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beann-e · 3 years

Text

Haikyuu! Characters reacting to their s/o Fighting for them

Also i’m taking request !! go put something in the box :4

Tendou

he would enjoy it so much like he’d have a full on conversation while your doing it. He’d even start hyping you up In the back because he knows that’s all it takes to fuel your fire.

Only for you to find out the person who was hitting on him wasn’t talking about him but was talking about another guy and tendou only made it seem like they were so he could piss you off because he finds it so hot when your upset

Your eyes went pointed to the scene in front of you when you walked down from the bleachers. Feet heavy on the ground as you tried to contain your anger.

How did this chick get down here faster than you and why the hell was she talking to your boyfriend once again faster than you ?

You steps slowed as you walked up to them hoping to hear a little bit of the conversation “ yeah I thought it was really hot and I just wanted to say wow up close and personal y’know “

Your eyes widened hot ?

what the hell did she think was hot ?

“ I was uh I was up in the stands and I was honestly a little bit intimidated to come down here and talk to anyone actually —in the first place “ she laughed clutching her bag a little tighter when your boyfriend licked his lips before his teeth came down to nibble on his bottom one lightly, eyes feigning innocence as he listened to her “ especially you so this is like a big milestone for me “

you watched as your boyfriend smiled softly “ yeah I get it — really i’d be the exact same way with a crush I wouldn’t know how to act or even how to talk to them i’ve actually been there before so “

good good you thought praising tendou in your head at the fact that he was trying to slowly bring up the fact that he had a s/o. clapping for him in your head for trying to let the girl in front of him down easily

your body darting to hide behind a group of teenagers when you saw your boyfriends eyes lift up from the girl and look around as if he was checking for someone he must have been wondering where you were. breathing out a sigh of relief that he turned to look over your way too slowly only missing you by a second

“ oh really I assumed that— “

“ no no your good i’m not saying it in that way “

your face dropped ‘in what way ? ‘

“ I understand the fear of talking to your crush but trust me “ he nodded his head towards the girl In front him before he took a sip of water and smiled down on her “ you’ve got no reason to be nervous i’m right her—“

“ hi “ you waved steps quick on the floor beneath you and voice loud to show your presence “ yes y— yes you do “ you laughed reaching your hand out to shake the girls own in front of you

“ i’m y/n — the s/o— of 3 years —is there ? is there anything wrong did something happen to where he needed an emergency check up or something ? “

the sarcasm in your voice making your boyfriend smirk to himself at the way you just jumped into the situation all to protect your relationship it made him feel secure, happy even

it made him in a way feel greedy

your head coming up to look at tendou as you snaked an arm around his waist like he’d done to you in similar situations. Your other one moving to place itself on his chest “ babe are you ok ? are you hurt ? how badly to call a stranger over here ? “

“ baby no nothing like that she just wanted to congratulate me“ he locked eyes with you the slight smirk he still wore ignored by you due to anger at the drama unfolding before you and his next statement. His words coming out soft and sweet though they were meant to encourage his evil agenda “ before you “

“i’m sorry I wasn’t down here to congratulate him on his win so he must have looked lonely “

you shook your head in sadness at the girl “ and open but “ you smiled “ no he’s not—I understand the confusion you must be going through right now but its just miscommunication from your classmates—which leads me to wonder—please tell me what’s your name ? i’ve never seen you before and I bet your not aware of who I am either so introductions could help both of us out here “

“ oh uh i’m niccolo” the girl shook her head softly and wearily as you pulled back quickly

“ mm niccolo— niccolo “ you spoke rubbing the same hand youd just shook niccolos with down your shirt causing your boyfriend to smile to himself and his eyebrows to raise at all the knowing looks from his teammates about the shit storm he’d just put into motion as he planted a small innocent kiss to your forehead while winking to his teammates behind you

“ never heard of it you must be a first year ? “ your boyfriends head shook slightly as he looked to the floor thinking about how that might have been a little bit rude considering she was just a young girl maybe 16 at most.

His mind rolling with thoughts of maybe cutting the game he was playing short because of her age only for him to side eye you and take a sip from his water bottle again ‘ nah they’ve got it ‘

“ oh y-yes i’m new here—i’ve taken the phrase first year a bit too literal “ she joked smile seeming to be forced her hands twitching in nervousness

“ mm — I never would’ve thought “ you spoke sarcastically. Almost every first year knew not to talk to tendou after a game not unless you were down there already.

The both of you had established that as soon as the game is over your the only person who gets to say congratulations to him first since he explained that it means more to him to know that you’ll always be there no matter what he does

no matter if he wins or loses he’ll get to walk off that court and the first thing he sees is the person he loves most with their hands out waiting for a hug. he’s told you that in the moment he wants to feel like your the only one watching because it’s a private game played for you because he believes your so lucky to get to see your smoking hot boyfriend do blocks.

“ oh thank you no ones ever told me that I look older before may I ask why you thin— “

“ because your dum— “

“ haha um “ tendou stretched before speaking again “ because your just really pretty for a first year “ your body went rigid you almost felt like you couldn’t feel anything not even the heat that was radiating off your body

“ aw thank you so much that means a lot y/n was it? “ she smiled genuinely before laughing “ tendous so nice i’m really glad I came down here first before y’know all the fangirls came down “

she shook her head “ y’know I actually got scared because I thought you were one — I was like ahhhh here comes one of those scary stalker girls “ she laughed “ tendou was telling me not to be afraid since he knew you but I was telling him to be careful when talking to people like you —- once again I thought you were a fan girl so I mean you can’t blame me right?”

Yeah she was screwed this had went too far he was too late

“ y/n “ his voice was warning but you waved him off listening to the girl in front of you her voice sounding so confident and honest believing in everything she was saying. Voice pouring through and mouth still moving almost as if she had no filter

she looked to her feet “I doubt any of them would even have a chance with tendou though because— “

your body roared as she explained her reasoning.

You were only feeling this angry at her words because not only did she call you a tendou fangirl but she explained that even if you were one you would have no chance with him even though that’s actually how you two started dating.

Then for her to turn around and rub it in your face how she got downstairs before you oh god you were gonna have a field day with this little twerp if you didn’t find a way to put her in her place respectfully

“ hey um tendou do you think me and my fellow fan girl here can have some alone time just a small chat “

“ oh wow i’ve never had one of those before “ she smiled as tendou stood still wondering if he’d done the right thing by encouraging all of this or if he should just drop it or maybe even sit down and enjoy it

looking down at you cautiously a slight smirk on his face thinking about your face when he would get the chance to you the truth of the situation but only for it to drop as the girl across from him stole his attention away from you causing him to perk up a bit honestly surprised that she spoke again

Was she suicidal or ?

“ I think he may not be leaving because he isn’t comfortable with you yet—he told me earlier that we could be best friends so , he may listen to me more “ she smiled “ tendou I wanna talk to um —y/n so could you maybe give us some time alone —“ her smiling wider almost as if happy to call him her friend —before speaking “ I wanted to help you out “

‘ holy shit she’s testing my patience’

tendous loud laugh ripped through the gym as he grabbed goshiki and turned the both of them around to walk off words heavy and holding meaning “ yeah I know em’ —I know em’ real well physically and mentally trust me your going to have a bestie number two soon enough “

you watched as your boyfriend went to sit on the bench talking softly with goshiki as he put his hands in his pants pockets not paying attention to you two anymore

“ so wha— “

“ look “ you smiled “ i’m gonna be real sweet about this so we can tie this up in a neat little bow “ you pointed towards tendou

“ ‘m not a fan anymore he’s my boyfriend — we’ve been dating for 3 years now ever since we were first years. I met him through a fan club because he saw the art I drew for their game posters and enjoyed it. I told him I liked how passionate he was about something and how he had his own thing and did it in his own unique way that worked for him and then boom we ended up getting closer—closer then need be sometimes “

you sighed as you moved to close the conversation out “ look just please — I understand your a first year you may not know and that’s ok but ; me and my boyfriend like for me to be the first one who gives him a congratulations at the end of a match he never talks to anyone except his team until I do it — he says it’s like reassurance tht he’s doing good he’s had some stuff happen in the past that just — he needs praise and reminders that he’s doing good with his sport and I supply that he doesn’t want it from anyone else and I don’t want anyone else to give it “

you looked to the girl with sympathy in your eyes hoping you didn’t hurt her feelings she really was just a young kid “ it’s ok to have a crush I had one we all do at a point in our lives but right now your hitting on someone in a secure relationship ok ? start asking first please just to be safe in your future years “

her eyes went wide as she moved to speak “ mm I guess I was wrong “

you shook your head “ wrong ? excuse me for not understanding but wrong how“

“ I uh I assumed you weren’t one of those fan girls and I was wrong I did not mean to get in between your weird obsession just please do not harm him or anything like you guys tend to do “

your body blazed eyes lit up in a hard stare at everyone who now turned to face you hearing the girls loud words

“ again with the fan shit “

“ that is what you guys are called I will not call you his s/o if he does not know you “

“ HES MY BOYFRIEND YOU ASSHOLE “

“ wh— “

“ I tried to be nice to you but your not accepting it it’s like you want me to scream at you “

“ yeah babe she totally does “ tendous smile spreading slowly across his face at the way your hips moved to work with your mouth in showing off your evident pissed off mood

“ I know “ you screamed “ she just wants to make this harder for me “

“ duh “ his tongue coming out to swipe across his bottom lip eyes falling down to your hands that were clenched so tightly in anger waving around widely your pissed off expression sending heat traveling across his body

“ you have a child’s crush on him and I keep telling you I don’t mind but I explained to you to just be respectful and then you go and disrespect me again“

“ they are very lenient when it comes to crushes on me “

“ thank you baby —I try not to be rude because I myself was once a fan in a club for the team so trust me I understand but everyone is usually respectful I don’t understand how you “

“ she’s just a first year babe you have to explain it to her more “ he smiled thinking up a new way to see how far you would go for him “ like in depth “

“ I DID “

“ no baby you gotta get rough with her “

you turned with your eyebrows furrowed “ like fight “

he smirked at you body shaking at the way you whimpered out the words but moved to put your hair up anyways yet, again putting him first and your cloudy anger ridden mind second

god you were so hot whenever you showed everyone you’d do anything for him “ fuck — yeah baby your doing the right thing —don’t think about it too much “

you shook your head softly as you battled through it in your head tendou always knew how to get a rise out of you and how to make you do what he wanted you to more so for fun.

It didn’t take much for you to listen to him especially when you couldn’t think clearly because he was the only person there who cared for you and anything he did you knew would only be for his own entertainment purposes he’d never have you do anything bad or that put your safety at risk.

when you were angry —and had someone hyping you up and adding fuel onto the fire it was only 10x worse and tendou knew this

“ here y/n baby—let’s take this outside I don’t want you to get hurt by fighting in here come on you can do it out there “

“ tendou you asshole quit encouraging this shit“ semi whispered

“ I do not understand what is going on —i find myself with a loss of knowledge in this situation but I do feel as though tendou is in the wrong it is only a gut feeling “

the girl in front of you trembled at ushijimas voice—before looking to goshiki who held wide eyes as he waved to the girl hesitantly her eyes darting away and back to him eyebrows coming together as she looked around the gym embarrassed “ but he — he didn’t say anything about you—I didn’t know he didnt tell me “

“ wh—what babe — liar I call liar she’s lying baby — pleas— ow “

your head finally clearing up as you listened to his team talk about how much of a prick he was you reaching out and grabbing the top of his ear and bringing it down to your height while he screamed out in pain “ BECAUSE HES AN ASSHOLE “

“ hey baby I’m sorry i’m sorry but that’s — thats “ his hair went down to cover his face as he looked at you “ thats not cool “

“ I — I didn’t know “

“ but I told you twice “

“ and I — I haven’t had the best experienc— “ her bottom lip trembled before she took off crying when she met the young boys eyes behind her.

Goshiki shaking softly eyes lit up in confusion before he shook his head and pulled himself away from the embarrassing situation to run after her your boyfriend moving to wrap his arms around your waist from the back “ your so hot “

“ but I “

“ you were wrong though so I see looks don’t always pair up with smarts “

“ huh “

“ she wasn’t hitting on me “

“ but she “

“ she has a crush on goshiki this is her first time attending a volley’ game and she accidentally came down the wrong way so it landed her down here faster than everyone else”

your body stiffened “ she only ended up talking to me because I was going into the hallway towards the locker rooms when she for some reason was coming down the opposite way crying to me about how she was lost “

“ then you — you two were talking abo— “

“ she’s a bit fragile —- and she was explaining it and I saw how we were the same because she’s had a hard past too so she’s a bit wary around others—and hates confrontation due to drama at ‘er old school and she doesn’t know much of the people here because she’s a first year also she doesn’t talk much which kinda threw me off when she started having full conversations with you and trying her best to connect with you“ he shrugged “ must’ve thought you were cool —wanted to be your friend or some shit”

he smiled proudly at the fact that you could make people other than himself feel that comfortable around you him peppering kisses all around your face “ she was telling me how she thought goshiki was hot and when I brought up that I was his amazingly beautiful senpai she just wanted me to introduce her to him — she said she’s afraid of people and fangirls because she hasn’t had the best experiences with them she explained one time in middle school she got a bento box thrown at her because a guy from the volleyball team said hi to her “

your body immediately dropped “ you knew her whole life story and then some and let me embarrass myself “

“ well honestly you both did you just a bit more than her “

oikawa

he would praise you so much the whole time. He has fangirls and he loves when you show him why your more important than them. he loves for you to stop him and put them in their place while showing him his own.

He knows it’s not right to flirt with other girls but the excitement and pure happiness he gets when he watches you fight for him with such passion similar to his own for volley he loves it

“ oikawa ~~” A small voice called out before tucking a strand of hair behind their ear “ can we maybe get some photos ? “

holy shit it’s like everyday at this point

“ baby can I ? “

“ just go “ his eyes darted to the group before he looked back at you “ really —swear i’ll be right behind you pretty boy “

He smiled before running off to the group grabbing the pen someone held out for him and writing all over the billions of notepads girls waved in front of his face.

You knew it looked wrong for him to have a s/o and still entertain other girls or guys for that matter but, you knew oikawa. You knew exactly how he felt about them it wasn’t that he was interested or liked them it was that he liked their comments

he liked the attention.

He was someone who needed constant praise to feel like he was doing his best. Hearing all the cheers , all of the shouts of his name, seeing the signs and people that would come to games specifically for him only made him feel like he was human like he was real and talented—appreciated

You would never take that away from him you could never, when you two started dating you explained to him you knew how important his fans were to him and as long as he kept a certain line that couldn’t be crossed— that he would always come back to you. Everything would be ok.

You slowly walked up behind him leaving space for people to have a hard time differentiating if you were apart of the crowd or with him but you were still close enough to hear the whispers of how hot he was and honestly he was.

He had the muscles—the beautifully glowing skin that others around you two dreamed of and to put a topping on the cake he was still sporting his ruffled hair from his earlier game. He was your dream man and you were lucky to even be able to stare at him behind closed doors or at least that’s what he told you whenever you walked into his room.

“ oikawa-san “

“hmm “ he spoke staring down on the girl that reached out to grab his arm as he was turning to leave

“ could I talk to you please “

his eyes darted to find yours locking on them when he finally found them. His mouth now moving to mouth a question as you shook your head lightly you’d give him five more minutes he deserved it and you wanted him to feel like he’d done a good job at his game today ,which he really did do, him only going back to the girl in front of you two

“ oh well I really wanna — i’m supposed to —“ he sighed out before he collected himself “ I want to take my s/o home before it gets too late I don’t want them walking alone at night “

“ oh s/o “ her voice dropped as he shook his head up and down “ correct of 2 years “

“ oh my um congratulations— to many more to many more with many more “ she rushed out quickly reaching in her backpack

“ thank you our anniver— “

“ could we get a picture “

he sighed before his smile spread only growing into a fake one lips going tight on his face “ yes of course just one i’d like to get on the ro— “

His breathing stopped as he felt the girl next to him lay her lips on his. The click of the camera making his eyes go wide as he shook. Oikawa to most wasnt one who was as submissive as he was with you. He was a bit more ‘ manly ‘ to other people but around you he always fell into submission especially when he knew he fucked up

His eyes slowly moved to find yours that flaming as you stared down the girl in front of him . You leaning against the wall only making him feel a shiver move down his spine.

Had he fucked up that badly that you weren’t even moving.

He kept looking between you and the girl in front of him eyes trying to convey his thoughts as they screamed

‘ look y/n she’s still talking to me — at this point she’s fucking with me not the other way around ‘

His mind went blank as you walked over your face made up into a stoic one voice coming out monotoned devoid of annoyance or any feeling at all “ your lips must be magnets or some shit“

“ excuse me “

“ oh no it’s just that Insee you’ve put your lips on my boyfriend“ your eyes creased at the girl before looking up and down in curiosity “ so I was just wondering if your big mouth was hiding a magnet or something — anything really to explain why you would put your dirty ass mouth on my rather pristine boyfriend “

Pristine ? his body went upright standing a bit taller ‘ hell yeah i’m pristine keep em coming babe ‘

“ are you not going to apologize ? “

“ I uh “ her eyes went up into sadness and fear as the courage that once swirled through her left upon seeing your emotionless stare. She’d just kissed your boyfriend and you looked like you were walking dogs or doing an everyday house chore “ i’m sor—sorry “

“ oh not to me “ you let out a small head nod over to oikawa “ I meant him “

“ oh oh um yes “ she coughed before she made eye contact with oikawa whos eyes were creasing as he stared down on the frail girl before him

“ i’m sorry “

“ no go on take your time “

“ i apologize that “

“ really I know it’s hard to apologize to someone as pristine as me“ your boyfriend moved to nudge you softly “ isn’t that right y/n“ he spoke as he tried and failed to wink down at you

“ uh yeah babe um “ you shook your head as your eyebrows furrowed before you returned to your earlier self “ wait what oikawa stop playing and fix this shit “

“ oh uh “ he straightened himself up at your words “ what were you suppose to be saying again “

“ oh I just wanted to um “ she turned to make eye contact with you before jumping a bit and turning away squeaking out her words “ i’m sorry for hitting on you knowing that you had a s/o “

“ oh ok that’s it? ” his body sulked as he looked to the floor

“ that’s it ? — you don’t care that she hit on you asshole“ you slapping his arm harshly before he whimpered at the contact

“ what’s wrong baby “ your hand came up to rub his back and arm while he pouted turning away from the both of you

“ I just wanted her to she was sorry “

“ ‘kawa she did we can go home now “

“ no she didn’t say it the way I wanted her to “

your hands fell from him as you let out a huff of air before turning to the girl in front of you and moving to whisper in her ear as she sat confused unmoving In her spot before smiling softly and speaking uncomfortably and regretting her decision to ask the male out

“ oikawa “ she coughed his eyes looking over at her while still holding up his dramatic show “ I just wanted to say i’m sorry for hitting on your s/o’s “

Her eyebrows furrowed before she looked to you who was mouthing the words and shaking her head in an ok motion “ pretty boy —“ he perked up at the words “I will never hit on someone of your elegantly pure , flawlessly clean , stature ever again “

Yes he made her embarrass herself by asking for more kind uplifting words more so to make himself feel better than for you. All the while he enjoyed the praise he received from not only the person he loved but the person he didn’t.

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marvellovegalore · 3 years

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Hurting you

Chris Evans

Part Une - Loving You

Synopsis: You encounter your lost love Christopher and you talk about how you've done something awful.

Word Count: 1,954

Author note: This part is the follow-up to my latest write up, which I realise didn't garner much attention, but a second part was requested. Strongly advised to read part one.

Warning: Explicit Language, Mention of Drugs

Champagne showers your throat, its cool bubbles rippling inside you and all the way down your body. Your hips sway as you make your way through the tightly packed group of people. Laughter surrounds you as you re-join the dancing fray. A green-eyed model grabs you around the waist, his hands grabbing the thin material of your dress. The end of your dress dances over your high-heeled feet, you twist in the model’s arms and sway against him. Your back presses against him and he holds you tighter.

He whispers something in your ear, something or another about leaving with him to ‘fuck’ on the beach. You barely hear it over the music. Your eyes scanning over your friends that are sprawled around the room, all of them dressed in their finest threads. You would have taken him up on the offer, had it not been for the fact that you have been dating a particular Hollywood leading actor. You’d rather not have any outright fight at a party you’re enjoying because of ‘cheating’.

You move away from the model’s tight hold; you can almost hear his sigh. You dance over to a friend who beckons you to come with her to the bar. You gladly follow, reaching the bar takes a few minutes due to the crowd clambering over their drinks. You finally reach the bar; you lounge on the mirrored countertop. The barman approaches you, “Death in the Afternoon.” You wink at him, he smiles politely.

You turn and scan the room your eyes glazing the room, you catch sight of your date, hiding in a nook. He raises a glass to you, and you turn away from him. Drinking the sight of the partying people fills your stomach, many of them can’t help but stare at you, your presence like a diamond in the rough.

And there he is.

Your breath catches in your throat.

His arm draped across the shoulders of a tanned brunette; her eyes unmoving - glued to his. His lips ghost over hers, they way they used to do to your lips; giggles are whispered through her lips. Wearing a full suit with an undone bow tie strung around his neck - he looks like a drunken dream.

You want him.

He hasn’t noticed you. Or is pretending that he hasn’t.

It’s been six months since that night. You barely remember it; you were so intoxicated - on alcohol and Diazepam. An entirely irresponsible mixture, you try to pretend to yourself that you don’t know why you took what you did; but you know why. It was the only way that you had the courage to do what you did. Otherwise, you’d be with—

“One Death in the Afternoon.” The muscular barman places the crystal flute in front of you, you let a smirk grace your lips. If you weren’t in the same room as your date, you’d fuck him. But you’re trying to change.

You turn back in his direction, your friend also spots him, she promises that she’ll do everything to keep you guys apart. Your friends and family were informed of an amicable break-up with tears shed on both sides - by him. The media reported something similar - both PR teams sending well wishes to the other party and asking for privacy for those involved.

You weren’t aware of the amicable breakup until the email was forwarded to you by your PR head. You had blocked his number, but he had blocked you in every other way possible; you won’t pretend that it was unwarranted. Nor will you pretend that it didn’t hurt, but you couldn’t begin to imagine how much he was hurt.

