara whispered to Sakura, watching Madara and Konan get into another argument.

“Sure, let me get my things and we can go.”

Sakura punched in her code for the day and reached for her purse left by the kitchen counter. It was there she noticed the vase of flowers. Pretty yellow and orange foxglove stalks were clustered together. Sakura reached for one, more red than orange, and pulled it free from the waters.

Behind her someone called her name and Sakura blinked, replacing the stalk in the vase and turning away. She didn’t bother asking who left the foxglove in her kitchen, she had seen the same flowers in Kakuzue’s home and remembered it was the Uzumaki's coven flower, appearing on their family crest along with the grinning fox leaping over a human skull that sat atop a pair of crossed arrows.

In addition to just being a favorite flower, they were also convenient conduits of magic for people who weren't bone witches.

Sakura jingled her keys. “I’m ready to leave. Anyone who wants to tag along can come, otherwise I’ll lock the door behind me and expect to be let back in when we come back.” She leveled her eyes on Madara. “Okay?”

Madara lowered his chin but stood up from where he had been leaning so he was taller than her again. His arms were still crossed, but he wasn’t turned away from her at least.

Sakura didn’t wait for his answer, but headed for the car and hoped he followed. Konan took the passenger’s front seat and Gaara slipped in the back. Sakura didn’t hear anything else but when she looked in the rearview mirror Madara was there, just as dour with his arms still crossed.

Sakura drove them somewhere a little out of the city, where the shops were older and less unkept. The trees arched over the roadways and shed leaves of gold and crimson all the way down. Sakura glanced off to the side and saw the rows of brick front homes converted into shop fronts and turned away in the opposite direction.

Not far from the foliage was a tucked away strip mall old enough to have affordable prices and new enough to still sell overpriced confectionary drinks. Sakura parked and looked back to see Madara was gone again, leaving her alone with Gaara and Konan.

“Well, he’s not getting star drinks,” Gaara huffed, less bothered by Madara’s disappearing act than Sakura.

Two hours later Sakura had spent three grand on clothes, shoes, and useless accessories, but felt the need to use her own money to pay for Gaara’s drink in the mall.

Konan sat down on the bench alongside Sakura, dropping the bags to settle beside them on the floor. She sounded tired but Sakura knew she wasn’t, since Konan had the most energy when it came to buying new things, a trait Sakura admired and found relatable.

“When I was younger, much younger, the family would have these champion games for fun, but really it was just the young kids showing off their magic. If you won you got something nice, some years it was a diamond tennis bracelet, a fine bottle of merlot, a champion thoroughbred for your stables, or a day trip to the mall with one of these little black cards.”

“What sort of games were they?” Konan asked, recognizing the note of nostalgia in Sakura’s voice.

“Games that ended with blood, mostly. There were puzzles sometimes, but Naruto was so stupid Kushina tried to shy away from those. When Mito was still alive she didn’t play favorites like that and kept the courses traditional. The Wheel, The Courage, The Star, The Hanged Man, all different games. Find your way through the maze, untangle the illusion from reality before the real threat gets to you, track the monster before it is free on the world to kill, dig down to the end of your magic and then go further.” Sakura shrugged in a way that was practiced. ”Games like those.”

“Did you ever win any games?”

“The Hermit, actually. It was a fancy masked party, a masquerade, and by the end of the night someone close to us would be dead if the hermit wasn’t discovered or unmasked. Who didn’t fit in this party, use your magic to find out.”

“How did you discover it?”

Sakura’s grin was wry. “He was the only one there less at ease than me. It wasn’t a good example and Kushina had a little fit because I never used my magic, but Mito said...it was more than just how much magic or what spells you knew, but the character of a person in a lion’s den, or something like that. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I was just glad I had beat Karin who was a sensor and the obvious favorite. She won the most.”

“It sounds like becoming a witch suited you. Why did you give it up? Finances would have been supplied by the family, I assume, so that’s not the reason,” Konan mused, looking over at Sakura with eyes too keen to swallow deception.

Sakura smiled, but her lips were dry and her throat was close to cotton.

“You know the last game I was a part of was The Wheel. There was this huge roulette table we had to find and spin. Depending on what it landed on we ended up fighting or facing a challenge. Naruto ended up fighting a low powered clone of himself, Karin was stuck unraveling an illusion, Tayuya was stuck in a room with walls closing in a little bit every few seconds, and I….I rolled the Black Knight.”