You’ve done worse, but you don’t think you’ve ever done it to someone you actually loved.

You find yourself back in the folie of dancing, your dress billowing around your legs, its silky touch caressing your skin. You catch sight of the tanned brunette entering the dance floor; he’s following her, his hands toying with her waist.

They dance closely, his eyes roaming her body hungrily. You feel like vomiting. This isn’t fair. You close your eyes and knock your head back, willing the horrible sight away. The songs change twice before you open your eyes properly, your eyes immediately lower to where he is. Their lips are locked, their eyes shut off from the party, his hands dance on her arse.

You are most definitely going to throw up.

You rush away from the crowd, attracting concerned gazes, brushing off the offers of help, you finally manage to leave the house. You edge towards the pool and double over, you dry heave over the grass. You will the vomit up, but it is to no avail. You move away from the tennis style grass and make your way through the garden. Your walk leads you to the sea just beyond the expansive garden. The sky is a warm umber, the setting sun barely visible.

You don’t know how long you’ve been stood there, but you feel a presence behind you. You pray it’s not your date - demanding you keep him company.

You turn and feel your heart stop.

He looks beautiful. It’s the most undeniable beauty you’ve ever seen. He makes your heart throb.

Your heart swells, a feeling you’ve only ever felt once blanketing your heart.

Longing.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to trust someone so much ever again.” His voice is husky, his accent very noticeable. “I couldn’t figure out whether speaking to you would be a good idea, but I really wanted to understand,” he sighs deeply, his fingers whisking out a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket, “even a slither of your psyche.” He lights one cigarette and exhales.

You watch him intently but divert your gaze when he looks at you. “What do you mean?” You whisper. Your courage has left you, and your confidence has set itself on fire.

He nudges the cigarette towards you, “I know you’re more of a vogues girl, but you’re going to have to forgo that right now.” You take the offered cig and pop it in between your lips. It tastes of him somehow and you want to die. “I’ve been fucked up since I left Massachusetts, unbelievably so. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way.” He takes a tremulous breath.

You’re frozen. The cigarette needing to be ashed, he takes it from your fingers. He takes a swift inhalation. “I may have developed a mild dependency on alcohol… and on you. I can’t go to parties without thinking of you. I can’t get out of bed without thinking of you, I can’t breathe — without thinking of you.” His breathing is steady, his words stronger than the wind carried by the sea. You can’t breathe, his words taking the majority of your oxygen, he hands you back the cigarette.

“If I hadn’t done it then, you would have done it first.” You shiver with the cold breeze from the surf. If you could choose between kissing him or dissipating, you would choose to dissipate right into the sand.

His eyes flash across to you, his irises seething with anguish and droplets of anger. “It’s not a race, it never should be.” His hiss cuts across your chest, almost shattering your pearls. “I loved you, like I’ve never loved anyone.” His words make you look at him. The eyes that haunt your dreams are there, right there, less than a step away. The wind brushes his tendrils of golden hair across his face, he looks like a kaleidoscope manifested into flesh. “But I hate you now, in ways I have never hated someone.”

You feel like you’ve been stabbed in the neck.

You can feel a tear slip past your eyelashes, and you almost curse the skies. “That’s fine.” You choke quietly, your voice on the cusp of being drowned by the waves.

“I’ve moved on. I’m happy.” He sighs, he dashes the cigarette stub into the ocean, his hands going back into his pockets. His eyes don’t shift away from yours. “But you haunt me.” He looks away, towards the darkened horizon. “If I could choose between you dying or the Boston bomber - I would choose you.”

Your eyes widen with horror.

You’ve never been confronted with the pain you’ve caused. It’s never bothered you that men would desperately try to tarnish your image in salacious magazines. But this, this hurt you. Finally.

You can’t stop the tears now. You sink into the sand. The water washes against the borders of your legs. You choke a sob back.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is small and dejected.

“That’s alright.” He’s lit another cigarette. He sits down next to you, offering you a toke. You take it, peaking at him from under your eyelashes.

Looking up at him, you’re met with a longing gaze.

You’re going to wonder forever what’s possessed him, but his lips find yours. They’re the light at the end of the tunnel and following the path to it guarantees his survival.

The embrace is bittersweet, sprinkled with pleasant familiarity. The taste of smoke tendrils dances between your tongues. His fingers swim in your hair, greedily pulling you deeper into his kiss. You want to die in his arms, it would be indeed the heavenliest way to die. You grab his shirt and hold on for dear life, his wine-soaked tongue intoxicating you further. Fireworks explode behind your eyelids and you sink further into him.

He breaks away from the kiss. His eyes riddled with unspoken secrets.

He stands up, his hand extending towards you. Lifting you to your feet and taking your hand in his, he begins to sway with you to the muffled music coming from the house. His hand rests above your bum, comfortably leading you in this dance. You lean your head against his chest, inhaling the smell of cologne and Marlboro Reds. The smell that used to wake you up on holiday weekends. A tear slips from your eye, a manifestation of your longing and your need for him.

Why do hurt people, hurt people?

You recall the day your father left your mother for dead.

“Where’s mum going, daddy?” You look up at the towering figure of your father.

His stern gaze remains on the distressed woman being handcuffed to the gurney. He brushes off your question with a glare embalmed with stone. You gulp and return your stare to your screaming mother; you rush to her, but a paramedic stops you in your tracks. Your mothers begs your father to let her go, her cries echoing around the front garden. Her roses seemingly wilt in sympathy for their weeping creator. She screams and fights against the paramedics, your father doesn’t wait until the doors of the ambulance have been closed before he closes the front door.

You rush to the living room window, standing beyond the curtain with your face pressed against the glass, you watch your mother being driven away.

You’ll never see her again and never know where she took her last breaths; and you’ll be transferred to board at your school. You see your father annually and eventually he leaves you for retirement in South Africa, you’re alone and unloved.

So, you steal hearts so that your own can heal.

Chris breaks your dance, his hypnotising spell diluted by the distance imposed by his now hardened glare. He turns and leaves, his shadow furthering away from your own. You watch in astonishment as he leaves you, cigarette smoke billowing away from his receding figure.

You can’t help the stream that washes your cheekbones.

He’s done the impossible - broke you.

Part 3 -

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downtonabbeyrevisited · 3 years

Text

Season Two Episode Three

Conversion of the Abbey into a convalescent home for Officers is underway, ushering in a territorial battle that at times makes what is going on on the other side of the channel look like a mere scuffle. With the chain of command yet to be set, the floor is open for some of the best Isobel v. Cora v. Violet action that Downton has to offer. However, Isobel’s hostile takeover is slowed by a combination of O’Brien’s Machiavellian urges and Robert’s love of hierarchy. O’Brien tees up Thomas to take charge of Downton and coaxes him into the fray as he leans on an archway smoking his way into a wide variety of lung problems in later life. In an almost implausible about face (the key word for King Julian here is almost), Robert, Major Clarkson and Carson agree that Corpral Barrow is now trustworthy(ish), should be bumped up to the rank of Acting Sargent and be allowed to use the front door (although Carson remains unsure about the last bit). With Thomas in place and Major Clarkson at the hospital, Robert is on the hunt for another “tier” having looked at this microcosm of society and decided that there was not enough division. Evelyn Napier’s request to stay at Downton prompts Major Clarkson to enact border controls that would make Priti Patel look on in envy and neatly demonstrates the bind in which the Crawleys now find themselves. It is perhaps fitting, if predicable, that by the end of the episode Isobel and Cora are to share responsibility for Downton in what will remain the worst coalition of all time until 2015 when Cadbury will get together with Vegemite. Look it up. Trust me, it was rank.

Having an equally tense episode is Lavina who, fresh from behind manhandled behind the laurels, is now under Rosamund’s microscope with Violet declaring her to be an object to be removed which is a bit harsh even for her. It is rumoured that Lavinia stole secrets from her Uncle for Richard Carlisle to publish as part of his uncovering of the Marconi Scandal, a historical event whose name is said loudly and clearly at least three times so that we can all Google it in the ad-break. Sensing a potential weakness, the Crawley women (who I am resisting the urge to call Robert’s Angels) dig deeper as Mary hunts out Lavinia to give her the third degree. Lavinia admits that she did start the uncovering of the scandal but not in the pursuit of a transparent and accountable government. Instead it was to save her father from financial ruin. And all of her sudden, in exposing corruption and hypocrisy just to save her own skin she has gone from being a Department of Health and Social Care security guard to Dominic Cummings.

Violet’s concerns about the potential carnage that mixing ranks could let loose are not unfounded as Major Bryant confuses the Abbey with the Villa and Ethel takes one look at him and thinks “He’s a little bit of me”. Sadly/fortunately Ethel’s tucking in of Major Bryant’s blankets is halted by Mrs Hughes before Laura Whitmore can ask everyone to gather around the fire pit.

Apparently more romantically reticent than Bryant is Bates, who has taken to hiding behind a tree in the Village on Wednesdays just to catch a glimpse of Anna, demonstrating a behaviour pattern that does not throw up any red flags at all. Richard Carlises’ network of spies find him in a pub in Kirkbymoorside which Anna describes as “odd” despite the fact that of all the things he has done (or is about to do) in this episode, let alone the Downton Abbey canon as a whole, this is definitely the most sensible decision he has made. It means he does not have to navigate the staircases that formed a fair amount of his plot in the previous season for a start. Rather than leave him be, Anna takes an alarmingly shiny bus to an almost forensically clean pub where she orders what turns out to be a very horrific looking glass of cider from an eternally conflicted Bates. Bates tells Anna his plan to divorce Vera and declares that he does not care about gender discrimination in the law. In return Anna shows off her attempt at using this week’s bit of new technology, the curling iron. Asked for his opinion, Bates replies that he would love Anna “however, whatever, wherever”, cleverly avoiding the question in a way that simultaneously shows the depth of his amour but also indicates that he thinks it’s hideous.

Edith finds herself lacking purpose and direction like most people in their mid-twenties. Sybil, the annoying over-achieving younger sibling, tells her to work out what she is good at which turns out to be being a scribe, and getting books and carcinogenic substances for Officers. Edith’s quiet industry enables her to gain a good working knowledge of all the key protagonists on General Strutt’s tour which earns her a toast at Lunch. For Edith, this is the equivalent of getting an M.B.E.

Another character looking to take advantage of General Strutt’s sojourn is Branson whose plans to be a conscientious objector are scuppered by a heart murmur. His flair for the dramatic takes him to the courtyard of deceit (a location looking to form an alliance with the tree of emotional conflict and the platform of romantic uncertainty) where he polishes headlamps and gathers intel about the impending visit. The lack of footmen leaves an opening for Branson to cause if not the downfall, certainly the minor humiliation, of the British Army. A cryptic “forgive me” note prompts some some Blair Witch style camera work to underline the sense of urgency as Anna pelts it downstairs. The costume department breathe a sigh of relief as Branson manhandled out of the dining room before he can upend a rather creative concoction which invites the question, how did he get so much ink?

As William shows off his uniform, Daisy, coached by Mrs Patmore, continues to lead him up the garden path. William admits he is nervous about the prospect of facing the brutal reality of World War One and Mrs Patmore gently weeps across the table bringing her episode:crying ratio up pretty high even for something on a Sunday evening on ITV. Luckily, there is an opening for William to become Matthew’s solider servant which is good news for William and the budget as the exact same section of trench can continue to be used for both characters. Before he leaves, William proposes to Daisy and, naturally, Mrs Patmore accepts. Daisy’s “go on then” is hardly the most ringing of endorsements and her face resembling that of a rabbit who has taken a wrong turn and finds themselves on the fringes of the M4 cannot be reasonably described as elated. Daisy does manage to gather herself to delay the now inevitable wedding and so becomes possibly the only person in Britain who was not hoping for it to be all over by Christmas.

Lang and his ever present mournful violin accompaniment continue to have a rough time of it. He repays Mrs Patmore’s kindness by outing Archie to the rest of the servants, causing her to leave the room in abject misery. But this reaction could also have been caused by the prospect of a mistimed crumble. It’s difficult to tell. Lang’s nightmare enables the women to bust through the hitherto impenetrable divide between the male and female staff quarters and it is clear that his days at Downton are numbered. Lang collapses as the General and his entourage retreat and his use as a plot device in this very much smoothed over view of the past is at its end. He is dismissed with a decent wage package and a good reference and is never to be spoken of again.

Romantic declaration of the moment

William and Daisy do not get this one as this is a coercion free zone. Instead Mary and Matthew get it. Matthew being back at Downton gives Mary the chance to stare at him longingly across a room but it is her decision not to rat out Lavinia as a reluctant whistleblower that earns their spot here. Only an almost unfathomable amount of love would make Mary place Matthew’s happiness above her own.

Expressive eyebrow of the week

Regular winner Carson claims the prize again this week. His blind fury at Branson’s then presumed to be assassination attempt is glorious.

Wait, what?

“Marmaduke was not a rough diamond” No-one called Marmaduke can be called rough anything. Sort of reminds me of a picture my brother showed me of his then partner’s friends when they were younger spelling out the name of their public school boarding house in gangster sign language. Zero self-awareness.

“Acting Sargent I believe” Aloe standing by.

“The bastard had it coming” I think I need to revise my previous curse word estimate.

No particular quote for this bit but Branson delivering news from Russia made him seem like a man who had read the headline and maybe the first paragraph (at a push) of an article and is now holding forth on the topic, ready to take on anyone with a P.h.D in the matter. I do like Branson but increasingly it’s when he shuts up.

The least believable bit of this whole episode was Isis being completely unbothered by an incoming pingpong ball. I once stayed in a friend’s house where an absolute catastrophe was disguising itself as a dog. She would eye up the limes on the sideboard expecting them to vault across the room. When any even vaguely spherical object did achieve airspeed velocity, she would lose it. And I mean lose it.

General Strutt’s tour of Downton has an air of a politician doing a ward round. Should you yourself fear an encounter with our current premiere, you can pick up one of these cards from the News From Nowhere bookshop in Liverpool (other retailers may be available but this is the only place I have seen them).

#Downton #downton abbey #downton rewatch #Mary Crawley #Matthew Crawley #tom branson #sybil branson #edith crawley #thomas barrow #john bates #anna bates #Charles Carson #elsie hughes #Isobel Crawley

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chitto · 3 years

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I ANALYZED ALL OF THE NEW SONGS ON RANBOO'S LORE PLAYLIST - HERE'S WHAT I FOUND

Back in March, I listened to every single song on Ranboo's DMCA Lore Playlist. I came up with a solid theory, published my evidence and that was that. My work was done.

But nope! Ranboo's back and he's deleted a ton of songs and added more. And so I listened. Again. And I'm back with a theory, and it does not look good.

This new batch of songs shows us that this is a new era of c!Ranboo. Redesign Your Logo is meant to tell us that things are changing, and so is c!Ranboo. This could be do to the fact that something bad is most likely going to happen to c!Ranboo in the near future, probably the taking of his first canon life. Songs like Eyewishes and Goodbye heavily point to the ending of a chapter (or life) of c!Ranboo. The song Blue Monday isn’t anything revolutionary, as we were already well aware of the toxic relationship between c!Ranboo and c!Dream. Another thing to point out is that Everybody Wants To Rule The World sets up an interesting take on nuclear weapons, a thing that c!Tubbo has and c!Ranboo doesn’t know exists. If c!Ranboo were to find out about the nukes, it could lead to the two fighting over whether or not they were a good thing. Going into Time Moves Slow, the narrator there discusses a relationship that just ended between them and their lover, meaning there could be a c!Beeduo divorce arc in the near future.

Below are the analyses on each individual song and the added and deleted songs

Deleted: Prologue (StarKid), Introduction to the Snow (Miracle Musical), Dream Sweet in Sea Major (Miracle Musical), Turn the Lights Off (Tally Hall), The Mind Electric (Miracle Musical), The Ruler of Everything (Tally Hall), Ain't No Rest for The Wicked (Cage the Elephant), The Bidding (Tally Hall), Stranded Lullaby (Miracle Musical), Hidden in the San (Tally Hall), & (Tally Hall), I'm Gonna Win (Rob Cantor).

Added: Redesign Your Logo (Lemon Demon), Everybody Wants to Rule the World (Tears for Fears), Blue Monday (New Order), Eyewishes (Lemon Demon), Bystanding (Lemon Demon), Goodbye (Bo Burnham), Time Moves Slow (BADBADNOTGOOD and Samuel T. Herring).

Redesign Your Logo (Lemon Demon) - This song is about a pdf that went around during 2009 about the Pepsi company logo. In it, the Arnell group is trying to sell Pepsi a new logo, so that they can make tons of money. I feel that this song symbolizes evolution and growth, we’re entering a new era of c!Ranboo. He’s redesigned and rebranded. This song could also be on this playlist because of a fan animation on youtube set to the same song by Shyshui.

Everybody Wants To Rule The World (Tears for Fears) - This song was written about the Cold War between The Soviet Union and The United States that happened during the 20th Century. The main line of the song ‘Everybody Wants to Rule the World’ is about how everyone wants power, and the misery that it brings with it. This is a theme we can see clearly on the DreamSMP, with many leaders such as c!Eret, c!George, c!Bad, c!Wilbur, and c!Dream all leading lives of misery in one way or another. This is also important for c!Ranboo, as he is the most powerful man on the server. It tells us that his power will soon be his misery. Also a small little thing I’d like to point out is the line ‘Say that you’ll never, never, never, never need it’ which is meant to be about the use of nuclear devices during that time period. Many governments had them but claimed they would only use them if another country was launching a nuclear attack. This could translate to c!Tubbo owning nukes and c!Ranboo possibly finding out, which could cause discourse between the two.

Blue Monday (New Order) - Blue Monday is about the singer pondering the mistreatment of their person by someone they trusted. The person seems to be manipulative and toxic for the singer but the singer is too far under their control to leave them. Immediately we can tell that this song is most likely about the relationship between c!Ranboo and c!Dream. c!Dream uses c!Ranboo as his errand boy, making him do all sorts of tasks, although this hasn’t really happened since the Disc War Confrontation. However, we know the c!Dream still has some sort of hold over c!Ranboo because we saw c!Sapnap trigger an Enderwalk episode by giving c!Ranboo a message from c!Dream.

Eyewishes (Lemon Demon) - Eyewishes is a song about a distraught man who has no eyelashes, as he used them all on wishes, and now he can make no more wishes. The man pours out his frustrations and then resolves to committing suicide. While I don’t believe c!Ranboo would take his own life, I believe that he soon will die. The last line of this song is ‘So take care of my plants and pets and now I’ll say good-’. c!Ranboo has many pets in his care and he would want them taken care of after he dies. I could see him saying this line to a character like c!Tubbo. However, c!Ranboo is still on three canon lives and would not perma died if killed.

Bystanding (Lemon Demon) - Bystanding is the direct sequel to Eyewishes, starting off with bi, completing the phrase ‘goodbye’ started at the end of Eyewishes. Other than this, the song has no real points of interest as it’s just the singer repeating different words, working his way up from 2 to 5.

Goodbye (Bo Burnham) - I’m going to split this song up into two sections, just because I think there’s a lot to cover here. Let’s start pre-bridge. For context, Goodbye is the final track from the comedy-musical special Inside, done by Bo Burnham. Bo says the special was a long project for him as he filmed the entire thing in his house during COVID-19 Quarantine. The beginning part of this song talks a lot about how Bo doesn’t want the special to be over because now he has nothing else to do, and he’ll just have to live his life. This could translate into c!Ranboo losing a lot of things that he worked for, such as his valuables (totems and riches) and just being a normal person again. It could also signify an ending of a chapter for him, maybe his marriage ending, his partnership with the Syndicate ending. However, I believe that its most likely to be c!Ranboo’s neutrality ending. During the recent lore stream he did with c!Wilbur, we finally saw c!Ranboo pick a side. He chose Wilburger over Las Nevadas, losing his trademark neutral stance. c!Ranboo thought his neutrality made him more than others, that he was the one able to see over the conflict, but now he’s just like everyone else. He has a side and an enemy. Let’s move into the bridge and ending of the song now. The first line I’d like to call specifically is ‘Wanna guess the ending, if it ever does.’ This line could maybe signify the fact that throughout the history of the SMP there have been many times that the conflict and story feel like they’ve finally come to a close, only for everything to start up once again. The next lyric is ‘If I wake up in a house that’s full of smoke, I’ll panic, so call me up and tell me a joke.’ This is a callback to another song on Inside, Comedy, in which Bo talks about using his comedy as a way to help people, but really it was he who needed help. c!Ranboo acts as a protector for a lot of characters, most notable c!Tubbo and tried hard to please most people and aid as many as he can, but most of the time he’s the one needed the most help. Similar to Bo, c!Ranboo doesn’t realize he needs help until it’s too late.

Time Moves Slow (BADBADNOTGOOD and Samuel T. Herring) - This song is about a person who’s lover has left them, and although it’s painful they know its for the better. This could, unfortunately, suggest a c!beeduo split but there is another part of this song that I’d like to touch on. ‘Running away is easy, its the living that’s hard.’ This is the chorus for the song and it talks about how running from your problems is easier than facing them but having to live without them is hard. Throughout the story, we often see c!Ranboo ignore his problems, most recently with the vandalism of c!Tubbo’s cookie shop. c!Ranboo found it and decided to fix it and tell no one it happened, which lead to a hostile confrontation between c!Quackity and c!Tubbo.

#PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST REBLOG THIS #THESE TAKE ME AN INSANE AMOUNT OF TIME #dsmp #dreamsmp #dream smp #ranboo #ranboo dsmp #c!ranboo theory #c!ranboo analysis #dsmp analysis #dsmp theory

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cryinginthebackseat · 3 years

Text

you’ve got more poison than sugar - part i

AO3 part ii

Fandom: Call Of Duty

Pairing: Russell Adler x Bell

Words: 4.009

Summary: Russell Adler should have known better that it wouldn’t take an entire nation or continent to bring him to his knees.

Warnings: just swearings, sexual tension, blood, mentions of past abuse and brainwashing. adler being that manipulative asswipe like usual.

Author’s note: i don't know what i'm doing. one moment, i was watching the walkthrough of the new call of duty game, found myself curious, acutely curious by that guy with the scars and shades on- a younger, shadier (no pun intended) Robert Redford in Spy Game and oh my... fast forward to 2 weeks later, here we are.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A house somewhere on foreign soil,

Where ageless lovers call,

Is this your goal, your final needs,

Where dogs and vultures eat,

Committed still I turn to go.

I put my trust in you.

A Means To An End - Joy Division (1980)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It's mystifying how little she talks. Or when she does, it's always in fragments. Like a crossword puzzle in your local newspaper, but several letters are missing. He initially thought maybe MK-Ultra fucked her head or worse, if it hasn't worked at all, but the more he watches her, the more he realizes it's just the way she is. And it's ironic because he named her Bell. He expected her to chime like a goddamn goldfinch yet here they are.

But he won't be fazed. Russell Adler is a man who's stopped at nothing in getting what he wanted before, he sure as hell won't stop now for a close-mouthed science project.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“We've got a job to do, Bell."

It intrigues him, every time, the way the words trigger something deep within her psyche, the way her eyes change, her body stands a little straighter, like a machine ready to function at his disposal. It reminds Adler of one of those cartoons he watched when he was a kid about wizards and magic words, except there are no musical dance numbers playing in the background or a talking cricket perching on his shoulder. This is his power over her, over the USSR, over Perseus. That monstrous filth. It really does take a beast to tame another.

Although he surmises calling Bell one would be superfluous.

She barely looks like one, but Adler knows too well than to underestimate her. Just because Bell hasn’t shown her set of claws, that doesn’t mean she’s harmless, delicate, like a miniature China Doll in his breast pocket.

Bell never offered him her reply before, but now, now, she nods, head almost bows, obedient pretty thing, and says:

“Yes, Adler.”

So it goes.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It takes West Berlin for Adler to realize she’s left-handed.

She wears her watch on her right hand, smokes with that same said hand only when she’s writing or moving her pieces for an impromptu late-night game of chess against Lazar. And she always wears her gloves all the time- leather, black, lined with silk and pretty, small buttons on the cuffs, covering those striking red nails underneath. Whether it is for the theatrics or an old habit of hers, he can't really tell.

He doesn’t know why he begins to take notice of these mundane details about Bell, but rationalizes because he’s never been in the same room with this version of her, post-brainwash Bell, for more than 10 minutes. And for all intents and purposes, there’s still a lot of question marks surrounding her character; who is she? Where did she come from? What is her connection to Perseus?

Are they in a possession of a walking, breathing bomb about to destroy them all or the West’s only salvation?

He supposes he’ll find out soon enough.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Adler hears Bell from his table, typing busy on the computer- barely blinking- all soaked up in that caffeine-infused energy at 1 am. She's always like that, he learns, when it comes to working, always with that steel determination, pulling out all the stops as long as it gets the job done- that Soviet discipline at it's finest.

Reminds him a little of himself when he's young.

Adler walks up to her.

“You done for the night?” A shake of her head is her only response. He sighs. “You should go home, Bell.”

“You go. I’ll lock up behind you,” Bell replies, low and monotone; that youthful stubborn.

If she was any other person, he would probably commend her for such fierce willpower, but she is Bell, the walking conundrum, his ace in the hole. Call him paranoid, but the idea of her having the safehouse for herself does nothing but raises every alarm in his head.

“No, we’re going home,” he says instead, tone brooking no argument and she frowns at the screen, her fingers stop moving then looks up at him with those goddamn empty eyes. "Come on, it's late anyway."

She doesn't say anything. Adler wishes he could read her mind- or crack that lovely skull on the back of her head, dissect her brain, learn its secrets and answers.

Adler has his gun with him. It wouldn’t take long. A quick, true shot to the heart to keep the brain intact. He’d have Hudson contact one of his people inside BND and he'd deliver the brain himself if he has to. They could do it. He heard they’ve been studying inmates' brains for decades now, anyway.

Before he has a chance to entertain the idea further, though, Bell nods once and rises up from her seat.

Bell walks past him. Her scent, like honeysuckle on ice, hits him like an uppercut in the face. Adler inhales, as if against his will.

He thinks he could get drunk on it.

“Hop in. I’ll drive you back to the hotel,” he says once they’re outside, regretting the decision the moment the words left his lips, but he knows he can’t just leave her on her own at this late hour.

The irony isn’t lost on him, though, considering he just thought about unspooling her brain a few minutes ago.

Bell complies without a protest. Getting inside the passenger seat, wordless still, fingers toying with the radio. An angry, krautrock music comes blaring all over his car. Adler winces, but at least the riot is loud enough to muffle the one's brewing in his head.

"How's your memory these days?"

Bell shrugs. "Nihil novi sub sole." There's nothing new under the sun.

Good, he muses. The least she knows about herself the better.

Though that doesn't mean he's out of the woods yet.

"Listen, from now on, I want you to keep me informed if there's any new progress about your memory or if you've developed any new symptoms. I want to know everything." He steals a sidelong glance at her, making sure she is listening (she always does, but Adler needs an excuse)

(An excuse for what?)

"Alright, Bell?"

"Of course," replies the woman in question.

"Good." Adler shifts his attention back to the road. "Good." Taking a long drag, he considers trying to appeal to her sentimental side. It's not something you'd improvise last minute- at least not with someone you brainwashed to believe you are her mentor/confidant for the past decade, but he's itching to know where he stands with her.

"You know, I'm just tryin' to look out for you, kid."

Her lips twitch but the rest of her visage remains impassive and faraway, more like a flick knife than a woman. The correlation is uncanny.

That's when she inches closer. The space between them bridged. He freezes. Hyper-aware of just how dangerous this is, but can’t bring himself to pull back, to look the other way. Not when her hand reaches out to pluck the cigarette from his mouth, eyes still glued to his, and curls her lips around the filter. One heavy pull, and then she rolls down the window and tosses it out on the side of the road.

"Thought I'd reciprocate the sentiment."

And with that, she leans back in her seat before Adler could even process what has just transpired.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Welcome back to the land of the living, kid,” Adler greeted her, about a month ago.

Park had insisted that he had to be there for her when she woke up (naturally, Adler had balked at the idea, but at the English woman’s fact-of-the-matter explanation, also because it had somewhat dawned on him last minute the logic behind her machinations- “both of you are supposed to have known each other for years now. If she doesn't see you by her side, she’s going to wonder why”- thus, here he was)

“How are you feeling?”

Bell blinked owlishly and stared at the older man with those bottomless, cat-like eyes that had haunted him since January.

Her gaze eventually softened as recognition flickered across her face.

“Like someone just hit me in the chest with a bulldozer,” she said hoarsely. “Where are we?”

“St. Dismas’ hospital, Pittsburgh.” Adler got up and fetched her a glass of water from the table. “Although not a bulldozer, but bullets did. That, and you hit your head really hard on your way down. Thought we’d lost you there, Bell.”

Bell drank in silence. She’s still watching him, thinking. This was the first time he realized that he couldn’t exactly read her expression and somehow that threw him off.

“What happened?” she asked, one hand mid-air, like she was deciding which to touch first, hesitating and abandoned the idea.

“You don’t remember?” She shook her head. Adler pretended to look remotely distressed about it. “The doctors warned me about this. It must have been because of the fall- heck, I could even still hear that sickening crunch from here.” He dragged his chair closer towards her bed.

“We were in Amsterdam. Remember Fohler?” she shook her head again. “Well, we’d been tracking this son of a bitch for months, but we were chasing him in Amsterdam. He was running away and climbed up some scaffolding. You were about to go up after him,” he recited the fabricated story he, Park and Hudson had crafted. “He shot you and you fell and hit your head against the pavement.”

Bell looked away first, silent. Her hand gingerly touched the back of her head and winced, albeit only slightly.

Adler was almost impressed, if not, disarmed by how calm and composed her reaction was to all of this. But then again, after having had witnessed first-hand how the woman barely flinched under any kind of interrogation technique they threw at her- a personality built for wrestling tigers- he really shouldn’t be surprised.

“Bell, what is the last thing you remember?”

Bell frowned. “Not much. I remember ‘Nam, but-”

“Vietnam? Kid, that was thirteen years ago.” Adler watched the way her throat bopped, like she was swallowing her own blood and the color drained from her face, just like the first time he’d seen her, and proceeded to drop the bomb:

“Bell, the year is 1981.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"Bell dear, would you mind taking a look at this?"

Park's voice sails from across the room. She says it like it's a compound word: Bell-dear. Like the two words belong together. Bell-dear. 2 syllables, 1 word, 9 characters and that just might be the weirdest thing he hears this year and he heard many things.

"Bell dear?" Adler asks much later, his gravel-and-smoke voice reduced to a whisper, when she delivers a document to his table.

Park shrugs as if that explains everything. "What? I like her."

He's tempted to say you really can't put a term of endearment and someone you brainwashed into submission in the same sentence, but what else is new?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

They wind up in a bar. It’s called Die Stube and the place’s brimmed with artists and all sorts of leather-clad, Bowie-esque dramatic, chromatic blue eyelids young people chattering over a dirty cloud of smoke.

The two of them colonize a lone booth in the back. It’s dark and the quietest. She orders a beer and he, a scotch and they drink in silence. There are moments where her head would twist to the side, as subtle as a needle and survey the phantasmagorical scene before them, like studying something from a petri dish.

While he’s watching her.

Only to tear his gaze away to the nearest object he can find.

It lands on his watch.

"It’s almost ten. Hudson's contact should be here soon," he announces, if anything to distract himself. She nods mutely in reply, as always, and runs a finger around the rim of her glass.

"The place ain't much of your scene?"

She shrugs, like it's self-evident. "I didn't know this was a scene, though."

"Well, that’s West Berlin for you. A worry-free playground for the hedonists, hipsters and proto-electro NDW enthusiasts with drugs on tap," Adler says, sipping his drink in practiced nonchalance. "Always makes my head spin."

"I guess I remember it differently," Bell replies, tinged with something akin to begrudging.

That warrants his full attention. "What do you remember?”

Bell shrugs again and lights a cigarette instead, menthol, one of those long, skinny cigarettes they only market for women; biding her time, making him wait. She lets the smoke flares from her nostrils so her eyes are veiled.

"It’s hard to explain, but I suppose it’s grittier?” she gesticulates, searching for the right word like she’s skim reading the entire Oxford dictionary in her head. “Bizarrely, infinitely grittier and dimmer? Like being in an underground tunnel and there's not much to see."

Interesting. Maybe she’s recalling one of her ops for Perseus or her mind is confusing her with the world on the other side of the wall.

“Maybe you’re remembering one of our clandestine ops here. It was a few years after Vietnam,” Adler supplies, passing over the tale like bait.

She falls for it, hook, line and sinker.

“Ah, I guess that also explains my fluency in German.”

“I taught you that.” It’s only logical, he decides, that she learned from him. She’s supposed to be his protégé after all.

An elegant brow quirk. "You did?"

"Yeah, though you were already fluent in Latin, Russian, Vietnamese and Portuguese when we first met anyway. You have quite a natural ear, kid.”

She gives him a look. He really can’t categorize it, but it makes it a whole lot harder to fight against her stare.

“What else did you teach me?”

If they were anyone else, the lines could have a potential to entice, to seduce, that winsome, catty-eyelashes coquette, but they aren't anyone else and Bell does not voice it like that. Yet the implication behind the question stirs something in the pit of Adler’s stomach anyway, that tight knot of confusion as it is buried with something else and he finds himself, once again, uncharacteristically speechless.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

That particular question of her stays, even hours later, unbidden. Interspersed with her scent and face.

His emotions are a minefield whenever she’s near now. It evokes that newfound rush of terror within him, like walking on a tightrope or being thrown into the pit to face hundreds of hungry lions, bare hands. It makes Adler questions his every decision, and he can’t have that in his line of work.

Adler lights his sixth cigarette, contemplating everything, nothing. Anything to distract him from her. It's 4 am and he’s exhausted, but his mind won’t stop whirring. This isn’t like him at all- like he's lost somewhere in a Dali-style labyrinth that is his head and he wonders if this is a byproduct of his fear or fascination or confusion for the young woman.

He fears it is all of them.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(They're only 10 minutes away from East Berlin when he senses it, something akin to burning on his peripheral vision, pulling him like weight.

Bell is staring at him from across the seat.

He cocks his head slightly to the side.

Adler catches the quick, telling quirk of her lips, like she's about to smile but lights a cigarette instead.)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Did you hear that?”

Krauss has just crossed the wall and their soles are slippery from the rain. She's panting. Her breath is white like a fog. Adler muses it must be from the running, until his iris trails down to where her hand is clutching his jacket sleeve, the leather creasing like a modulation signal.

“What is it?” Adler asks, hushed. There are no Stasis here, but even one can't be too careful.

“The TV.” She’s gaping at the broken TV next to them. Adler looks at the said object, frowning, then back to her. “Y-you didn’t hear it?”

"Heard what? Bell, the thing's dead."

Bell withdraws from him. Stepping back until her back meets the walls, her eyes seeing and unseeing, like a lens finding focus in the dark, then she closes them, as if trying to regulate her breathing. Adler has never seen her scared shitless of anything before. The sight confuses as it intrigues him.

"Bell, what's going on?" Adler steps closer, but he dares not to touch her.

She shakes her head, dismissive. In just a span of seconds, Bell dons that mask she likes to wear again; deadpan and frustratingly distant. A spike of annoyance drives through him. Just when he thinks he can get through her, there she goes again, retreating behind her palisades.

"Nothing." Bell turns away abruptly and she’s walking again."Let's just go. The others are waiting for us."

He doesn't pry about whatever she heard on the TV- Adler knows better than to beat a dead horse, thank you very much- not even after they save her from Volkov's clutches, after she bashes his head against the steel door and reeks his blood all the way home, it seems superficial at the time.

Until two days later.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The day starts, as it mostly does for the team, with a briefing.

Fifteen minutes in and something like a gasp pulls his attention to her.

That’s when he notices it; her hands are shaking, coffee spilling out of the mug over her hand. A shatter follows. Her mug smashes to smithereens at her feet. She’s swaying, near collapse, like a house of cards about to fall, a hand on her nose.

Adler catches her before she tumbles to the floor.

“Bell!” His arm around her waist tightens, trying to keep her steady. Lazar rushes to their side in a flash and helps him move her to a nearby chair.

"Jesus Christ," he curses, more to himself than to her as he watches blood, a bead of angry red, trickling down her nose. "Sims, get me a washcloth from the bathroom."

He kneels before her once Sims returns with a damp cloth. Nicotine-stained gloved fingers tentatively grasp her chin, holding her still.

“Kid, you alright?” Adler asks, worry bleeds into his voice without him realizing it. He firmly presses the cloth under her nose, his other thumb touches the pulse at her throat- it's almost sickly affectionate. “Bell, talk to me."

Bell looks at him, discombobulated, like he's a figment of her imagination, then blinks. Again and again until she heaves a deep breath.

"I-" she hisses. One hand flies up to her head. "Fuck. My head.”

Adler’s eyes immediately search for Park’s. A knowing look passes over her face and he knows without saying that she's thinking the same thing, like they're attached to the same brain-wire:

MK-Ultra.

There’s a fraction of pause, then Lazar asks, "Should we give her something?”

Before Park can voice her answer, Bell beats her to it. "I already took an anticonvulsant this morning. It should have helped.”

“Wait, this has happened before?” Adler asks.

Bell looks away, a hesitating look shadowing her face. He fears the worst.

“Bell…” he tries again, a slight warning to his tone.

She sighs loudly, as if mentally preparing herself before walking into a storm.

“Yes. Two days ago."

His mind instantly refers to East Berlin, the TV. Trying to connect the dots in his head. It seems far fetched, but now he wonders if she saw something that triggers this. Although he's never read about this on other subjects before, the correlation is just impossible to ignore.

Fuck. He heaves a breath, willing himself to calm down, to think. They can't afford complications at times like these. Not when there's so much at stake right now.

Adler snaps his attention back to Bell when she tries to scramble awkwardly to her feet, swatting his hand away. The hand on her neck immediately reaches for her waist again and pushes her back down onto the chair. His grip's tight enough to leave marks on her skin, but he doesn't care.

"Bell, for fuck's sake, stay still or so help me," he says, exasperated, not letting go of her waist.

"I feel better now." Stubborn little shit.

He is tempted to scream at her face and grab both of her shoulders and shake. “The hell you’re not. Stop fighting it. You’ll only make things worse.”

Her face sours, if only for a millisecond before it morphs into guilt. “I’m sorry.”

Adler watches her for a long moment. It’s only now that he realizes that he’s still holding her waist and the cloth on her face.

He backs away from her like he’s been burnt.

“You should have told me. I thought I made it clear the other night to keep me informed regarding this,” he scolds.

“I’m sorry,” she utters again and she looks so pliable like this, a blank canvas perfumed with obedience and lethal mind. It makes him almost feel sorry for what he has in plan for her once the shit show is over.

“Look, just go back to the hotel and take a day off.” Her mouth cracks open. He raises a silencing hand. “That’s an order, Bell.” But she merely scowls, looking more like jagged ice than a person. Hudson may have just met his match, after all.

“I told you I’m fine.”

“That’s not how it looks to me.”

“It is. It’s my body and I know what I’m feeling, and I’m telling you, I. Feel. Fine.”

His jaw clenches. “Are you disobeying a direct order, agent?”

Bell doesn’t answer, but her whole face remains challenging and hard. Undeterred.

Adler holds his breath. He feels the whole room collectively does the same. It’s like staring down the barrel of a gun and there’s an awful sort of danger to be found in that.

Just when he thinks an imaginary bullet would dig itself into his skin, however, Bell utters, “Of course not.”

And so the woman resumes to her normal, docile self at a drop of a hat. Even when Park steps in and whisks her out of her seat, drives her back to her hotel with Lazar on shotgun.

It doesn’t assuage his worry, though. He’s still restless throughout the day, like a roaring ocean inside a bell jar. She’s never done this before, openly rebels against him. Now, the situation is just bad. Not casually bad or almost-got-shot bad, this is the-entire-Europe-could-turn-into-a-nuclear-wasteland bad, an-armageddon-waiting-to-happen bad.

What if this is the beginning of her old self trying to scratch her way out of the surface? Adler’s blood goes cold at the thought. He is going to have to keep a close eye on this development.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

West Berlin - 1 am, local time.

“How is she?”

“Stable. I’ve administered another dose of Propranolol before I left the hotel. She should be fit as a fiddle in the morning.”

“Tell me, what do you think happened to her?”

“My theory? Traumatic brain injury. A cumulative product of torture, trauma-based mind control and chronic stress. I've read reports about cases like these before in MI6. None of them is still alive to recount the tale, unfortunately."

Adler grips the phone.

“How long do you think we have?”

“Theoretically, 2-3 weeks tops.”

“But?”

He hears Park sighs on the other line. “But then again, none of the subjects I’ve encountered before were like her. So, I suppose it’s still a little too premature to determine at this point."

Adler kneads his temple, feeling the start of that familiar Bell-induced headache forms in his head. Can things just be fucking simple for once?

“We don’t have that much time anyway, Park. And if Hudson gets a wind of this, he’ll want her gone by morning. I can’t let that happen. Not…” he pauses. “Not when we are this close.”

"What are we going to do about her, then?"

Adler sighs.

"Raise the dosages of her drugs,” he says. “And keep an extra eye on her. I think we may be heading into uncharted waters now.”

Tagging: @mvalentine cause you said to tag you with everything i write so 👁👄👁

#russell adler #russell adler x bell #cod bell #cod #call of duty #call of duty black ops #call of duty cold war #cod cold war #alex mason #frank woods #helen park #lawrence sims #jason hudson #lazar azoulay

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himbodjarin · 3 years

Text

LUNAR; CH12

18+ EXPLICIT Content: Unprotective sex, vaginal sex, oral sex (female receiving), cum eating, DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18. MANDO'A TRANSLATIONS AT THE END Chapter Word Count: 14,704 aah im sorry no im not Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate. Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist

CHAPTER TWELVE: LET ME SHOW YOU

“So about that break…”

One simple sentence is all it took for the two of them to silently agree to their departure of Tatooine and to seek refuge somewhere quiet, secluded and undisturbed by baleful bolts of shimmering reds. It escorts them to the moss-green planet bedecked by marshland and chirpy fauna—its atmosphere crisp and welcoming to that of Tatooine’s sand-choking airspace.

“So you’ve been here before?”

“Yes. There’s a village nearby. They took me in for some time.”

“So you’re thinking they’ll let us crash there for a while?”

There’s a click on the vambrace and the Razor Crest’s hatch closes behind the trio. “If all goes well. Are you sure you have everything? It’s a bit of a walk.”

A tap on a blaster holstered to her thigh, a finger trailing across a wrinkly green forehead, the faint touch on a steel pauldron. “Blaster, kid, Mandalorian. Check, check, and check.”

The Mandalorian chuckles and takes the lead through the woods, heading towards the unnamed village of Sorgan—its inhabitants surely awaiting his emergence the moment the Crest snapped through the atmosphere and swooped low among their needle-point rooftops. It’s selfish, he knows this, returning to the haven he once envisioned himself hunkering down at—having the opportunity of a joyful life, a family, a love—with a different woman matching his stride is destined for failure; for tension. It’s wishful thinking to pretend it’ll produce anything but, to pretend this could be normal.

Sorgan hadn’t changed one bit, except for the lack of invasive Klatoonations, thanks to yours truly. It’s still so green, so wet, so clean and fresh. Its air could regenerate the deflated lungs in his chest from decades-worth of smoke, dust, and discipline, its waters purify his blood, its pacifying ambience replace the void he reserved for quiet nights in space, its company fill

the vacancy between his arms—that last one wasn’t entirely Sorgan’s doing and he gazes at his companion treading alongside him, feet generously lifting over an undisturbed one-eyed aqua frog in her path.

He sighs and places the flat of his leather against the back of her shoulder. “I trust them, they’re good people, but my name can’t be spoken here.”

She twists her neck to look at him and dips her head in a nod. “I know that, Mando.”