“What does that mean?”

“It was a construct made from magic, or it was supposed to be, but there was something more to it and it was unlike anything mechanical when I stripped it down there was just teeth and eyes and darkness that swallowed all my magic until it devoured me. It was an undying thing.”

Sakura closed her eyes to the memory.

She hit the ground, the end, the limits of her magic. She had spent it all and she was at rock bottom. That’s when she picked of her grave shovel and started to dig until her skin was the color of topsoil and her teeth were just as long as her nighmares.

“Kushina’s attempt to kill me went very differently. Remember, Menma?”

Sakura opened her eyes and saw the dark haired twin scowling down at her. Sakura’s smile was a lazy stretch of her lips as Konan tensed alongside her. Gaara put a hand on Sakura’s shoulder, making his presence known to her.

“Naruto won that fight fair and square. It was just an unlucky spin,” Menma grumbled in a voice like gravel.

“Sure it was,” Sakura cooed, eyes creased and playful. “And it all turned out okay in the end, didn’t it? What else are you doing in my neck of the woods, cousin?”

“We thought you were Karin. She’s the only one who spends this much.”

“You could just call her,” Sakura flippantly replied, knowing full well how Karin had defected from the family coven two days ago. She also knew she wasn’t supposed to know about how Karin had left the family in such an ugly way. It was embarrassing to admit, probably.

“Funny thing about women and cellphones, they don’t like to use them when they’re angry with you.”

“Karin’s angry with you? I thought she was fond of you boys.” Sakura teased. A part of her in the back of her brain was commending her for being so brave while another part was cursing her for being so stupid. Menma could tear her open if he wanted to.

But he wouldn’t.

“Women get angry without reason all the time, regardless of how fond they may be of a person or thing,” he huffed.

“That sounds like something someone who wasn’t able to get a girlfriend would say. I know mama bear was the sheltering type, but I didn’t think she was so bad. You know it’s illegal to date your cousins so what are you doing tracking down Karin on your own?”

Sakura saw his face fill with color. “It’s not like that, why you have to make everything a joke?”

“Why do you have to be so funny?”

“You have a problem with that mouth of yours.”

Sakura wants to respond on that snap instinct of hers that would have made a witty comeback about that not being what his mom said last night, or something in that vein of rhetoric, but she held herself back in time. Menma was touchy when it came to his mother and she felt that she might push him a little too much if she said something like that.

Naruto was mother’s favorite, not him.

Sakura leaned forward, resting the back of her fist under her chin. “You have a problem with my mouth? Cute. I haven’t heard that one before. You gonna say something original or do I have to listen to the same lines as your brother?”

She blew him a playful kiss that kept his face red.

“Shut up. I was just here because I thought you might be Karin. It’s not like the rest of the family cares that much about what happens to her next. At least I tried. At least I-”

His words cut off when Sakura thrust forward a single finger to touch his lips and stop him. Behind her Gaara was also tense. The area around them was silent, devoid of humans. Even the people inside the shops seemed gone or out of sight. Suddenly it was too quiet for a mall.

“Sakura,” Konan whispered, touching the younger girl in warning.

“No, I feel it too. Where did Madara run off to?”

“It’s not him,” Gaara said.

Sakura pulled back her finger and stood, facing the direction of the magic that had begun to trickle from. It was familiar and intentional and teasing all at once, making it hard for Sakura to breath.

“Karin?”

Menma exclaimed as the redhead rounded the corner and came into view, looking stunning as always in thin black stilettos and a long mink fur coat. There might have been a little shadow under her eyes, but her makeup was flawless and a perfect mask to the world of her true exhaustions.

Karin smiled and waved to the pair of them with just her fingers. “I heard you were looking for me, Menma. Sorry Sakura dearest, I didn’t mean for you to become a part of this. Before we have our girl talk let me take care of the pest, okay?”

It was an interesting idea, because on their own, Menma and Karin were almost evenly matched, with Karin showing more skill and talent in the end. If Sakura stepped back she didn’t doubt Karin would win. That wasn’t a bad things...but….

Sakura turned and looked behind them where two new figures stood, one she recognized, one she didn’t. Tayuya smiled and waved from beside the boy taller and paler than her. Sakura felt instantly unsettled by the sight of him.

“Who are your friends?” Sakura asked.

Menma looked behind him and cursed too, seeing the new faces for the first time. It looked more and more like a trap for him. He wouldn’t be able to beat Karin on his own easily, especially not if Karin had backup.