Mando. A name that once sounded like shiny credits falling from the clouds now so bleak and rusted. It’s mere corroding steel in comparison to her moaning his name in such a broken voice it heats his abdomen and increases his blood flow. The Girl is like a spice, a strong dose of alluring desires that he’s incapable of acting upon—the inquisitive little alien in his care interfering with his white-knuckled primal impulses.

Idling in hyperspace, confined and carnal, with a toddler and the woman who made his knees weak, heart leap, fingers itch, was dangerous. There he was thinking the atmosphere back on Tatooine was tense; how wrong he was. If that was tense, this had been downright torturous. He could cut the tension with his vibroknife; reduce it to tiny physical pieces he could chew on and grind his enamel down to the gums.

Sorgan is their opportunity to explore their unspoken relationship further—to disassemble the barricade of panels in place and analyse the circuitry underneath. Mando downplays the increased pumping of his organ to himself, masquerading his excitement with faulty breathwork.

“I can take him,” Mando gently tugs on the rucksack strap situated across her shoulder, the child cooing at her hip. “Those slashes haven’t healed.”

“They’ve healed enough.”

He insists, “They reopened, you’re going to strain them with the weight. Let me carry him.”

The Girl grumbles under her breath and picks up her pace, tenacious to prove she’s more than capable to carry the toddler despite the ache the satchel strap is producing; burrowing its residency in the pads of her shoulders. The Mandalorian remains at his tempo, allowing her the distance she incessantly pursues. “Atin,” he breathes.

Their shared moment back in the abandoned cantina seemingly sectors away—so out of reach and untouched it almost never occurred.

All though there had been times, dead in the middle of hyperspace when the kid was napping in his hammock, where the Girl would join him in the cockpit to share a few soft spoken words and purposeful touches he couldn’t begin to dissect. The sensations of her hands running along his shoulders still so crystal in his mind, her knuckles brushing against his cowl as he’d tip the helmet back against the headrest simply to get a little glimpse of her. She knew what she was doing when she’d administer feathery kisses against the surface of his visor—sheer seduction on her part—and it took all of his fizzling restraint not to bend her over the controls and fuck her until her thighs are burning, calves trembling, her skin star-kissed.

Believe him, he’d imagined it. On many occasions in fact. He’s pictured taking her anywhere and everywhere—against the walls, on the floor, in his bunk—but nothing, nothing, was more appealing than the thought of having her in his lap in the pilot’s seat, her back smooshing the buttons of the navigational controls until the Crest whined in agony.

Needless to say, the circumstances didn’t allow the rise for many opportunities; the kid often waking the moment his glove makes contact with her. Mando had to settle for small glances here-and-there, the occasional stroke of her arm as she passed.

But he needs more—needs her.

The Girl is an additive through and through—functioning as a pricey flask of spotchka sedating his muscles and justification and in exchange stimulating his appetite for her; flesh, muscle, tissue, whatever his nails could dig themselves into he wanted.

Mando’s teeth grit together and his eyes scan her back ahead of him, nursing the heavy eyelids on the curve below. The cockpit had been too electric, the recycled air too thick with his desperation; the projection of the Girl naked—because he knew what that looked like now—never far from his mind. But he hadn’t seen her bare from behind; a view he can only imagine - for now.

A throaty grunt slips past his lips as he stumbles on a grounded root in his trance. She doesn’t notice, thankfully, but the Child’s peering eyes stare straight past the visor as though he could sense the disgrace radiating off his guardian, his eyes squinting. He tenses his shoulders in embarrassment and joins the Girl as she slows to a halt on the village’s border outskirts.

“This it?” she asks, shifting the satchel to the opposite hip between herself and Mando, shielding the kid from potential threats.

“It is,” he confirms.

Their heads twist in unison, observing the environment laid out before them; high-spirited and brimming with energy. In the distance children run through riskless fields playing a game of tag, adults conversing and labouring the krill ponds, the croaking of frogs echoing around their feet. Subdued and isolated from all the destruction—preserved from everything they are down to their cores.

The Girl hums and fiddles with the strap slung across her chest. “I don’t want to intrude. They look…”

“Happy.”

She’s concerned for the villager’s safety, as is he—jeopardy seemingly overhanging them like an aura; tethered and indestructible. Returning without a notice felt deplorable to the Mandalorian’s morals as though he was trespassing on their sanctuary and sabotaging their chance at true tranquillity.

Shuffling beside him reminds him why he’s here, why he chose Sorgan rather than any other planet in the Outer Rim with a half-decent field. Mando wags a gloved digit ahead of the Child and anticipates his claws to latch onto the leather, tug and whine until he’s content in his beskar, but not even a grunt of acknowledgement slips through his lips.

Mando huffs a deep exhale and returns his hand to his belt, hooking his thumb in the centre and taking the lead. “Let’s go,” he directs.

The Girl adheres to his side, elbows brushing with each swing of their arm, their footwork synchronised as they cross a narrow mound of land between two krill ponds—the vibrant blue critters easily perceptible with his visor’s enhanced vision. She shrinks her shoulders inwards as the path withers to his wingspan—too binary to admit defeat against Sorgan’s elements and saunter behind—her feet sliding against the bank, but Mando’s reflexes are sharp and he snakes a hand around her waist before she tumbles off the edge.

She straightens herself out, checks on the baby, and exudes an embarrassed smile. “Thank you.”

Mando grins and shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “Couldn’t let the kid fall in.”

“Oh, that’s how it is, is it?” Her eyebrow cocks and eyes squint. “What about me, huh?”

“Wouldn’t want him stirring up a disturbance, would we? We need to make a good impression,” he teases. “Besides, you’re a big girl, you’d be fine.”

“Sleemo,” she insults lightheartedly, placing a firm palm against his pauldron and shoves—not so lightheartedly. Mando’s smile falters as his boots lose their traction in the slippery, squelching mud. Descent incoming, he reaches out for the Girl’s arm but stops himself at the reminder of the baby attached to her hip; her own personal lifeboat.

If he wasn’t so cautious for the Child’s current state he’d clasp her wrist and force her to take the brunt of her actions, instead, he accepts his fate and collapses into the krill pond—the water soars higher than the village’s roofings with the added weight of beskar, the sloshing reverberating and drawing the inhabitants attention their way.

Mando finds his footing in the waist-deep waters, hands on his hips as droplets streak down his armour, the over-absorbed fabric of his flight suit clinging to his muscles. There’s dark brown coagulated mud muting his shiny beskar, plastering the warring steel with Sorgan’s serene elements.

“Think you’re so funny, don’t you?” he questions, head tilting.

She bellows just as loud as the initial crash, her gasped amusement echoing among the hushed quiet; the villagers watching from afar. “You’re a big boy, you’ll be fine,” she mocks. “Funny. I don’t hear much commentary coming from you now.”

“I could’ve drowned.”

She jabs an eyebrow upwards and gestures to the water level. “That’d be very embarrassing.”

He grumbles with feigned anger, splashing her lower-half with a mischievous thrust of his hand.

“Oi, watch the kid!”

The Child’s ears perk down at his guardian submerged in the filthy waters, a soft tight-lipped grin donning his face in replacement of the frown he’d been suiting prior—Mando’s muscles lax, his stoic demeanour withering away.

This was good. Right. Both the kid and the Girl deserve to reside in a haven like this, somewhere they don’t need to look over their shoulders—somewhere blasters can retire from holsters.

Miniscule cobalt crustaceans summon up the courage to investigate the intrusive limbs in their occupancy, grasping against the fabric of his flight suit and scrambling underneath the rim of his beskar cuisses. Mando attempts to shake off the meddlesome critters but they’re persistent in driving him away; the Girl steps forwards to aid him out of the waters—after she’d finished laughing so hard tears were brewing in the corners of her eyes—but stammers in her footing as a shadow casts over him from beside her.

She instinctively reaches for her blaster’s hilt and shields the Child, but a delicate hand outstretches for Mando below and she carefully drops her hand, clenches it beside her in doubt. Mando inclines his helmet to follow the hand, travelling up the grey fabric of their tunic and settling on the familiar kind hearted brown eyes welcoming him to the village without needing to speak the words.

He nods as thanks and slips his leather into her hand, hoisting himself to the ground with a boot in the bank for stability. Mando humorously nudges the Girl enough for her to panic and seize his elbow for safety—his vocoders unable to catch the light chuckle in his throat but she feels the tremors in his limb and playfully slaps his bicep.

“It’s good to see you again,” Omera says, a bright smile as she eyes him up and down. “I see you’ve made yourself a friend.”

“Yes.” Mando glances at the Girl beside him, tucked into his side plenty that she looked tiny. “I hope we’re not intruding, we-”

She interrupts him, shaking her head and gesturing behind her to the gathering inhabitants. “The community will forever be grateful for your endeavours. Stay as long as you like—we’ve established additional lodges since you were here. Take your pick.”

“That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.” Mando follows after Omera, irrigating the grass in his wake, and the Girl stealths behind him so she’s unseen from the watching eyes; his beskar performing as her protection. She engrosses herself with the ball of abrupt energy fighting against the confines of his satchel, his claws eagerly tearing at the fabric to rid himself.

The villagers have queued themselves along the banks of the krill ponds, distanced enough for their visitors to pass through without bumping shoulders but close to exchange friendly greetings—welcome back’s and thank you’s—their proximity allowing them the opportunity to examine the Mandalorian’s new partner on the heels of his boots, her eyes cast down in an attempt to stave off unwanted attention though it does very little.

Omera stops short of the newly-installed structures, three identical huts to match with the theme of the others strewn throughout their lands and Mando, not being one to concern himself with impractical decisions, chooses the first one his eyes lay on; his hand vaguely gesturing to the open door of the middle hut.

Omera nods her head and orders a flock of children to prepare their quarters. “We can organise your friend next door.” She flicks her attention past his shoulder and he follows, acknowledging how stiff the Girl looked as though she could be blown over with a docile breeze; her eyes silently pleading to him through his visor.

It’s unusual looking at her this way, as though he’s violating her with just his eyes. She’s typically so snarky and talkative, but her lips are bonded together and her eyes bounce from his visor to the speculative crowd; nervous and uncomfortable.

She assures, “You’ll only be a few metres away from each other.”

Mando has no intentions of letting her occupy a separate hut, not after he’s been so distanced from her all this time. “That’s okay. We don’t want to take up more space than necessary.” The Girl relaxes somewhat, shoulders flaccid, and her hands return to fight against the Child’s tantrum.

He notes how the villagers share some questioning glances towards each other, their prying prompting an unsettling weight on his shoulders—Omera shares a hasty gander between the two of her visitors as if assembling a deconstructed blaster from scratch, gears turning in her head.

It’s too much attention for him—too much visibility for a Mandalorian clad in ancient shiny Beskar steel.

His shoulders tense, his fingers flex into fists; they know, they have to know.

His throat bobs underneath his cowl, mouth dry and cheeks warm, though he’s learnt to conceal it through his mannerisms—the constant tension between him and the Girl training him over time—he remains stoic, statuelike, displaying no visible signs of confirmation to their silent queries.

It’s none of their business; nobody’s other than him and the Girl’s.

“If that’s what you wish,” Omera breaks the silence. “I’ll leave you to situate yourselves.”

Mando inhales sharply and nods his head, walking past her to their new residency. The cluster of children straighten upon his arrival, organising themselves in a single file to allow their guest to investigate their work. It’s a small cabin, less spacious than the barn he occupied last time but more secluded—the windows sturdy and the door possessing a lock—with a bed fit for three in the far-end of the walls; it’s been too long since he’s slept on a mattress, too long since he’s been allowed the privilege of stretching his limbs rather than compact them.

Alongside a comfortable mattress comes the Girl’s warmth as they’ll indeed be sharing a bed. Mando will make certain of that.

There’s hushed whispers behind him, helm capturing some of their words—baby, ask, play—and he redirects his vision to the rucksack resting among the Girl’s hip, the children bursting with excitement at the sight of their playmate. He’s just as psyched as they are, his little claws outstretching for Winta in the middle of the group.

“It’s okay.” Mando nods his head towards the children. “He can play.”

The Girl nods and transfers the kid to the floorboards carefully, stepping out of the stampede of children excitedly taking themselves outside.

Tarrying presences now gone, the Girl joins him in the examination of their cabin. “Good thing the Crest isn’t far,” she jokes.

“It’s not that bad.” Mando twists his body to follow her, pauldrons clashing into her harshly. “I suppose it could be a little bigger.”

“Or you could be a little smaller, tin-man.”

He cocks his head to the side, visor leering. “You’re looking for trouble today.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Yes,” he grumbles in his throat, sweeping his vambraces around her to hug her arms against her sides. “You are.”

She struggles against his grip, well aware of her impending justice, but he’s too sturdy—too determined to seek revenge. “Don’t,” she warns.

Mando simply smiles, a large toothy grin that makes his eyes crinkle.

What little gap remained between them abruptly narrows as Mando compresses his build into her, squeezing out the krill water from his flight suit and into her garments. Beskar wipes itself clean on her shirt, caking the textile with heavy mounds of sludge.

“Mando!” she gasps and rolls her shoulders back in false hope it’ll aid her escape. “I don’t have a change of clothes!”

He chuckles, deep and throaty that makes his shoulders bounce. “Neither do I, but you didn’t think of that when you pushed me in,” he growls, the vocoder filtering the sound as a crackle that reverberates in the structure and through her bones; she shudders, her shoulders and chest twitching against him—his blood pumps hot.

“I was doing you a favour. When was the last time you hit the ‘fresher?”

“Need I remind you I have you trapped, mesh’la?” Mando presses the curvature of his helmet against her cheek and rubs the excess droplets onto any surface area he can manage, her cheeks, forehead, jaw, staining the pretty skin she’d been blessed with.

She tries to disguise her laughter with anger, but it comes out through her voice—light and airy; Mando hums at the delightful sound, like a lullaby to his ears. “Okay, okay. You win!”

Unwilling to wrench his grip from around her, he continues pressing himself against her and inches forwards until her back is flat against a pillar—his vambraces slipping around sandwich her between two sturdy foundations, one of splintered log and the other a living, breathing tower of a man coated head to toe in steel.

He’s breathing hard, filters whistling with each exhale.

“Mando--” she purrs, teeth nibbling at the soft insides of her lips.

Eyes bore into the cushiony flesh, his tongue swiping across his own in the thought of them against him. Soft and warm—he knew that much when they were around him—but that’s as far as his understanding reached; were they gentle and sweet or rough and hungry?

Would they be addicting, like every other part of her, or simply satisfying; something to pluck as a treat here-and-there?

He grunts and squeezes his vambraces against the wood, his chest following suit against her. “We’re alone,” he murmurs, head tilting to the side as if to silently voice his thoughts.

She’s not as convinced, searching the cabin for eyes infused into the walls, the floors.

“Mesh’la, it’s safe.”

Her head twists to the entrance, a rush of heat tagging her cheeks in soft hues of pinks. She quietly squeaks, “The doors open.”

“Nobody is looking.”

He’s pushing boundaries he put in place decades ago; parading around a relationship—or whatever this is—like some big achievement, which, to be frank, was pretty extraordinary for the Mandalorian. Flings and casual partners—sure—they weren’t feats but this...He’s never encountered someone so remarkable, so special, so necessary; she’s squirmed herself into his life and now she won’t ever be able to leave without causing a disturbance in his lifestyle. He needs her.

She composes herself at his odd comment and brashly collects a batch of his cowl between her teeth to tug him closer—arms still inoperable against her—and uses the newfound angle to assault his neck with a tauntingly hot breath.

“Clean yourself up first,” she tempts. “You’re grimy.”

“To be fair,” he grumbles, “I don’t recall you having a chance at the refresher in a while.”

She pulls away, eyes squinting at him. “Tread on your words very carefully here, Mando.”

He chuckles and loosens his grip moderately. “I mean—you could join me.”

Mando’s growing confident—too confident, it’s the first signs he’s setting himself up for disappointment—and he slides his hands from the pillar to the curves of her hips, his leathers slipping underneath the oversized shirt to explore the bare flesh; her torso being the only place he hadn’t been given the pleasure of researching—all the chalky scar tissue, the slopes of her abdomen, the contours of her chest.

Pair that with the suds of soap cloaking her skin, her hair, it’s every man’s dream to be the one to apply it to a woman, to feel and pull on slippery skin in such a personal way—to scrub her spic-and-span only to ruin her until she needs another.

“Join you,” she repeats mulling for a moment but she shakes her head with rejection. “That’s too conspicuous.”

She doesn’t voice her concerns regarding his helmet—how in the hell do you clean yourself with me there?—and he himself is uncertain, he just knows he wants to be the one to wash the grime off her. He’ll fix himself up after he’s tended to her, if need be.

“Everybody already has their suspicions.”

She sighs. “Guess I wasn’t very discreet earlier, huh?”

“No,” he confirms, his digits stroking leisurely lines to-and-fro. “you weren’t. What happened? I’ve never seen you look so uncomfortable.”

“I...don’t do well with crowds.” She casts her eyes between their feet, examining the size difference of their boots. Mando removes himself from her to allow her to breathe, to continue without feeling pressured. “That face mask I wore… It was a layer of me. It helped me deal with spying eyes. When Tika destroyed it, I dunno, I guess a piece of myself died with it. It-it doesn’t make sense.”

You’re talking to the expert of masks, he thinks.

“I understand.” he says. “It mustn’t be easy having to deal with the lack of something so integral.”

Mando has yet to experience that fear—that overwhelming sensation of uneasiness; people’s eyes so effortlessly studying him without the disguise of his armour to protect him—it’s something he’s appreciative of everyday.

She sighs, hot and heavy and laced with exhaustion. “Well, life continues either way and I can’t exactly hide away here forever.” She initiates a stare-down with the ajar door, scanning the wilderness that reached her vision; a couple of women standing among the pond waters scooping for krill, a pair of children on the banks assisting with their catch. “I’m not one for fishing but I guess I should help out a little, as thanks.”

He grunts as a reply, lacking the confidence to trust his voice—stay here, stay with me—and lamely takes a few steps back, assigning his amban rifle to a nearby flat surface, some storage units, and sinks to a rustic chair.

She considers him, eyes bouncing from his helmet to his lap where his cloak is pulled between his hands. Mando rings out the sopped material, murky water seeking refuge in the crevices of floorboards.

“You’re making a mess.”

“I need to dry,” he retorts.

“Take it off,” she says.

Mando’s shoulders stiffen, his back straightens. “I can’t.”

“I won’t look.” The Girl turns on the heels of her feet and shuts the door ahead of her, casting the room into darkness except for the timid rays of sunlight shining through the narrow gaps of the window—not enough for somebody outside to see, but plenty for him to undress himself without a hassle. “Just put in my hand when you’re done. I’ll find somewhere sunny to hang it up - shouldn’t take too long to dry in this heat.”

There’s no movement on either of their sides, their hut as though it was in suspended animation or the Crest on one it’s many malfunctions just idling in the vastness. She shifts on her feet restlessly in wait for the sodden garments to weigh her hand down.

“What, so I just sit here until it’s dry?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Unless you want to walk around the village naked with a helmet on, yeah.”

Mando grumbles under his breath. It’s not really a choice. It’s not as though he can just remain drenched all day until the air inevitably dries him off. Still, it’s not easy to remove himself from his armour somewhere other than the Crest; it provided security, a reassurance that nobody will see him so exposed.

Both boots are dismissed from their positions and come to lay rest beside the chair while he works on the beskar platings riddling his body—the steel branded to protect him now nothing more than a nuisance as it resists against his efforts and continues to cling to the suit against his wishes. They’re slippery and contain no traction on behalf of the clumpy muck, his leathers sliding out from underneath each time. It’s like a suction seal against his chest, inconceivable of success, but he’s just as stubborn and lures the rim underneath a stitch of his glove and plucks the guard off harshly.

One down, too many more to go.

The other platings put up just as much of a fight as the first but, with a few tugs, they withdraw from his body and reside on the ground alongside his boots. He’s practically naked without his beskar—the air light and crisp as he breathes without the weight—practically naked in front of the Girl. It’s the most he’s been so revealing and, even though she’s not looking at him, his cheeks grow warm, his stomach pulled taut.

He dabbles in intolerable concepts—thoughts he shouldn’t act on for the sake of his Honour, his Creed—the overwhelming suggestion of standing behind her and letting her feel his bare heat radiate off in potent waves; like a strong glass of spotchka, irresistible but ultimately an unhealthy decision.

There’s a deep shudder that runs through the base of his neck down to his coccyx, goosebumps brandishing him and refrigerating him far greater than the krill waters could. Underneath his helmet, he casts his eyes low to devour the curves and slopes of the Girl’s body, his teeth grinding against each other until there’s an ache in his temples.

His Beskar is gone, solely a clump of shiny steel that serves as a warning of what he could be throwing away—everything he’s risked his life for, everything he’s spent decades consuming, altering his physical attributes to suit that of a stoic, emotionless pillar of flesh and bone fortified with not just his armour but his code. His faith.

The Girl precariously shifts between either foot and cocks her hip out, sighing dramatically that pulls his thoughts back into the present.

“Patience,” he instructs.

The air is thick, hot, or maybe it was just him—his filters rendering inoperable when confronted with the foreign bashfulness; it’s not often he encounters such a outlandish emotion, so unknown and disorienting, and it’s quite possibly the worst fucking issue he’s faced with. There’s no shooting or piloting his way out of it and his brain only works in a handful of matters at a time—none of which included addressing the electricity in his chest, the bubbling in his stomach, the clenched muscles throughout his anatomy.

The Mandalorian—if he could still be considered a Mandalorian without his armour, his essence—stands, prompting a squelch from the pool of water he formed underneath, and reaches around his neck to unclasp the heap of his cloak; it’s nothing new, she’s seen him without it before. The shirt is a different story. That’s new. That’s untouched boundaries. His build is infrequently subjected to the perched star in the clouds let alone another lifeform.

Fingers dip underneath the hem of his shirt and bundles the material, his second knuckles sweeping against his abdomen that leaves his jaw tight. That famished growling in his chest is utterly pathetic—his own touches manage to provoke such a humiliating reaction, he could only fathom what the Girl would do to him with those soft hands of hers, her gentleness as she nurses the bruises with her thumbs.

Mando hoists the shirt over his head and slips free from the sleeves and drops it to the floor with a displeasing schlup and neglects the choking in his throat, the rise of his heart rate. Are your eyes closed, he seeks answers to voiceless questions, or are you staring at wood, counting the twigs? Why aren’t you looking at me? There’s another sigh that fills the quiet, whether it’s from her or himself is uncertain; his heart is pleading for a moment’s break.

It doesn’t come.

Next is his trousers—something she had seen before, but under different circumstances, totally contrasting. Perhaps it was all that Tatooine heat that got to them or the severity of the events catching up—Mando nearly dying, nearly stranding her and the kid—that caused them to collide with desperation, their hands working at whatever little article of clothing they could eliminate from the equation to feel each others warmth; the indication they were both alive, safe.

Mando takes pity on her restlessness and forces his reflections to the dark recesses of his mind for later, stripping out of the trousers adhered to his thighs, his calves, noting how the temperate air licks his legs dry. It’s too exposing, too public for his comfort, and he swiftly bundles the cot’s blanket around his shoulders to conceal himself from eyes that weren’t even aimed at him. She wouldn’t go undermining the trust they’ve built, but it’s his Honour, his code—at least that’s what he tells himself.

The Mandalorian tells himself he’s weary because that’s how he was brought up, he was trained to be cautious. To prohibit connections that’d tie him down and crush what little valour remained within him.

He ignores the pestering inkling at the back of his brain telling him that’s not why he’s so high-strung.

There’s scars tainting his flesh, painting the tan skin in slithers of off-whites, bruises on his knees and shins, thick callus paddings on his fingertips. He can’t help but imagine what the Girl might say if she saw him so bruised, so broken. Would she still want to touch him, or is it the shiny beskar that allures her—a mere status symbol.

Securing the blanket around his frame, Mando shimmys a hand out between the folds and grabs the pile of drenched cloth, striding across the room in three steps and gingerly placing it in the Girl’s outstretched palm.

“Is that all?” she asks, her fingers tightening around the stack of black. “I won’t be able to come back for more.”

Mando swallows, his throat bobbing against the air rather than his cowl; it’s such a bizarre situation, being so bare before the woman he struggles to contain himself around, his thoughts jumbled in his head—turn around, please don’t turn around—and he finds the strength to back away from her. “That’s all.”

She won’t—turn, that is—it’s too overbearing, too unlike her. No matter how easy it could be for her to witness him so vulnerable, so human-like, she won’t fiddle with the bindings of their mutual loyalties. Won’t stick her hand in the wet duracrete because she knows it’ll leave a permanent mark, a stamp of her backstabbery.

“All right.” She inches backwards so she can open the door ahead of her. “You out of sight?”

“Yes.”

She nods, her fingers wrapping around the handle and twisting but it stays firmly against the frame. “Get some rest. I know you didn’t sleep on the way here. I’ll get these tended to and then you can hit the ‘fresher.” She opens the door and takes a step outside. “Don’t forget to lock it.”

He watches her leave, observes how the sun swallows her in a breathtaking glow, watches the room be cast into darkness once more—isolating him from the outside; if it’s not beskar or the Crest, there’s always something between him and the natural beauty of the planets he frequents.

The sonic detectors pick up her departing footsteps, light and reluctant, until her boots make contact with the grass, dulling their resonance until he’s left with the laughter of children and hushed gossip concerning himself. He sighs, clicks the lock into place and precariously removes his helmet—cold, dirty with mud and silence leering through him. It’s insides are comforting, a shelter he’s incomplete without, but it’s exterior is the polar opposite; sinister, an insignia for his kind to instill fear into their enemies—the Girl never displaying that trepidation he’s so accustomed to.

Mando is endowed with the sight of the Girl’s beauty, how her eyes crinkle when she smiles or how she chews on her lower lip when in thought, her hands never static for more than a minute at a time, there’s not a detail in his sight he hasn’t engraved into the forefront of his mind.

She’s not as fortunate as him, stranded in the cold surrounded by steel rather than warm skin, unable to pursue the comfort of another without the constant reminder that he can never provide her with anything more than a slab of metal servicing as her shield. And yet, despite those factors, she remains beside him—voluntarily puts herself between him and danger—looking past the visor, all the walls he put in place, and into his eyes.

The helmet expires atop of the chair he’d been seated on, positioned away from him as he sinks his weight onto the mattress—bouncy and cottony, feeding his aching muscles with some much needed attention. For the first time ever, the bed is too large, too empty—she should be here.

Mando’s head stoops against the bundle of organised pillows, cushioning the healing wound underneath the thick of his curls. Curls her fingers nursed. He groans, deep that resonates through his chest, and distorts his head towards the door in wait for her return, his eyelids heavy as they fall shut.

Sleep doesn’t come to him easily in territories he’s been deprived of conquering; the nooks and crannies of each aisle between the huts unaccounted for, the instability of wooden walls establishing minimal security. It’s not optimal in contrast to his Crest but it works enough to achieve a couple hours of sleep. When he wakes, the orange tint leaking through the cabin has evolved into a blend of soft pinks and purples that blush against his tan skin as he paces the room, the blanket wrapped around his build dragging along the flooring with each lengthy stride.

He’d discovered a small refresher deposit in the shack and decided to clean himself up best he could—despite his hormones advocating against the idea, begging for him to wait it out until the Girl returns and he can share the space with her—which now leaves him stranded with his thoughts. A dangerous game he’s not prepared to dabble in presently. Fortuitously enough, he doesn’t need to—a steady knock on the hut’s door pulls him from his thoughts.

“I’ve brought your clothes,” Omera says from the outside, Mando quietly hums to himself and slips his helmet on before speaking.

“Thank you,” the vocoder crackles to life.

“I’ll leave it at the door for you to recollect.”

Mando enables his thermal vision, outlining her body through the door as she bends down to place the garments at the foot of the entrance and turns away for him to steal them. He does so, swiftly and with such minimal sound she doesn’t hear the door open or close behind her.

She’s unmoving, her hands clasped behind her back in patience for him to dress himself.

Assuming she wishes to commune about their sudden arrival, Mando doesn’t leave her waiting long—the flight suit smelling of soap and hugging his muscles with a pleasant residual warmth from the sunshine, his beskar, boots, gloves, and cloak following suit; electing to disregard his bandolier and holsters.

He’s not as hesitant to make noise now that he’s back to donning his layers and widely swings the door open indicating his decency. Omera turns to face him, her eyes casting over his clean clothes and offering a smile. “I was wondering if you’d like to take a walk before nightfall,” she asks, gesturing to the stairs below. “It would be nice to catch up with you. It’s been a while.”

“Where’s-”

“She’s out in the ponds with our finest catchers and your boy is with Winta and the other children.”

Mando doesn’t object against her proposal. Perhaps it’ll do him some good to get some fresh air, to clear his thoughts of the Girl, the wavering uneasiness of his Creed.

They leisurely stroll beside each other following the gravel paths of the village, the sinking sun ricocheting off the front of his helmet as they draw nearer.

“The ponds, huh?” Mando thinks aloud.

She chuckles. “Quite talented at fishing at that. She’s made a name for herself. We can swing by on our way, if you’d like.”

He faintly nods, his helmet inclining to the path as he walks. “Has the village encountered any issues recently?”

“You mean the raiders? They’ve kept their distance and the villagers know how to fight if that changes.”

“And what of you?” Mando asks. “How have you been? Winta?”

“Better, because of you, thank you,” she says, her feet coming to a halt among a cluster of krill ponds. They’re all empty, the inhabitants packing up for the remainder of the night, though his eyes land on the Girl in the distance. She’s switched her tarnished trousers and shirt for a village dress, hitched up to her mid-thigh as she dries the limbs coated in krill water.

The Mandalorian’s stomach contracts, his throat narrowing as he rakes in the image—the fluidity of the material in the wind, her skin lambent from the sunrays, the unclothed legs tormenting his self control. She hasn’t detected his prying, too concentrated on communing with a flock of women thanking her for the assistance.

It’s almost...domestic; Mando can imagine them settling down in a place like this, rough hands that manipulate blasters and spacecraft dedicating themselves to lenient chores like a regular townsman. Gummy blood that sticks to his leathers washing away in a tranquil stream. Their nights spent witnessing the stars emerge from the vastness of the sky above.

The weight on his vambrace suffocates his daydreaming with grungy splotches of soil and he reluctantly returns his attention to Omera, who’s studying his inattentive stance.

“The offer still stands.”

“Offer?” he asks.

“To settle down here with your boy.” The bothersome weight snakes along his beskar and to the thick of his flight suit, her fingers working their way into the strained bicep. She lowers her voice to a dainty murmur, “There must be a reason for your return.”

The weight on his arm is unnatural, forced—so unlike the unfiltered gentleness of the Girl’s—he refrains from shrugging her off, not wanting to appear ungrateful for her hospitality, but it’s like venom seeping into his veins and numbing him from the inside.

Their little game of tooka-and-womp-rat from the last time he was here starting to catch up with him; this is what he was afraid of. She’s a kind woman, she’s great with kids and can handle her own, but she’s not the Girl. She’s not who he wants to see right now.

“You like it here, don’t you?”

“It’s-it’s not an option. We can’t stay still for long.”

“It’s safe here.” Fingers dig in, feet inch closer, eyes dusky.

Mando finally pulls away, unsettled, and shakes his head. “The Child is still being hunted by the Guild. We may only last a few days here before needing to move on. They need a break, is all.” He shies from mentioning he requires a break as much as them; the Girl’s initial idea stimulating the selfish desires that influenced his return. “We’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

Omera’s eyes stall downwards, her hands clasping together ahead of her. “I understand,” she says. “Since you’re on a break, how about I take in your boy for the night? It’ll allow you some rest and I’m not sure if I can separate Winta from him.”

“I don’t think-”

“We’re only a few huts down from you,” she reassures.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Omera, she’s demonstrated her loyalties before, but they’ve spent so much time apart since Tatooine. What happens if the kid latches onto someone and Mando can’t stomach meddling with their bonding? What happens if he no longer wishes to journey with him? The Mandalorian is responsible for him—he can’t just abandon him, but who’s he to insert himself in places he doesn’t belong?

Then again, devoting time to other children his age—well, about as close they’ll reach to his age—could be beneficial; it’s one of the reasons why he had chosen Sorgan.

Mando exhales and seats his hands on his hips. “Okay, but if he’s too much to handle let me know.”

“Of course,” she whispers, clasping a hand on his tricep as she passes him, the burden slinking down his elbow until he’s too far from her reach and it falls away. He cranes his head to look behind as she strides back towards the village, his eyebrows crinkling as he studies her.

“You two are real chummy,” the Girl says from ahead of him, brushing her shoulder against his pauldron as she continues towards their shared hut. He releases a grunt as he’s pushed out of her way, the confusion inscribed into his brows only multiplying—what the fuck is happening?

“Hey.” Mando stalks her, towering and threatening that induces the locals to pitiful onlookers, silently wishing the Girl her best as she enters the hut with him not far behind, the door slapping closed. “What’s gotten into you?”

The Girl scoffs and shakes her head with disbelief, her hands working at the fastenings of her dress to loosen it from around her thighs, framing her legs in wrinkled tapestry. “Me? You’re the one changing around all your little rules you put in place. Should’ve seen the two of you out there. What happened to privacy?”

His legs don’t operate with his wishes, the boots cemented in a debating stance with his arms crossed against his chest. “What are you talking about?” the vocoders buzz.

Baring her teeth like a tooka, she hisses, “She likes you.”

She likes you—he mulls it over, sifting through the dust for the underlying meaning—do you like her?

Mando’s muscles sag and his feet bound across the room to near her, needing her warmth; needing her. He can’t believe she’s skeptical of their connection. He can’t believe she’s doubting how he feels. It burns him. Leaves a searing scar where his heart belongs.

He wants to reach out for her, feel her pliable tissue underneath his gloves, but there’s a meek hesitance; a miniscule drops-worth of concern he’ll incur further stings that eat at his flesh.

“I--”

“Turn around.”

He tilts his head. “Why?”

“Need to get out of this stupid dress.”

Does she not realise what it’s doing to him?

How his fingers are clenched into fists against his sides. How his breathing is heavier. How his shoulders are hunched and his head is preoccupied with images of that blasted skirt hitched up to her thighs with him between them. Does she not see that?

“Keep it on.”

It’s almost an order. Almost.

“It’s hers,” she spits.

Oh. That makes sense.

“I get it, all right. I don’t...have you, Mando. I’m not allowed to-to be jealous when another woman touches you, but—” She unzips the top unconcerned of his peeping, furious and desperate to rid herself of the confining garment. “I won’t wear her clothes. I won’t dress up as another one of your flings. That’s - that’s…”

Mando’s features soften, his fists unclenching, shoulders slacking, and—wait. Back up. Is she that clueless?

He carries his feet towards her, heavy and laden with purpose.

“You’re wrong.”

“What?”

“You’re wrong, mesh’la,” he repeats. Another step.

She’s no longer concerned with the dress, the fabric that once felt like acid against her skin now nothing more than the means of coverage. The Mandalorian isn’t radiating any expressions that she’s learnt to pick up on—he’s completely unreadable.

“About what?”

“I don’t have you,” he recites. “That’s what you said.”

The Girl’s quiet, too quiet, as she stares him down. There’s a falter in her movements as she recedes from her own nerves reflecting off beskar. Finally, ever so slowly, she breathes out another, “What?”

His modulator thrums, his boots clink, his flight suit rustles. Their radius is shortened, Mando’s beskar brushing against the material of her dress as he closes her in like he did before. His leathers stroke against her cheek, bulky and unsatisfying; preventing him from the intimacy he seeks. It’s not fair. He can’t remain like this—so quarantined from her, so fucking removed.

There’s no thinking, no self-interrogating, as his hands fumble against the beskar plate strapped to his chest in haste—concerned that if he slows down even a second he’ll lose the confidence building up inside him—his fingers curl underneath the boundary and tears the steel off his build, clanking to the flooring beside them. The impact causes her to jump, her eyes widen as she inspects the vacant space of his torso.

“Your Creed,” she whispers.

Seizing her hand in his, he compresses it against his pectoral and breathes in deep—lungs inflating against the appendage, his heart stammering at the unacquainted sensations of her nails digging into the flesh underneath. Inconsistent palpitating of his organ travels from the surface of his chest, through her fingertips and to her core, tightening and coiling as her own beating soars to unhealthy speeds.

It’s an adrenaline rush in itself, her fingers so temperate and alive abutting his dense suit—he conceptualises them slithering underneath to nurse the ache of his organ.

He’s not afraid of being burned. He told her that back on Tatooine and he fucking meant it.

Mando is durable; he can take a few burns if need be.

“You make me do foolish things, mesh’la.” The beskar slides across the room with a kick of his boot and he takes another step closer, her back forced against the walls of their dinky cabin. A gloved forefinger hooks the thread perched among her neck and lifts, the steel pendant revealing itself from beneath the top of her dress and he rubs a comforting stroke on the face of the skull. “This is the only part of me I never removed.”

Her face is hot, her lungs heavy. She’s listening, though she makes no effort in concealing how her fingers insistently grasp at his shirt to develop an understanding of the unfamiliar territory.There’s a gentle squeeze across the back of her hand and she tears her eyes away to glance at the visor, tilted and lenient. “This-” He absentmindedly fidgets with the necklace. “-means more to me than my beskar. It was a...beacon of light, hope. It was my compass when I lost myself in my commissions—reminded me of why I chose this life, why I chose to isolate myself—I’m not sure if I need it anymore.” He hopes he’s exhibiting the connotation inside his head as successfully as he believes—I don’t need it when I have you and you have me.

“Mando…” she exhales.

He chews on the gums of his cheeks, his lips, until they’re sore and tender.

“Not -- not good with words,” he confesses, his thumb massaging circles into her cheekbones. “Let me show you.”

Her head angles to the side in consideration. “Show me?”

It’s not an exact approval of his request but it’s enough for him to act—enough for him to demonstrate his devotion to the Girl—and he sinks his hands behind her thighs and hoists them around his waist, pressing his chest into her for stability against the wall. Her hands find their place on his pauldrons, quizzing eyes searching his visor for assurance. Baffling, how she’s so precarious for his Honour’s sake despite him being the initiator; his toes absorb his weight as he lifts himself to insert the face of his helmet into the crook of her neck, his modulator eliciting a grunt as his arousal awakens and rubs against the bottom of her thighs.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

She doesn’t—Thank the Force, as Peli would say—and he transitions them to the cot, her legs tightening around him with each step he takes. He deposits her onto the mattress on her back with his body hunched over hers, though his feet refuse to tear from the floor, either hand on the cushions beside her head.

“Take it off.”

She doesn’t need a stupid dress for him to look at her that way.

The Girl whirs melodically like a comforting warble from his Crest welcoming him home and she carefully slips her limbs from his shoulders down his chest and out from their sleeves, the dress supported by nothing but gravity and her fingers bundle the skirt, impishly stripping the garment inch by slow inch.

Mando rids himself of his gloves, hell-bent on pursuing the pillowy flesh and engraving his fingerprints. Her stripping wavers at her abdomen and he takes the opportunity to slip the rough pads of his hands along the tops of her thighs to beneath the cloth, fingers blindly studying the miniscule scars puncturing the smooth skin. They find the most recent one, still tender but glossed over with rough tissue, and he circles it like a tooka with its prey.

She’s otherworldly, all soft curves and smooth skin in contrast to the dead of steel.

The weight on his chest, or lack of, evokes shameful thoughts.

“Come here,” he whispers, catching her hands and placing them on either of his pauldrons, her fingertips hooking underneath the rim. “Drag it down and then up.”

“I can’t.”

“You can, pretty girl.”

The nickname pulls a shudder out of her bones and her fingers tighten around the steel, heeding his instructions until the layers unclasp from their fastenings—protection he’s bonded with now nothing more than inanimate alloy in her hands. It’s a physical weight off his shoulders but it reaches so much deeper than that, as though he could finally breathe for the first time in years even with the blockade of a helmet.

He repositions her hands to his vambraces. “Curl your finger underneath-” She follows, either forefinger arching beneath the rim and finding a small shrouded dial, the plates slackening around his wrists and she carefully peels either off. “That’s it.”

That ugly trepidation from before isn’t even a consideration—his eyes glowing and fingers stiff as she shucks him from his beskar piece by piece, her own garb partially removed and covering the last portion of her body he’s yet to see bare. He won’t undress her further, not until they’re equal and she’s more comfortable.

Mando slips free of his boots, nudging them to the side, and ascends to the surface of the cot to sit on his knees between her legs. Their hands shift to his tassets resting among his hips and he aids in her attempt to dislodge them from their joints, tossing them to join the growing pile of steel below the bed. She stops with her hands sprawled across his cuisses, the last of his armour; the last physical manifestations of his essence.

“Is this what you want, Mando?” she asks, the tips of her fingers caressing small strokes into his thighs above the steel.

“Say my name,” he pleads. “No one will hear.”

She repeats, “Is this what you want, Din?”

Dank Farrik. He’s no longer The Mandalorian, Mando, but instead reclaiming a long lost name and wearing it with pride, ingraining the sound of it slipping through her lips into his bones. Din. A name he’ll only ever hear come from her. His name.

And the Girl was no longer just the Girl—she’s His Girl; all his and he’ll brand her body to prove it, label her skin with his crescent nails if he has to. They deliberately dig into the meat of her thighs, skin raking underneath his fingernails, and he nods his head in response to her question - this is all he wants. To be suspended in time right here and now; triumphing buried insecurities with her unwavering support.

Her fingers progress independently, hitching underneath the borders and tugging the final two pieces of pesky beskar from his body, sans helmet of course, and languidly drops them to the flooring with a clank.

She stifles her breathing, reducing it to a slow wisp that flees her mouth and circles around them dragging them against each other. “You-you can touch me, mesh’la.” He expresses his covet for her touch by depressing his hips into hers, rocking once and twice rhythmically until she wads a fistful of flight suit to draw him in—her breath fogging the visor as she analyses his build with her hands; trailing along the front of his chest and around his sides, the featherweight touches tickling the body parts scarcely disturbed.

“Smell so good,” she moans and tucks her face into his cowl. “Much better than before.”

Din chortles. “Should’ve joined me.”

“Next time.”

He’ll take her up on that.

There’s a hand on either hip and he observes from the clouds as she aligns their pelvises together, her heat bucking against the emerging bulge.

“Show me,” she alludes to his previous proposal, eyes swallowed with inky lust.

Din fucking growls—the modulator contributing very little to the deep crackle—and his hands return to soft flesh, shoving the galling dress up, up, up and over.

“S’pretty.”

The garment is discarded across the hut, finding its home somewhere among the clutter of beskar trailings. She’s faultless, something he already had an impression on but seeing her so bare, so unguarded and trusting beneath him, is record-breaking.

Trauma lesions encompass her skin, little choppy lines of faded tones splotched across her abdomen, her chest, shoulders, waist—mimicking his own—and he returns to the healing wound on her abdomen to brush a tender stroke along the surface; an injury he was there to witness, the blade tucked into her flesh still so fresh in his mind.

“Din.”

The vermillion slipping through his gloves as she faded out of consciousness. Those dreadful cries of pain each time he touched her. The unyielding environment of Tatooine attacking his muscles and composure as she bled out in the arms of a stranger.

A prodding at his back plucks him from reliving the memory, crumbling it into miniscule debris fragments upon the revelation that she’s here with him, breathing and safe and alive. She’s poking at the wound he garnered all those days ago, when she took the first step to progressing this little thing they have going—all of their intimate milestones triggered by one or the other inflicting a wound of sorts; Din seemingly the culprit in both instances.

But not this time.

This time is different. Spurred on by passion and a necessary need to show each other themselves defenceless.

“Sorry,” he whispers and compensates for lost time with a gentle grind of his bulge into her sex, her feet digging into the matress behind him and holding him stationary against her.

She raises to her elbows, seizing a clump of his cowl in one hand to stabilise herself and uses the newfound leverage to rut against his lap. “Shit, Din,” she moans.

It’s so fucking lewd; she’s just using him to get herself off and fuck if he doesn’t like it—the pressure around his neck with each tug, the warmth against his lap, how light and freeing each movement is compared to last time.

“Supposed-” He’s cut off with a tumbling grunt, fleeing out of his throat and into the silent cabin as she quickens her pace; stroking the underside of his length raw. “I’m-I’m supposed to...fuck.”