“Well, some of them are busy looking for that last friend of yours, tricky bastard, but the ones you see here are your cousin Tayuya and Kimimaro. Say hello and be polite, won’t you dolls?” Karin cooed with a wave of her hand. Her nails were painted a bright red to match her lips and hair. She looked better than she had last they saw each other.

“This is a public place, let’s be civil about it, alright?” Sakura cautioned, raising both her palms and grinning over at Tayuya and the other man. “Right?”

“You’re not as uninvolved as you would like to be,” Menma growled sidelong at Sakura. “You think they’ll leave you alone? They’ll try to take you like he did with your other cousins. Stupid girls.”

“Not very nice, Menma.”

Karin pointed a finger and Sakura heard the magic hit and latch onto his body. Menma choked as the blood inside him began to heat. His eyes bulged and he reached for his own magic to break the hold before his blood boiled.

He snarled and the marks on his face grew darker. Gaara reached for Sakura to tug her back and away, Konan rising to flank her as they turned together to run. In the way Tayuya and the other man stood, blocking their path.

“You’re outnumbered,” Sakura tried.

“Those two can’t use their magic freely unless they want to run out faster. You gonna force them into that?” Tayuya asked, grin mocking. She pulled out her flute and turned it over once before taping it to her lips. “Just come quietly with us while Karin deals with the brat. Our Patriarch has something he would like to talk to you about.”

“I can guess the rest,” said Sakura. “Is it one of those, join me or die sort of deals? Someone mentioned a coven rising up to take down our family. What he say to get you to join?”

“Nothing extraordinary. I was ready with just the thought of revenge. You ready to go?”

Konan reached in front of Sakura and her skin started to peel into paper. Sakura grabbed the older woman to stop her, knowing that Konan and the others only had a limited amount of magic before they ran out and were sent back into the screaming void she had first pulled them out of.

“Let me do this much. I can’t just watch,” Konan hissed, looking more pissed than Sakura thought she had ever seen the woman. “They threaten you right in front of me. I can’t allow that.”

“It’s just smack talk. It’s not your problem-”

“It is if it has to deal with you!” Konan interrupted. “I won’t sit back and watch this again. Don’t ask me to endure such a thing.”

“I as well,” said Gaara, hand back on her shoulder. “It’s not fair that you take care of us all the time without asking for anything in return. Plus, I don’t want to see you bleed again.”

“Fine, let’s beat her down a little before talks and cake, yeah?”

The other girl laughed before rising her flute and blowing. The man moved at the first note and Gaara rushed forward to combat the physical strike while Konan unfolded into a thousand papers, thickening to absorb the blast of sound.

But then, too fast to know how it happened, Menma was thrown through the air, landing on the other side of the mall clearing where they all could see the state of his body, bound in gold chains. Sakura turned and Karin was there. She smiled playfully and then just pointed to where Gaara was fighting, making no move to do anything further.

Sakura turned and felt her heart sink. Gaara was doing his best with the little breakdown of sand he had transmuted from cloth or chair or bench, but the man named Kimimaro was too fast with a sword as pale as bone and smelling just like one.

‘“You’re not the only bone witch out there, cous.”

Sakura started to fly through hand seals, forgetting that she didn’t need them anymore. “Abort mission now!”

“But Madara-”

“He’ll be fine on his own!”

Sakura pulled a bone from her wrist, still slick with fluids and threw it between Gaara and the other bone witch male, knowing it wouldn’t hit but hoping it would be intercepted. She was finished with her own seals, she just needed to get in contact with both Gaara and Konan again.

Kimimaro caught the bone and stopped, rising out of his stance to hold it in one hand and eye it critically.

Sakura used that moment to grab Koan, or what was left of her paper body, and then turn for Gaara. He was close, but she dragged Konan with her to touch him because that was important, they had to be connected otherwise it didn’t work.

She grabbed Gaara and felt bone between her ribs, ripping through her shirt from an outside source. It was pain, but she grit through it and pulsed magic into the seal that would take them all back to the place in the middle of her living room where a seal had been painted right after the incident at the festival.

She saw sticking out of her side, her same bone, thrown back at her. The boy was glaring at her and it was a glare that promised another encounter-one she wouldn’t be able to run away from.

#kimimaro #Sakura #the barn #barn #Menma #Gaara #Madara #Konan #fight fight fight #bone witch #the other bone witch shows up

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