“Taking-” she breathes, “-too long. Fucking--taking off your beskar, what’re you thinking? I need you, Din.”

She’s forced back onto her back beneath him with a hand flat against her abdomen, his figure looming over her exuding lust and desire and pure dusky thoughts he’d be ashamed of admitting. “Wasn’t done,” he declares, a hand grasping at the hem of his shirt to eradicate the article from the equation. Din needs to feel his skin against hers, more than just roughened hands, he wants her nails in the muscles lining his back, her teeth retreating to the skin above his collarbone, lips and tongue labouring at his neck.

The weight around his neck and shoulders commands him to cease his stripping—fuck. Why’s he got so many fucking layers for? Din rips the cloak from around his neck, bundling it into a tattered ball and tossing it across the room impatiently.

His hands return to his shirt’s hem, elevating the fabric until a sliver of his abdomen is assaulted by frigid air. The downwards dragging is unexpected, quaint, and he stops to heed her interruption, “Only if you want to, Din. Don’t - don’t force yourself for me.”

“Sweet girl,” he muses and removes his hands so she’s left clutching the fabric alone. “Take it off for me.”

It’s too intimate, too liberating; so much more than just sex and a means to receive relief from each other’s bodies. This is something they’ve both been denied for far too long—the meek touches of another to lull each other, reassure themselves events that have yet to unfold will be okay so long as they’re together.

She discards the shirt beside them and runs her nails along his spine gingerly, recording the bumps of bone buried underneath the flesh and muscles. His front is in her face, on direct display for her eyes to collect the slithers of off-whites; her lips brushing his pectorals.

“Been through so much,” she whispers against his skin, her breath prompting a layer of goosebumps in its radius. “Too much.”

“As have you, mesh’la.” His fingers trail a slash across her shoulder.

The time she contributes to identifying each scar, memorising the feeling and positions, is staggering—as though she’d be content with just studying his body for the next week alone—those impressions of her only wanting him for his armour and protection, not for what else he can bring to the table, are lit in unforgiving flames.

She’s not in it for the reputation he withholds, but simply for him.

There’s a tightness in his chest, an ache, something new and terrifying—a word to an emotion he’s not acquainted with circling his mind, bouncing along his tongue in jest towards his confusion and uncertainty.

He doesn’t entertain the thought; the thought that maybe, possibly Din is having his initial encounter with something bigger and more dangerous than any commission he’s dealt with before. It’s not possible. He’s not that fortunate. He can’t process those emotions—he’s not built for that.

Din needs a distraction, pronto, otherwise his head will be so clouded with the thought that—

She banks a wet stripe across the front of his throat, the groan oscillating through his flesh and onto her tongue and she rewards him with a benign kiss—his throat bobs and he ruts against her pelvis unquestionably eager.

Yeah, that’ll do.

Din’s hands surrender behind her back and blindly unclasp the hooks of her undergarment and yanks the blasted barrier off, his hands working the soft mounts before his eyes gain a chance to rake in their appearance.

“So soft,” he murmurs, palming the tissue vigorously. “How’re you so soft?”

The Girl opens her mouth to utter something snarky—he’s beginning to sense her incoming sass—and he devilishly clips a nipple between two fingers to disrupt her train of thought, her fingernails raking against his shoulder blades in an attempt to stifle the rising noises in her throat. It’s hypnotic, like watching electricity react against metal, her back arching as he flicks a thumb over the hardening peak sparking her nails to bare down into the meat of his slackened deltoids.

A hand trails down to his abdomen, digits soaking through the hairs of his happy trail but she doesn’t stop in her endeavours and sinks lower, past his bulge and buries her hand underneath her undergarments so that he can only see the outline of her hand working away at her crotch.

Din exhales, one of his hands fleeing from her breasts to remove the garment so he can watch her. She plunges three fingers inside of herself, stiffly pumping her hand in and out—preparing herself for him; it’s so fucking vulgar.

“Gods,” he groans. His final piece of clothing retires to his ankles, too overzealous to put in that extra effort to be completely free, and instructs her hand to his cock, using the slick on her fingers to lubricate himself. “Flip over for me, pretty girl. Let me take care of you.”

She enthusiastically obliges and squirms underneath his weight to lay on her stomach, he uses the pillows to prop her ass up to avoid her overstraining herself and reserves a moment to consider the view—far greater than his mind would conjure up. There’s additional scar tissue across her back, lengthy slashes and the remnants of blaster bolts, but those only highlight her features; the dip between her shoulder blades, the arch of her lower back joining the curves of her ass perfectly.

“Beautiful.” He adjusts himself between her folds, rubbing the tip to amass more of her slick, and eases inside her gradually; his hands never leaving her waist, eyes refusing to tear from the scenic sight.

“Shit--”

“So beautiful.”

“--Din, please-”

Din hums and thrusts inside her, pulling moans and gasps from her lips like music to his ears. “Beautiful...mesh’la.” It doesn’t require further explanation, the connotation straightforward with two simple words.

She asks, nonetheless, words muffled with bedspread and moaning, “That’s what you’ve been calling me all this time?”

“Do you like it?”

“Do I like it—you’re… you -- Maker. Shut up and fuck me.”

Fucking her, that he can do. Shutting up, on the other hand, was a little more difficult. It’s worthy of a comedic performance, how contrasting Din is in bed to in his armour; usually so stoic, a Mandalorian-of-few-words, now so whiny and talkative underneath the Girl’s charm.

Even if he wanted to stop murmuring dulcet words—and he really fucking doesn’t want to; the pent-up statements flowing from his throat so smoothly compared to earlier, like a tender creek current—he can’t stop.

Din applies his weight onto her back, uses his knees to continue his thrusts, and dips his helmet to mutter filth into her ear, “Gar jatnese be te jatnese-” He grunts, a hand squirming it’s way underneath her body to snatch a breast - just to have his hands against parts of her reserved for him. “Gar ani ni, vaabir gar suvarir?”

Of course she doesn’t understand—-Mando’a isn’t a well-known language, with few aruetii capable of articulating the speech. It’s no surprise when she doesn’t respond to his comments but the quiver reaching her shoulders and toes is a clear indication she’s savouring the sound of his voice manipulating a foreign language—whispering endearments only he can understand.

He’s touching her everywhere, running along her sides and across her shoulders, fingers dipping to draw lines across her cheeks and forehead where sweat is beginning to accumulate. Din’s inquisitive, it goes against his nature—habitually so cautious and attentive—and he sweeps two fingers across the cushioning of her lips, tapping against the flesh until she parts and immerses the digits within the pocket of her mouth.

There’s no sense of direction, no suggestion for what she should do cause he’s fucking splintered like a log; he’s had her fingers in his mouth before but he’s never felt the warmth of her saliva without a leather barrier. The helmet tucks into the crevice of her neck and shoulder as she bobs her head on the fingers, performing identically to how she had at Tatooine on his cock—sultry and slow, simply exploring the body he’s honoured her with sharing.

It’s an overload of sensations. Being rooted so deeply within her it’d be best to pitch his residence to refrain from laborious movement, their lungs synchronised against each other, his bareness, his withering Honour, so apparent and she’s focused on serving him with anything he desires; fingers in her mouth, weight crushing her, a hand grabbing at her chest, she doesn’t care so long as he’s satisfied and touching her.

Din can’t handle it. He’s a fucking Mandalorian. A warrior. He’s killed thousands of lifeforms in his lifetime. He’s survived wars. None of those even came close to shattering him like she does—a pretty girl is the cause of his skeptical questioning of his Code. A pretty girl is the sole motivation for his fingers to dip underneath the beskar rim, floundering for the feel of a fastener -- click!

There’s a hiss that interrupts her pace, the gears in her head turning, and she pulls away from his fingers to stare off into oblivion. Her body’s tense, the cushiony flesh abruptly hard and taut underneath him. “What’s the matter, Cyar’ika?” he mulls, stopping his movements to console the change of attitude.

“Din—you can’t.”

She doesn’t need to explain herself. Doesn’t need to clarify she understands that sound, having heard it twice before now. She understands the reality of the situation he’s pushing themselves into; quite possibly more than Din himself.

She inhales and inclines her head, sealing off any possibility of catching a glimpse of something unforgivable. She murmurs, “You’ve shown me, I get it -- I understand. The pendant, the beskar, the flight suit... It’s too much—I can’t reciprocate. You can’t give all of this to me, Din.”

The beskar is slack, mobile, as he shifts so he’s directly behind her. “Oh, Cyar’ika, you’ve given me plenty.” he hums, the vocoder continuing to operate. It modulates his vocals into staticy droid-like sounds; it provokes a rise in his chest, a tightness in his abdomen, and he rips the steel from his face—as though he’s submerged in krill water, drowning and in dire need of the Girl—and his mouth latches onto the back of her shoulder in one foul swoop. There’s no time to consider it, his actions overcoming his rationality and faith to his Creed.

It’s all teeth and tongue. Biting and tugging, licking and lapping.

The Girl springs at the sensation, the contact so heavenly she’s uncertain whether it’s real.

“Din, you...fuck, shouldn’t-shouldn’t…” She struggles for a deep inhale with the weight on her back, her face swallowed by blankets for his Honour’s sake.

The enamel works out the knots in her muscles, his warm tongue lulling the skin to relaxation after he’s finished abusing it. It’s fucking surreal. Dreamlike. Who knew something so small could elicit such a primal feeling inside of him. She’s even softer in his mouth than his hands—how is she so fucking soft—all warm and salty from sweat that attacks his tastebuds, leaves him thirsty for more.

He marvels whether the beating in her chest is as fast as his, whether he’s spurring on some deepened arousal like she’s doing to him; his cock hardens like that of his beskar, tight and sturdy to the point of ache and he’s compelled to grind his pelvis against her ass to relieve some of the pressure.

“Pretty girl,” he coos, voice rounded and deep and alive; goosebumps rise to the surface of her skin, which he nurses with delicate pecks. “Should take a look at yourself.”

She bites back, “Should listen to yourself.”

It encourages him, welcomes the husky tone from the depths of his throat as he nears her ear and deliberately exudes a hot sigh to assault the cartlidge, “Kaab jate, Cyar’ika? Is that what you like? My voice?” He pokes his tongue at the base of the side of her neck and slides upwards to the bottom of her ear. “Or—ner uram—my mouth?”

It’s not a question needed to answer; she makes it apparent that yes, his mouth, his voice, his vulnerability, his sacrifice, is what she likes—she likes him.

“Ke-ep talking like that and I’m gonna-”

“We’re not done,” he rumbles. “I wanna-wanna taste.”

“Ta-st-e…” she stumbles. He can’t see her face from this angle but he imagines a tint of pink across her cheeks, her teeth chomping away at the bottom lip.

Din buzzes against her ear in confirmation. “Want you in my mouth. Is that okay?”

“Oh fuck. Yes. Where - how do you want me?”

So fucking eager—he swallows the opportunity to assuage her appetite for his tongue by flattening the organ against her spine unloading a thick stripe of saliva in substitute for the sweat that nestles its way down his throat. “Not yet, sweet thing, let me take care of you first.”

Din lacks experience utilising his mouth to get someone off, isolating yourself in a layer of steel tends to do that to a man, and he’d be unable to reveal himself from his beskar again if he humiliates himself like that—he’ll just exploit what he can and swoop in to lap up the remnants between her thighs.

It’s greedy wanting to experience the flavour not for her pleasure but his own. That aftertaste that’s so highly spoken about so unidentifiable on his taste buds; he can’t continue living not knowing what that’s like.

But first; he’ll make her scream his name and come on his cock until she’s leaking down her thighs.

His helmet idles beside them, lopsided visor leering at him from it’s position—he scowls at the heinous thought jostling around his mind and repositions it ahead of the Girl, the steel weighing down the blankets. He verifies it’s perspective and slithers a hand around her throat to pry her face from the depths of the blankets and mattress.

She’s rigid as she finds herself in the reflection of the visor, sweaty and flushed and practically drooling with thirst for his thrusts. “Fucking——look at yourself,” Din moans.

“Shit, your face-”

“S’okay,” he slurs, “can’t see me from your position.”

The Girl relaxes somewhat, her shoulders still taut but her neck melting into his hand and moulding her flesh around his digits as he continues to incline her head—look how gorgeous you are—and his teeth latches onto the skin of her throat, twisting and pulling to leave a mark for later.

His hair is thick and unkempt, subsequently flat and jungly from the helmet, and his wild curls wash against the bays of her jaw; strands peering into her field of view even though her eyes are almost at the back of her head. She obliges with her eyelids requests, respecting his Creed, and seals themselves together to submerge her vision with black—it’s all sensory, all touches and gentle kisses against her neck to counterbalance the unforgiving thrusts he’s gifting.

Din labels her with his teeth indentations, breaking the blood vessels in splotches across her throat, painting crescents into her shoulders with his nails. He mouths her name but the word refuses to vocalise, latching onto the tonsils and taking residence there; in his mouth, where it belongs.

“Din--”

His response is nothing short of filth; muffled moaning pressed against the back of her ear as his hand captures the swelling nub of her clit to draw eager circles.

“--Din, fuck. Din, Din, Din...”

“That’s it,” Din croons, his lips curling at the over abundance of his name spewing from her gullet. “Let go.”

There’s a quaint delay, her body working overtime to comprehend all the sensations without overloading her brain, then she’s writhing and twitching underneath him; his hand and thrusts never-ending as he pulls every single quake out of her involuntarily. Her walls tighten around his cock, that unmistakable warmth engulfing his length to attract his own undoing like a magnet—he could keep going for hours if not for that fucking warmth.

“Din! Di-”

“Shh,” he advises, setting his palm against her mouth to blunt the ecstasy cascading from her vocals like a waterfall—a downside to being so close-quartered to others; he wants to hear those whines, the unstoppable call of his name at her peak, but he’ll settle for rewarding muffles.

Din works her down from her orgasm, pecking soft kisses against her healing slashes and softening the fingers against her clit until she’s no longer twitching underneath his weight. She lays there for a moment, simply memorising the tingling between her thighs and how his pelvis compresses against her ass with every delicate thrust.

Energy recovering, rather quickly, she meets with his lunges, sloppy and trembling on her knees but he appreciates the effort—not that he needs it. She doesn’t need to do anything special to aid his high; Din could just come if she asked him to.

He’s reaching deep, the tip of his cock nudging against her cervix, and they stagger in unison. “Fuck. Vaii, Cyar’ika. Where-where do you want-”

“In,” she mewls between his fingers. “Don’t stop.”

“In.” Din fights his conscious for a breath, his windpipes narrow and clogged. “Dank Farrik. You’re sure?”

“Definitely.”

In, it is.

Din’s cock anchors in her warmth, his pelvis rocking back-and-forth lightly, and he savours how her walls contract with each flick of her sensitive nub—edging on his orgasm by the inch starting from the tip and sliding down to the base like vine tendrils wrapping around him and encouraging him to just fucking let go.

He heeds his own advice and relaxes, allowing the overwhelming pulsations to pump strings of softening whites inside of her, her name falling out his mouth in broken moans. Their warmths mix together within her walls and stick to his length with vengeance as he numbly extracts himself until only the tip is concealed. Cock still semi-hard, Din irresistibly thrusts into her one final time—pathetic ego reaching new heights when she mutters a final bleat.

Din runs rough fingers up the backs of her thighs and to her shoulders, palming the flesh tenderly until she’s nothing but a pool of lax muscles beneath him. His mouth delivers delicate kisses across the back of her neck to provide a break for her to regain her breathing.

“Can you continue?”

She nods her head, a simple response he holds close to his heart as he carefully readjusts himself behind her.

She’s poetic from this view, a body crafted with wise hands the greatest bards would struggle to write about, but there’s nothing that comes within range of outstanding like her face does.

He needs to see her.

“Think you can hold your eyes shut while I go down on you?” Din groans in desperation while she mulls the question over. “Please, Cyar’ika, I need a taste.”

It’s a big ask and if she can’t ultimately gather up that courage to comply he won’t pressure her, no matter how much his mouth salivates from the thought of finally consuming a piece of her.

It’s the greatest test of trust; she’d easily be able to slip open those pretty eyes and pulverise his Creed to molecules—he wouldn’t trust himself if he was in her position.

It should terrify him; should render him into a solid beam of sturdy beskar.

It doesn’t. Din’s paralleled to that of the Girl, soft and warm, not an inch of him cold and solid.

His Mandalorian helmet contains a blackout setting and, if it comes to it, he can slip it over her head so he can sate his cravings without the paranoia in either of their heads—no.That picturesque face of hers shouldn’t ever be covered up again; that stupid face mask stole too many moments from his vision.

There’s enough concealment behind beskar to provide for both of them. Too much concealment.

The Girl gasps, “Okay. Okay.”

The stretched lips across his face is disgraceful; finding pleasure in something so filthy. Din couldn’t give a fuck. Who wouldn’t be smiling in his position?

They silently reorganise themselves with her on her back, eyes firmly shut, and Din planted between her thighs, quite possibly his favourite place in all of the galaxy.

Din doesn’t rush things; he’s not that kind of man. He works her up with ribbing kisses across her sternum and tooka-licks on either nipple simply to hear her breathing hitch and her hands fist the blankets underneath them. She white-knuckles the fabric when his teeth collect the sensitive skin and brutally sucks his markings into her, red and blemished that’ll welt nicely by morning—the only form of bruisings her body should be subjected to.

The hand assaulting the blankets transfers into the thick lock atop of his head with his guide, the digits snaking through the curls for leverage and tugging as he makes sloppy open-mouthed kisses around the pendant resting between her breasts.

“Cyar’ika.” The newly-adopted nickname floats through the air and into her core. “What’d I do to deserve all this?”

There’s no sarcastic comeback this time, not even an attempt, though he knows what she would say—destroyed my rifle—and he makes route lower and lower and fucking lower.

She’s straining to keep her hand in the mess of hair, his head lowered between her thighs where she can feel his breathing against her heat.

There’s a trail of translucent along the insides of her thighs and he follows the streak with his lips, digits digging into the meat while he collects it onto the cushiony brims. His tongue doesn’t delve out for a taste—not yet—until he’s made a path directly to her sex to place a final kiss against the peak of her clit triggering a miniscule buck that nudges against his nose.

“Tell me to stop,” Din pleads; fucking pleads because he knows if she doesn’t he won’t be able to stop himself.

His scalp burns as she stiffens her grip. “Please.”

There’s an experimental lick at first, nothing short of the tip of his tongue running through her folds, but once he’s obtained a taste of her there’s no end in sight—the finish line sprinting so far away from him he doesn’t even want to make an attempt to reach a conclusion. He’s happy to sit there and lap up everything until she’s dried out.

The Girl was spot-on. They’re a combination of sweet and salty—sweet on the account of her, salty because of him—and its so fucking addictive. His tongue flattens against her to collect as much slick onto the muscle and retracts, swallows, and repeats.

The bump of his nose stimulates her oversensitive clit for a second round, his fingers deviously slipping inside her canals to accumulate what his tongue can’t reach, his eyes spying on her face for every reaction he plucks.

Din can’t prevent the famished growl that slips out of him when his fingers plop into his mouth, shiny whites blending with his salvia to slide down his throat and lay rest in his stomach.

“Sweet girl, you really are sweet.”

For someone so inexperienced, Din sure knows what he’s doing. His tongue is in hyperdrive, working at her clit and suctioning every last drop of her out from within.

“O-o-h,” she moans and writhes on the mattress. “Gods, Din... Right there. Sh-it.”

The mewling words of encouragement boost his ego, as though he’d been replaced with his younger self; overly-enthusiastic and mindless, but possessing far more maturity—nurturing quirks that go against his amour propre youth.

Din heeds her commands, unrelenting licks jerking against her clit while his fingers get to work pumping in and out of her.

He’s not trying to make her come again, he didn’t think he had it in him, but fuck she’s right on the edge—he can feel it. Maybe it’s the over-sensitive nub collapsing into her core prompting her to tremble and twitch, or maybe he’s not giving himself enough credit; regardless, he’s working overtime to quench her needs.

When her thighs pinch the sides of his head, he really loses the plot—a heavy grunt expelling from his throat as he angles his head to the side and quickens his pace, poking and prodding at the spot she likes best.

“Din, Din-fuck.”

Thrumming journeys through his mouth and onto her clit, stimulating it just that extra mile to cross the finishing line. Her thighs stabilise his head in place while she violently bucks into his mouth, her second orgasm much stronger than her first.

There’s a surge of slick coating his fingers and he sinks to hoard it in his mouth, tongue-fucking her up till she’s a whimpering mess beneath him. It’s all her—his saltiness long gone—and he revels in the warmth; focusing on it slipping down his throat and sheeting his taste buds with a sweet syrup that immediately destroys the memory of those pitiful pancakes.

“So fucking delicious, Cyar’ika. You deserve a taste. You want some?”

Her head nods faintly, the exhaustion catching up to her; thighs trembling and fingertips taut in his curls.

Din accumulates a mass of her slick on his fingers and reroutes himself for her mouth, but stops himself. It’s glistening at him, taunting and just begging to slip into his mouth—he fulfills it’s wishes and plunges his digits inside for his tongue to lap up the remnants before hastily ramming his lips against hers.

It’s too authentic, too nerve wracking, as though he’s being initiated into the Creed for a second time; all butterflies in his stomach and outpaced blood flow through his veins. His hands quiver as they find her face, cupping her jaw as he deepens the kiss with a flick of his tongue across her gums.

The Girl’s eyes nearly slip open from the initial shock but she’s mastered her self-control, slinking into the mattress and pulling him with her.

It’s not like the kisses you’d see in holoplays, where it’s all soft and delicate but rather hungry and needy, a lot of teeth clashing against each other as they attempt to find themselves.

They exchange flavours, Din offering up her slick on his tongue in return for her saliva; tasteless in itself but it’s hers—his favourite flavour.

It’s all over him. In his mouth, on his chin, his fingers, his cock. It’s where it belongs.

Breathing is essential to life: they’re reminded as they reluctantly pull from each other's seals. Din’s not done just yet, then again, he’ll never truly be quenched of her. There’s just not enough of her. His lips disturb every speck of visible skin on her face, pecking her chin and across her cheeks all the way up to her eyes and back around the opposite side.

He’s much more gentle now, having gorged himself on her lips and taste, and is mindful of the scratchiness of the scruff along his jaw as he runs the pillows down her throat to come to rest in the cavern between her shoulder and neck.

She’s so bouncy, so padded, Din could rest his head on the bare tissue and sleep for centuries; recuperate for all the decades of blood and sweat he’s put his body through, replenish the colour underneath his eyes, permit his muscles and bones to be reborn.

His eyelashes brush against his cheekbones as he rests his eyes and evens out his breathing.

“Din,” she breathes, hands sketching idle lines across his back. “Hate to ruin the mood but your helm-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just rest,” he mumbles against her flesh, a hand blindly reaching out for the blanket to cover themselves; he doesn’t plan on moving from this position. She’ll have to pry him off herself. The beskar pendant is wedged between their chests, the skull's tusks digging into his muscles but it’s somehow fitting, comforting.

She is worried, though. There’s a crinkle between her eyebrows that he heals with the padding of his thumb. “What if I wake up-”

“I’ll be awake before you.”

“But--”

“I promise.” It’s not a pledge Din should initiate. She’s too comforting and he might never wake if he remains in her arms. His stubble pricks against her collarbone as he finds an abode among her chest, the beat of her heart against his eardrum.

“Please, Cyar’ika, don’t make me put it back on.”

How can she oppose that?

“Oh——okay.”

This is bliss.

This is his Manda, his paradise.

Her, not the location, though Sorgan will always sit somewhere special within his heart.

His Girl is all he needs.

If Din didn’t have a mission, a green mischievous baby, to tend to he would spend the rest of his days nestled into her body, pampering precious skin made of the elements themselves with sentimental kisses and delightful touches.

If she was to ask him to retire his blasters to their weapons unit, he would do it in an instant.

“Din?” He placidly drones in feedback. “Thank you.”

“Hmm? For what?”

A hand lazes on his head, tufts of ungroomed curls separating through the gaps of her fingers considerably slow as to not lug a knot. “Believing in me. I don’t ask much about Mandalorian culture ‘cause I figured you get asked a lot; I only know of that from Legends, but I can see it’s a part of you. Trusting me with your Creed...after everything I’ve done… Thank you.”

She’s still beating herself up about previous events. He could just wedge open her eyelids so she can look into his eyes; maybe then she’ll realise he’s already forgiven her. Instead, Din exhales a low-toned sigh and pecks what skin his lips can reach from his position.

“We agreed to a cin vhetin, remember?”

“Yes, but-”

“Sweet girl,” he shushes her. “In Mandalorian culture we use that term in initiation; it’s to clear all previous debts. Everything that occurred before is erased. Only what will happen in the future will be considered.”

Their cabin falls silent as she mulls the significance over. Din can hear a fire crackling somewhere nearby, children laughing, and adults toasting each other to another successful day; lively and euphoric-sounding but he’s content laying atop of his euphoria, to feel each expansion of her lungs, each tardy investigative stroke on his bare form.

“Does that mean I’m not getting your rifle?” she jests.

Din laughs, a full-on throaty bellow that resonates through her. It’s so humanlike it shocks him, leaves him wiping at the corners of his eyes from the onslaught of tears he’s producing.

The Girl’s hand runs from his head to the back of his neck, her thumb and forefinger massaging out the taut stone into flexible cloth. She quietly murmurs, “Wasn’t that funny.”

Laughing gradually subsiding, he basks in the comfortable silence between them. The Girl was never overbearing, even before all the tension arised, never stepped her foot out of line purely out of respect for his wishes and now she’s breached obstacles that’d make him hang his head in shame in the presence of his elders.

“Didn’t you propose a challenge or have you already forgotten?”

She smirks with cocky confidence. “Gambling with your weapons, huh? That’s so unlike you.”

“As I said; foolish, foolish things, Cyar’ika.”

___________________

"atin" - stubborn "sleemo" - slimeball "mesh'la" - beautiful "gar jatnese be te jatnese" - you're the best of the best "gar ani ni, vaabir gar suvarir?" - you complete me, do you understand? "auretii" - outsider "cyar'ika" - sweetheart/darling "kaab jate?" - sound good? "ner uram" - my mouth "vaii" - where

A/N: Sorry this one took longer than the others, it lowkey beat my ass up. In other news, I am currently planning my next series that'll be a Mandalorian!Reader if any of you are interested in that. If you wish to be added to either the LUNAR taglist or the upcoming series tags, please send an ask or a message!

tags: @ohhersheybars, @greatcircle79, @northernpunk, @tanzthompson, @djarrex

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chalkrevelations · 3 years

Text

So, Word of Honor, Episode 36 (and “Episode” 37) again, because I want to do a little bit more unpacking of this, particularly with some of the extra material and information that people have been able to point me to.

Spoilers, obvs. For right now, I mainly want to pull out this bit of my initial reaction to 36 & 37, because I think it remains a key point for me:

It would be nice, though, if the connective tissue from 36 to 37 made any sense. Or existed whatsoever. Just, like, throw me a bone, show, some kind of explicit hand-waviness that actually gets mentioned for why Ye Baiyi apparently was not as smart as he thought he was and didn’t really know what he was talking about when he was doomsaying about how one of the pair will surely, oh surely perish. None of this “Sooooo, they managed to figure out the technique and master it?” from some random shidi who never actually gets an answer. I mean, the door was left open for fanwankery on this one, with what looks to be a very last-minute conceit of all this being a story told by grown-up Chengling to his disciples, which begs the question of how much of what he’s telling them is totally accurate, given any number of issues …

I do feel like there’s an interesting meta thing going on here, in that the entire show has been about – let’s be honest, it was never really about the plot – queer-coding this couple in ways that supposedly fly enough under the radar that people can handwave them as Just Good Friends and Brothers (I mean, I guess) with a Bury Your Gays tragic ending (ugh) for good measure. And Chengling is telling a story in-universe that seems to conform to some of this same formula. And yet, we all know well and good that these guys were husbands … So are we supposed to carry the same assurance out of the show, on a meta level, that what appears to be happening in the story at the end of Ep 36 – what we discover we’re learning through Chengling’s story-telling, isn’t really the truth? Just, look: While we’re getting the Good Friends and Brothers push, there’s stuff like obvious voice-over work that doesn’t match the much more queer version of what the actors actually said, which is apparently blazingly clear to any viewers who know Mandarin and can manage to lip-read. The show has literally put de-queered words into these characters’ mouths. You can’t trust what you hear. But apparently the show has also made this obvious enough that, if you’re a good enough speaker of the language the show is being told in, and you have a good enough eye, you can see what is actually going on. Are we being taught to trust our eyes more than our ears, are we being told that what we’re being told – by the end of Ep 36 on a meta level, by Ye Baiyi-through-Chengling’s-story on an in-universe level, and by what we learn about what happened from Chengling’s story, itself, also on an in-universe level – is inherently untrustworthy, but that if we “speak the language” of this show well enough, and have a good enough eye, we can decode it and see what “actually” happened and is later made explicit in Ep 37?

So, that’s a lot, but the reason I wanted to pull it back out is because I feel like this no-homo, surface-level, smoke-and-mirrors effect that gets layered over a queer bedrock of “reality” is precisely what the show did with its ending, and I want to approach that on a couple of different levels. Particularly since I’ve seen several reactions from other people who didn’t seem to have seen/didn’t have access to the extra of “Ep” 37, or who also found it difficult and vaguely unsatisfying to make the leap from Ep 36 to full belief in, and commitment to, “Ep” 37.

When I first posted this, I was really leaning on the idea of a classic Rashomon effect, given that we see – imho – a final Zhou Zishu/Wen Kexing scene in Ep 36 that’s filmed to lead us to believe that Wen Kexing died, with a subsequent cut to Zhang Chengling wrapping up a telling of the “story” of ZZS and WKX to his disciples. The easiest fanwank on this is that all of what we’ve seen so far has been Chengling telling the story of ZZS and WKX to his disciples, making him an unreliable narrator who in fact doesn’t know the truth of what really happened. I was actually reminded of the contrast in The Untamed (god, I don’t need to warn for spoilers for The Untamed, do I, we’ve all seen Chen Qing Ling at this point, right? Anyway, SPOILERS FOR THE UNTAMED) between the cliff scene in Episode 1 when they make it look like Jiang Cheng stabbed Wei Wuxian, leading to his fall off the cliff, and you go back later and realize this is the version that the storyteller was telling to the people in the teahouse vs. Episode, god, what is it, 33? When we see the cliff scene in “real” time, and discover that’s not what actually happened, that what happened is that Jiang Cheng stabbed a rock and Wei Wuxian shook himself free of Lan Wangji’s grip to fall to his death. You can’t trust what you hear. Also … well, we’ll get back to Chengling in a minute.

The second level of uncertainty to unwind is Gao Xiaolian calling bs on Chengling’s story. So, I felt like the kid who’s practicing his forms in the snow and being coached by ZZS in “Ep” 37 might actually be someone, not just a random kid, and that might be important, but I could not for the life of me figure out who he might be. I wasn’t aware until I watched some of AvenueX’s wrap-up of the show (I think that’s the first place I heard this info pointed out) that this kid is supposed to be the son of Gao Xiaolian and Deng Kuan, and the dad who comes to take him home is Deng Kuan (formerly Da-shixiong of Yueyang Sect, who – let’s face it – Gao Xiaolian really wanted to marry). Seriously, I spent so much time making fun of ZZS’s stupid facial hair tricks in this show, and then they actually do just put a dumbass mustache on a guy, and I completely don’t recognize him. I have to admit, the mustache threw me enough that I had no idea that was Deng Kuan (well, and maybe only seeing him for three episodes also helped). But if that’s Deng Kuan, and if the kid is his and Gao Xiaolian’s son, then she would have some reasonable standing to know a story detailing WKX’s death was bs.

Finally, and most crucially – thanks to everyone who directed me to resources (including AvenueX and other fans who were able to do some translation) who were able to talk about the voiceover work in this final ep, because when I talk about how you can’t trust what you hear, but if you speak the language well enough and have a good enough eye, you can catch what’s really going on? When I talk about de-queered words being put into these character’s mouths? Apparently, this is what happens to Chengling in the final scene. That last scene - and the story he tells his disciples - apparently DOES provide the connective tissue from Ep 36 to Ep 37, but you can’t trust what you hear. Apparently, this is one of the places where you can see something different from what you hear if you’re able to lip-read, with Chengling telling the disciples something much closer to the idea that two people who love each other equally can equally support each other through this cultivation technique and both come out alive.

In the AvenueX discussion of this (Livestream #21, starting around 1:22:30), there’s an additional tidbit about the use of the word “cauldron” – I believe by Ye Baiyi - to describe one person in the pair, a word with a specific and widely-understood meaning within the genre that’s not necessarily known outside of the genre with, yes, sexual connotations. (Come on, slash fans, don’t tell me you don’t giggle every time you pass a perfectly innocent Jiffy Lube auto shop, at something that the mundanes don’t think twice about.) Apparently, “cauldron” is in the script, I believe it’s in the English subs, and it apparently was in the original Chinese subs, until too many people started talking about it and how it had been slipped past censorship, because it’s a perfectly common Jiffy Lube auto shop, right? and then it appears Youku went back and changed the character in the Chinese subs to something that doesn’t even make any sense. So again, we get an example of a case where if you’re a good enough speaker of the language this show is being told in – in this case the vernacular of wuxia – with a good enough eye, you can catch what’s really going on. Something that then gets no-homo’d. And has some nonsensical de-queered meaning laid over top of it. How many times do we have to do this until we learn the lesson that you can’t trust what you hear?

ANYWAY, I’m wondering if the visuals are important, too: Something we see in the last scene with ZZS and WKX in Ep 36, when WKX is either unconscious or dead (CLEARLY UNCONSCIOUS), is that ZZS – twice – doesn’t let WKX’s hands fall. He catches him by the wrists and then catches him again by the hands as WKX’s hands start to slip away from ZZS’s hands – aaaannnnd end scene. I have to wonder if that’s not a subtle but important detail, that we see ZZS refusing to let WKX physically slip away, and maybe, by implication, refusing to let WKX slip away from him into death.

Also, again with Ye Baiyi – in the flashback when WKX is yelling at ZZS, Ye Baiyi says “No one dies!” as he comes bursting into WKX’s sickroom. And then even reiterates it – “No one dies before me!” But then the voiceover during the qi transfer, he’s supposedly going on about here’s how WKX is going to have to kill himself to save his husband? I think the script has dropped the ball in a few places, but that would really be a tremendous flub. That also deserves some unpacking, but I’m running out of free time right now.

So, just some additional thoughts. I will probably have more, but next up, I think, will be a re-watch from the beginning.

One last thought, tho’: What’s the likelihood that Nian Xiang is Actual A-Xiang and Goa Xiaolian’s/Deng Kuan’s kid is Cao Weining, reincarnated?

#zhou zishu #wen kexing #zhang chengling #gao xiaolian #deng kuan #ye baiyi #word of honor #word of honor episode reax

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starcloud-nova · 3 years

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Favorite fics by some of your buddies on Tumblr and Discord?

God nonnie. You fucked up big time. You underestimated just how hard I can appreciate my friends. I’d like to formally apologize for how long and in-depth this got, but I would pick a stopping point and then go ‘oh! but i cant leave out so-and-so’ and then this got mega out of hand.

Organized by author and not genre! And if I didn’t include any of your works (or I did and it was not the one you wanted), please, don’t take it personally. I am trusting everyone who comes across this post to read the tags themselves, but for two of the fics I have left TWs in front of them.

Cassia’s fics:

Internet Enemies by @cassiopeia721 (x)

At school, Midoriya Izuku is ignored at best. At home, he's raised by a single mother who seems to be always taking night shifts, and who he communicates with almost exclusively through notes on lunch boxes and texts lying about his location. As such, Midoriya Izuku turns to the internet— or more specifically, an All Might fan server on discord— for companionship. Like most things in his life, it goes wrong eventually. It just takes longer than usual.

hypnic jump

Izuku finds himself somewhere he doesn't recognize in an oversized green jumpsuit with a hero he's never seen at his back. He's pretty sure he's dreaming, and subsequent events only solidify that theory into rock-solid certainty.

Paradigm Shift (Harry Potter)

Harry undergoes a paradigm shift at the beginning of his fifth year. (Slytherin Harry)

~~~

Kestrel’s fics:

Compass by @autisticmidoriyas (x)

Midoriya Izuku never had the chance to become a hero—or even to grow up. Fifteen years after his death, Akatani Izuku tries to save the life of a dying hero and in return receives a target painted on his back and a power humming in his bones.

All Might, Sir Nighteye, Ground Zero, Suneater, and Skyquake are left scrambling in the wake of Lemillion’s death to figure out who now holds One For All.

Intertwined with all this, the League of Villains’ war against Japan burns on. With the loss of Lemillion, the advantage is now theirs, and with the loss of One For All, victory is all-but-assured.

(What the villains don’t know is that One For All lives on in the blood of a boy who was always meant to be a hero.)

triskelion

A few seconds, and their lives—their life—is changed forever. Where three people used to exist, there is now only one.

While visiting the mall with their class, Izuku, Katsuki, and Shouto are the victims of someone whose quirk can fuse together objects … and people.

Permanently.

Facing down the fact that they may never be unfused, a long adjustment period lies ahead of them as they learn how to be themself and figure out where they fit into their families, their class, and their world.

the meaning of hope

One day, the smoke will reach its end. They hold out hope for that. Even with quirks, fires cannot burn forever. They will consume all their fuel, until there is nothing left, and they will wither and die.

~~~

Lilly’s fics:

Rise of the Rat Finks by Authoress_Lilly

“You're not in trouble Neito. You’ve been tapped to join The Rats.”

The boy blinks. “The what?”

Vlad opens up a folder and hands Monoma a flyer and a small pin in the shape of a rat. “It’s a sort of secret society here at UA.

Or: an excuse to put Monoma and Midoriya together in way too many words 😅

The Root to Villainy

Prompt: Izuku doesn't realize how fucked up his past was until Aizawa does an immersive class on villain origins.

Whoops?

~~~

Dance’s fics:

Never Take Your Problem Children To Costco by DanceInTheKitchen

“SECURE THE EGGS! I REPEAT SECURE THE EGGS!” Bakugou bellowed.

“YES SIR! AYE AYE SIR!” Izuku saluted.

Shouta is staring at his students, one of whom seems to be reenacting the Lion King with a carton of eggs while the other salutes him, and wonders. What the hell did he do in his past life to deserve this?? Past him must have committed some great sin, like putting sugar in his coffee, or being a dog person.

Or, Aizawa, Bakugou and Midoriya walk into a Costco.

grow as we go

The dorms were silent, but out here in the open air, she felt both isolated and free. Isolated from the world, but free from the responsibility crushing her, isolated from her friends and family, but free from judgement. Up here, with only the stars and Iida as company, Momo felt like she could breathe.

They sat next to each other in silence, watching the stars silently crawl their way across the sky. Iida doesn’t break the silence, but he also doesn’t leave. It’s a silent promise, to listen if she needs it, or to keep her company if she doesn’t want to speak. It’s comforting.

She’s not sure when she speaks, it’s somewhere between staring up at the stars, and looking at the shiny dew covering the grass of the hills behind UA.

“I’m not ready.”

Or, with graduation right around the corner, Momo has a conversation with Iida about what growing up means.

~~~

Azure’s fics:

A Helping Hand for All by azureskyy

Izuku doesn't know why everyone's talking about a certain hero analyst online. He's tried browsing through the forums and other sites, but he just can't find the person they're talking about.

Maybe he'll ask them later. For now, he has some analysis to do.

Or: Izuku is a well-known hero and quirk analyst across multiple social media platforms.

Not that he's aware of it, of course.

A Missed Chance

Two paths cross then diverge. In another universe, perhaps, they could have walked on the same path; they could have talked for the second time that day, and Izuku could have been given an opportunity that could change his entire life. And maybe, just maybe, he would have taken it.

But this isn’t that universe.

Or: What if All Might wasn't able to find Izuku after the Sludge Villain Incident?

~~~

Alice’s fics:

A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by @makeitbluue (x)

“Did you think you’d be safe from me forever? That you could chip away at my power base and I would not care or try to hunt you down?” The man asks as he steps forwards.

Izuku scrambles backwards in his bed, searching the covers as he goes for his phone. If he can get a text off to All Might or Aizawa-sensei he can alert people to the potential danger.

But even as he moves, something in the back of his mind tells him he had heard this voice before. A different time, a different context, but the same voice.

~~~

Ely’s fics:

bend and break by @queenangst (x)

In a world where you can feel your soulmate's pain, Eijirou spends a lot of his life up until meeting his soulmate hurting.

draw and quarter

In District Twelve, no one volunteers.

When Aizawa Shouta’s name is called, no one says a word. He stands there for a moment, feeling all the world slow around him, and then he straightens his shoulders and walks to his death.

He will die fighting. At the very least, Shouta can promise that.

Shouta's name is drawn for the Hunger Games, alongside Shirakumo Oboro. No one from their district has ever won.

damage control

After All for One's defeat, Aizawa Shouta is grasping for ways to protect his students. At the same time, a discrepancy in Midoriya's behavior leads Shouta down a dangerous line of investigation and to a single question: if Midoriya is the U.A. traitor.

Between the Wind and the Water

Staying at U.A. for winter break, Izuku hopes it'll be a quiet chance to spend the holidays with Todoroki and supervising teachers All Might and Aizawa-sensei.

It's just his luck a gift-shopping trip turns into a gift from a villain, and Izuku's new Half-Cold, Half-Hot Quirk is not so easy to control. Neither are the secrets he's been carefully keeping.

a glimpse of tomorrow (looking back)

Subject: Aldera Time Capsule Ceremony Forwarded Message— This year marks ten years for the Aldera Middle School graduating class of 20XX.To celebrate, we would like to invite pro heroes Kingpin and Deku, Aldera alumni, to participate in a public time-capsule opening. We are incredibly proud to have helped them on their journeys to becoming heroes, and would be most honored to receive them as guests and for them to speak at the ceremony. [...]

"Well," Deku says, leaning over to turn the monitor towards him. His eyes flick over the contents of the email one more time. "If they haven't changed, then I guess we could return the favor."

Ten years down the line, Bakugou and Midoriya are invited to a time capsule ceremony at their middle school to read letters from their past selves, and look back on their past and how it shaped their future. For anyone else, it would have been a celebration.

For the two of them, it's an opportunity.

A look into Bakugou and Midoriya's past—through a future neither of them imagined—as pro heroes, agency partners, and friends.

of the mighty heart

It was just complicated. Kacchan had changed. Izuku had changed. What was between them was constant—Kacchan was always there—but even constants, Izuku supposed, could change, too.

...You saved me, sometimes you say Deku and it doesn’t sound so much like an insult, you say it like you mean it, you say it like you mean me.

After the war ends and the dust settles, Izuku is left in pain and feeling useless. There's still so much to do and people to save, and it's just... too much for one person.

And then there's Kacchan.

~~~

Fawn’s fics:

Bough Breaks by @fawnvelveteen (x) (trigger warning for discussion of rape/noncon)

In life, nothing is certain. Pro-heroes aren’t always the good guys. Children are not spared from the darkest realms of humanity. Izuku isn't acting like his normal self at school lately, and his homeroom teacher has taken notice. After learning about the mother’s new, unwelcomed boyfriend, Aizawa’s concern shifts into dread. He’ll do whatever it takes to keep his student away from harm.

Almost Moon (trigger warning for suicide) (Black Clover)

It was always at night. One of Noelle's squadmates, apparently, believes it's a good idea to walk across the rooftop, directly over her head while she is trying to get some sleep. Finally, she decides to confront the nighttime nuisance. What she discovers is something she never expected, nor did she wish to see.

~~~

Nez’s fics:

The True Successor by @neko-nez (x)

Toshinori is caught in a time loop.

~~~

Aodh’s fics:

new game + (the pros of being over-leveled, the catharsis of finally beating That One Boss, and a bonus social link) by @takeyamayuu (x)

Izuku hasn’t been noticed yet, being as far from the fight as he is. Or if he has, they’re dismissing him in favor of the larger threat of Aizawa-sensei. As they should, since he takes out the last one with a well placed kick, turning to face Shigaraki,

Izuku tenses, this is-

This is where his teacher’s arm is injured and then-

The Nomu.

One for All spikes to around fifty percent, his muscles stinging, bones creaking as Izuku darts forward, aiming for Shigaraki’s head with an axe-kick.

Second year Midoriya Izuku gets hit with a Quirk, skids into the USJ, and learns a little about self-care along the way.

~~~

Ghost’s fics:

fingerpaint bruises and a kick in the teeth by @ghoststrawberries (x)

There’s a sour taste in Shouta’s mouth as he stares at Jackrabbit’s bright smile. The smile he’s wearing in every clear photo of him. It somewhat reminds Shouta of All Might’s smile.

Jackrabbit might be a menace to the Commission, but there’s no way Shouta can believe that a man with that smile is anything less than good to his core.

“And I’m your last resort to handle this quietly.” He says knowingly, keeping his thoughts to himself.

“Precisely.”

Shouta’s gut response is to refuse.

The words “I don’t kill.” are halfway up his throat before they become stuck.

As an underground hero, sometimes Shouta Aizawa is called upon to do darker jobs than one might expect a hero to have to do. This time, when he's tasked with taking out a vigilante who's managed to bother the Hero Public Safety Commission one too many times, he's not sure he'll be able to follow through.

~~~

Amira’s fics:

And Now I See Daylight by @awake-my-oceans (x)

AnalysisOverload Current mood: HERO CON HERO CON HERO CON HERO CON

AnalysisOverload reblogged AnalysisOverload Okay, let’s talk HeroCon.

Look around, and you’ll see a lot of discrimination—against people whose Quirk is debilitating, against people whose Quirks scare us, against people who have trouble controlling their Quirk, against people who don’t have a Quirk at all. It’s easy to feel alone in a sea of discrimination.

Enter HeroCon:X.

A social media fic following Deku post-graduation.

The chaotic neutral’s guide to time travel

“You claim you are from the future,” Nedzu said, hopping onto his desk. “Do you have anything to prove this?”

Hitoshi fished around in his pocket. “Here’s my hero license,” he said, holding it up.

Nedzu opened his mouth, but Hitoshi kept right on going, producing a handful of odds and ends from his pocket. “Also a movie ticket, some dryer lint, some, uh, didn’t know I still had that but it’s old gum—“

That was when Aizawa walked in, capture weapon floating around him. “What’s the emergency?” he asked, clipped, as he kicked open the door.

“—and the left arm of a Deku plushie,” Hitoshi finished, unruffled. “My cat ate the rest.”

~~~

Aaaaaand that’s all I got. Thanks for making it to the end!

#bnha #bnha fic #fic rec #fic rec list #fic rec masterpost #nova talks #all my friends in one post. sniffle #most of em anyway #not sure what to tag this so. ill hit send!#forgot too tag this as an ask rip #anonymous #ask

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deafeninggardenerpanda · 3 years

Text

"Eheheheh ... hehehehe ... ahahahaha!" Magolor couldn’t stop laughing. "My plan was a huge success! I'm a genius!" Even when he looked behind him, there was no pursuer to be found. He stopped and looked up at the sky.

The skies of the Town of Wind were always hazy with smoke emitted from factories and steam locomotives, but in that smoky sky, there was a beautiful dream-like ship floating so high up it was invisible from the ground.

"Please wait, Lor ... " Magolor murmured. The Lor Starcutter, a mysterious ship made from ancient technology.

Although the truth was hazy due to various legends surrounding it, it was said that if the pilot’s heart was true, they could cross over to a different world.

But the Lor was broken. It could not move because some of its parts were missing. Magolor had long sought parts to move the Lor, but the ship was made from the power of an ancient civilization and thus could not be repaired with ordinary parts. It needed gears from that ancient civilization. Such precious items, how would someone obtain them?

Magolor, at a loss, heard a rumor. A millionaire in Diamond Town was secretly looking for someone who could read ancient characters. Apparently, an ancient machine had been found in the mines and was currently being investigated.

... Maybe, there would be parts for the Lor there.

Thinking so, Magolor rushed to Diamond Town. The ancient machine was more powerful than he had imagined. If he could find the extracted gears, his dream would surely come true. He would be able to move the ship of dreams, Lor. Thus, Magolor began to come up with a plan to gather the gears.

First, he needed to find their locations. Recalling a story that Kirby, an airplane pilot, had received the Star Compass, Magolor decided to use him. Once the locations were known, next, he had to choose someone who was likely to get the three gears. If Magolor left it to Kirby alone, he might gather the gears in the blink of an eye and deliver them to Mr. Fugo immediately, so he decided to split up the information between several people.

Magolor chose President Dedede, next. Although President Dedede had lost many times in a row to Kirby in the races, he still seemed to have good skill as an airplane pilot. He would be perfect for finding the gear on the clock tower.

And finally, there was Meta Knight in the Town of Light. It was unusual for an aristocrat to be so adventurous, so he should have an interest in the ancient machine.

Magolor’s operation was a great success. All three of them got the gears beautifully. He worried when Meta Knight had deciphered the description of the ancient machine, but in the end it wasn't a problem. No, that, in fact, was why everyone got together, and why the three gears aligned in the box he now held. It was rather convenient for him.

Now, all that had to be done was for the gears to be delivered to the Lor. If it took in the ancient power of the gears, the Lor would finally be able to wake from its long slumber and move again.

Before that, though, he had to first escape the town before he was found by his pursuers.

Magolor had started running again on the road leading to the town gate when several men suddenly appeared and blocked his path. He stopped quickly. The men dressed in black and wore matching badges. Fugo's subordinates, Magolor immediately knew. He winced. He couldn’t afford to let the gears he had be taken away. Somehow, he had to deceive and dodge them. Magolor waved one hand and laughed amiably.

"Wow, Mr. Fugo’s men! Did you all come to meet me~? I’m glad, thank you!"

" …………… "

The men were expressionless and silent. They gradually approached Magolor. Then, from behind the men, someone began to emerge—it was Mr. Fugo.

"There you are, Professor Magolor. Where are you going in such a hurry?" he said with a smile. Magolor looked at Mr. Fugo's face. That gentle smile ... he could not tell what Fugo was thinking.

(—I fooled you, are you aware ... Have you not noticed yet ... I wonder?)

Magolor did not know. Now, it was all or nothing. He mustered all of his might and spoke in a cute voice.

"Ah, Mr. Fugo! I got the gears! I was just about to deliver them to you ... " However, at that moment, a big net dropped from above and enveloped him immediately.

"WAHHH!?" Suspended by the net, Magolor was trapped.

"W-w-what are you doing!?"

Mr. Fugo gazed at the suspended Magolor with a cold smile. "I never trusted you from the beginning. I knew you were strange and kept an eye on you. After all, my eyes were right."

" …………… "

"Trying to escape with the gears. You have good courage, plenty, I’ll have you know. Now, hand them over."

Magolor looked up at the sky. The lie had been exposed from the beginning ... Mr. Fugo had been examining him too closely. It was too late, but—when Mr. Fugo's men tried to remove the net, a bright red sports car came rushing in at incredible speeds. It screeched to a halt. Mr. Fugo’s subordinates jumped out of the way.

Of course, the one driving the sports car was Meta Knight, and in the passenger’s seat was Daroach. Daroach jumped from the car and lifted Magolor up, still wrapped in the net.

"Oh, Mr. Fugo, he’s caught the guy before us. Thanks, that saves us a lot of trouble." Daroach threw Magolor into the back seat of the car and jumped back into the passenger seat.

"See you!" The car tried to start suddenly, but Mr. Fugo came back to his senses.

"Oh, you guys! Don’t be ridiculous! Take the gears!" he shouted. Mr. Fugo’s subordinates quickly surrounded the car. One person threw knives at the car’s tires. They were flattened instantly. Meta Knight raised his voice in anger.

"What are you doing! What if you scratch my car! And my tires! Those were custom-made products that had intensive research put into them to produce the fastest speed in the world!"

"Hey, hey. This isn’t the place to get angry," Daroach said. "Fugo's minions are vicious. We need to take them seriously!" The men in black suddenly attacked. Daroach swiftly put on his top hat and cloak, then grabbed his cane.

"Silk, red top hat and cloak ... You! You're the thief who snuck into my mansion and stole the material on the ancient machine ...! " Mr. Fugo shouted.

"I’m not just any thief. I am the great thief, Daroach! Remember it!" Daroach brandished his cane. A fierce cold wind and a wave of ice were expelled from its tip. Mr. Fugo's subordinates faltered, but they weren’t going to stand around to get done in.

"Don't flinch! There are only two thieves!"

"Catch them!" They attacked, yelling. One of the men jumped from behind Daroach. Meta Knight quickly picked up the rose in his chest pocket and threw it.

"Augh!" The rose hit the enemy's hand. He winced and stepped back.

Daroach sighed in relief. "I was saved. That rose, isn’t it just a decoration!?" he shouted.

"It's not a decoration. It's a gentleman's grace." Then, Meta Knight pulled out the feathers attached to his top hat and threw them.

"Ugh!" Weapons fell from the enemy's hands. Daroach whistled.

"You're the best! You should scout for the Squeak Squad!" However, the number of enemies became overwhelming. Like the heads of a hydra—even when you defeated one, it was as if two more took their place. They came one after another. The tires of the car had been flattened; they could not leave. The pair were gradually cornered and began to be put at the disadvantage.

"This is bad ... at this rate ...! " It was when Daroach yelled out—there was a roaring sound and a strong wind blew. Daroach, Meta Knight, and Mr. Fugo's men were all staggered by the intense gale. Flying overhead was the Warp Star!

"Kirby!" Meta Knight shouted.

"Have you finally caught up? It's about time!" Daroach said, relieved. Then, the roaring sound was heard again. As if chasing Kirby, the Great King DDD XX appeared. The two planes diverted to the square nearby. Kirby and Waddle Dee jumped from the Warp Star, and President Dedede jumped from the Great King DDD XX.

"Daroach! Have you caught Magolor!?" President Dedede asked.

"Not quite," Daroach loudly replied. "As you see, we could use some help!"

"What!?" President Dedede glared at Mr. Fugo's subordinates. "They won’t take the gears! I’ll fight alongside you!" In the hands of the president was an oversized hammer; a weapon that was loaded onto his plane in case of an emergency.

"TAKE THIS—!" President Dedede swung the hammer. The men in black were blown away all at once. "Wahaha! Did you know my true capability!?"

"You bastard!" New subordinates rushed in without delay. They drew their weapons.

"I won't let you do that!" Kirby shouted. He spread both hands and took a deep breath. Kirby’s forte, Inhale!

"Aughhhh!" The men’s weapons were sucked into Kirby's mouth one after another. The odds turned in their favor!

"W-what are these guys!"

"Too strong ...! " The subordinates paled and stepped back. President Dedede turned and laughed out loud.

"Wahaha! Weak, weak! You are no match for this President Dedede!" He swung his hammer around and bashed away the enemies in front of him. It was then—

"WAHHHHH! HELP ME ..! " a scream resounded. Waddle Dee.

Waddle Dee, hidden behind an airplane, was found by the enemy. A man in black held him up with one hand.

"Look! I've caught your companion!" he shouted in an unfeeling voice. Kirby froze.

"Waddle Dee ...! What are you going to do, you ...! " President Dedede shouted.

"I’m sorry, President ... " Waddle Dee shook as he was gripped by the enemy.

"Stop! Let Waddle Dee go!" Kirby said, but the enemy was unresponsive. Waddle Dee shut his eyes tightly. Mr. Fugo stepped forward with satisfaction.

"—It seems the game has come to an end."

Kirby and the others glared at him, but there was nothing they could do. Waddle Dee had been taken hostage. "Drop your weapons," he said with a smile.

The group looked at each other.

"I told you to drop them, didn't you hear? Then, this will be painful." Mr. Fugo gave a signal to the subordinate holding Waddle Dee.

"STOP!" It was Kirby who shouted. He raised his hands. "We lost. Please, release Waddle Dee!" he said.

"Kirby, you ...! " Meta Knight tried to stop him, but President Dedede dropped his hammer and spoke.

"Your weapons ... drop them. Meta Knight, Daroach."

"What did you say!?"

"I'm sorry. This is all because of my stupid subordinate ... " President Dedede hung his head. Kirby was shocked. He had never seen the president like this before.

"You’re going to surrender? You're just going to give him the gears!?" Daroach said, frustrated.

" ... Yeah ... I am ... " President Dedede said in a weak voice. "Waddle Dee, we can’t abandon him ... "

"President Dedede!"

" ... I’m sorry! Please!" He couldn’t raise his face. Seeing that, Meta Knight put his red rose back into his chest pocket. Daroach sighed and dropped his cane on the ground as well. Mr. Fugo’s eyes shone.

"Good! Then, let's get the gears!" His subordinates walked over to Magolor and removed the net. Magolor could not resist. Mr. Fugo was then handed the box containing the three gears. He checked the contents and burst into laughter. "Alright! I’ve got them! Now, the ancient machine is at my disposal!"

A black luxury car pulled up. Fugo got in and began giving out orders.

"To the mine! Head to the discovery site of the ancient machine! Take the hostage, too." He looked to his subordinate who held Waddle Dee. He nodded, and got into the car with him in hand.

"Release Waddle Dee!" Kirby said.

"I’ll release him once the ancient machine is activated. Until then, he’s coming with me."

"That’s ... so underhanded!"

"Mmhmhmhm ... " Mr. Fugo then ordered the driver to start the car.

"I'll chase you!" President Dedede yelled. He jumped into his plane. Daroach quickly followed him.

"Give me a ride, President. Meta Knight’s car had its tires punctured."

"Alright, get in." The Great King DDD XX carried the two and soared high into the sky. "By the way, Daroach. What’s with that outfit?" President Dedede asked as he watched Mr. Fugo's car traveling below.

"Hm?"

"That red, silk top hat and cloak—I’ve never seen it before. What happened? Is it to match with Meta Knight?" President Dedede didn't know what Daroach was yet. Daroach put a hand on his hat and laughed.

"Well, I just wanted a bit of a change. When all this is over, I'll return to my café manager self."

" ... Hmm. I don’t really get it," President Dedede said and shook his head.

At the same time, Meta Knight and Magolor were on board Kirby's Warp Star.

"Thank you, Meta Knight. For putting down your weapon for Waddle Dee," Kirby said as he flew the plane.

"In that situation, I wouldn’t have done anything else. And, Kirby—"

"It’s okay, Kirby!"

"Kirby. Is there a strategy?"

"Huh? Strategy?"

"’I feel like if we get the gears, there will be some kind of big change.’ That’s what you were thinking, right?"

"Ehh!?" Kirby was surprised. "Amazing! How did you know what I was thinking, Meta Knight?"

"I wonder how, too. With you, I don't feel like this is the first time we’ve met."

"Really? I do too. It's mysterious."

"Me too!" Magolor, sitting alongside Meta Knight in the back seat, shouted. "Kirby and Meta Knight, it’s as if you’re old friends. Strange!"

" ... And you ... " Meta Knight looked disgusted. He tried to say something, but Magolor quickly continued.

"I pretended to trick you and run away with the gears to lure Fugo, and hey! It worked! "

" ... Lies."

"It’s not a lie. I put on that act because I wanted to help everyone." But Meta Knight didn't seem to trust him at all. He turned away from Magolor and looked up at the sky.

"Airplanes are much faster than cars. They’re quite good ... Maybe I'll buy some ... " he murmured.

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#kirby #meta knight #king dedede #waddle dee #magolor #daroach #millionaire fugo #Kirby: Search for the Dreamy Gears!#kirby light novel #translations

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novelconcepts · 4 years

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fic: heading into the dark (and we’ve got to hang on to each other)

Life, as Dani Clayton sees it, is full of darkness. Little darknesses, like a mother who draws away even as she continues to draw breath, and big darknesses, like loss that comes out of absolutely nowhere, and all the variations in between. Life is unpredictable. It’s ugly. It’s cruel.

Life also grants the laughter of small children, and wonderful dinners prepared by good friends, and Jamie’s hand in hers.

There is, certainly, no shortage of lights in the dark.

***

“Teach me,” she says one day, a month or two into the great experiment that is Moving to America with Jamie. “Come on.”

“Teach you,” Jamie repeats dryly. “To incur lung cancer?”

“You do it,” Dani points out, aware that she sounds rather petulant and not particularly caring. Jamie’s smiling the half-smile she gets whenever she’s about to let herself get talked over the edge of something. “Come on, I want to see what all the fuss is about.”

Jamie shakes her head, but she’s already lost this battle, and she knows it. Her foot braced behind her on the wall outside their apartment, she turns her head toward the setting sun and exhales a long stream of blue smoke. “Fine, sure. But when you love it, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I hardly think I’m in danger of--”

“Shut up and c’mere.” She cups her hand around the half-smoked cigarette, holding it up for Dani’s assessment. It’s awkward, the pass-off between her hand and Dani’s more of a fumble than anything else, and Dani nearly drops the damn thing. Jamie laughs. “Easy, now, don’t go wasting it. Now. Put it--”

“I know where to put it,” Dani laughs. Jamie raises her brows teasingly.

“I’ll just bet you do. Okay, right, here’s the thing. When you inhale, you’re gonna want to take it slow. Nice and easy, but make sure you’re pulling the smoke deep into your lungs, or it’ll defeat the whole--”

Dani’s already sucking in a breath, and she’s just realized Jamie’s eyes have gone wide when her body recoils from the invasive swirl sweeping into her lungs like a hurricane.

“Easy, I said!” Jamie pries the cigarette from Dani’s suddenly-limp grasp as she doubles over on a gagging cough. Her lungs burn, her hand groping for Jamie’s sleeve, and even though it feels fucking awful, there’s something so wonderfully steadying about Jamie’s hand rubbing circles between her shoulder blades.

“Now’s not the time for an old-fashioned I-told-you-so, is it?”

Eyes streaming, Dani tries to fix her with a glare, but Jamie’s outlined in the red-gold of a setting sun, her lips pursed around the cigarette once more, and she can’t find it within herself to do anything but laugh.

***

“You really don’t know how?”

“Don’t laugh,” Jamie grumbles. “Never got around to it, is all.”

Dani’s leaning forward, practically falling off the beach chair in her excitement. Jamie, she has learned over these past few months together, is not the sort of person who doesn’t know things. She may not be good at everything she tries--she’s a rotten cook, for example, though a passable baker--but it sometimes feels like Jamie’s lived more in thirty years than Dani will if granted twice that time. Sometimes, when Jamie is sweeping a billiards table, or fixing a door hinge, or replacing a bit of questionable wiring in the bathroom without managing to electrocute either of them, Dani catches herself thinking there’s nothing Jamie doesn’t know.

She can never decide if this is more overwhelming or reassuring, truthfully.

But this. This is just too damn good.

“You have to let me teach you,” Dani says. “You have to, come on.”

“I think you’ll find I don’t,” Jamie says, arms crossed over her chest. Dani slides from her chair, darting a glance around. It’s unseasonably chilly for June in California, the sky a mottled blue-gray that suggests a storm could strike at any moment. The beach is blessedly clear, and she takes the opportunity to slip into Jamie’s lap.

“Please? It’ll make me so happy, to get to teach you something, for once.”

She can see Jamie doing the calculations, brow furrowed over uncertain eyes. On the one hand, if learning how to swim had been on her radar, she likely would have picked it up ages ago; on the other, Dani’s arms are around her neck, nails tracing lightly under the tousle of her hair, and this is not the sort of conversation starter that often leads to Jamie saying the word “no.”

“Right,” she says grumpily at last. Dani isn’t quite sure whether it’s the batting of her eyelashes or the scrape of short nails across the nape of Jamie’s neck that gets the job done, but Jamie is hoisting them both out of the white plastic chair. “Fine, then, Poppins. Lead me to the slaughter.”

The rain holds off all afternoon, long enough for Jamie’s uneasy flapping in shallow waves to transition into clumsy-yet-useful buoyancy. When Dani places a hand lightly beneath her back and eases her into a calm float, her brow creases.

“Hey,” Dani says quietly. Her free hand cups Jamie’s cheek, smoothing salty water into her skin. “Look at me. You trust me?”

“Always,” Jamie replies, the word coming almost before Dani’s question is complete. She opens her eyes, and Dani smiles.

“I’d never let you drown, Jamie. Promise. And who knows? This might come in handy someday.”

***

“It’s...big,” Dani says, a bit nervously. Laughter explodes out of Jamie like a firecracker.

“It’s not! It’s wee as all hell, Poppins.”

“Bigger than I thought,” Dani amends. “You sure we can keep a place like this afloat?”

The idea of running a business still seems like something out of an extended fever, if she’s honest with herself. At first, it had been a laugh--a conversation held over an empty pizza box and two spent bottles of wine, with her head in Jamie’s lap and her legs all twisted under a blanket. She’d told Jamie she felt weird about getting back into teaching, about the idea of subjecting any kids to whatever mad road her mind might lead her down.

“They’ll need to be able to rely on me,” she’d said, a little too drunk to really feel the weight of the sentiment. Jamie’s fingers drifted through her hair, her thumb catching on the shell of her ear. “Can’t do that if your teacher’s in the middle of losing her marbles.”

“You’re not,” Jamie had said, with that soft resolution Dani loved so much in her. “But s’all right. You don’t have to go back just yet--ever, if you don’t want to. We can do something else for an honest buck.”

It was a conversation, a way to make herself feel better about the imminent future and all its secrets...and then, seemingly all at once, it was real. A real little shop, just down the block from their apartment, with a real counter and real shelves and a real back room for custom arrangements. Jamie could grow here, anything she liked. And Dani could bask in the peculiar sensation of having a purpose again, even if not the one she’d expected.

It’s a lot those first few days--weeks--months, but a year in, Dani finds she’s taken to the shop like almost nothing else in her life. She loves talking to the people who bustle in looking for arrangements for mothers and wives and graduation events. She loves the way Jamie tends to the flowers with a gentle hand, always willing to pop off a fact or insight about any given type. She especially loves the way Jamie looks at closing time each night, the way she combs her shaggy hair back from her eyes and leans over each bud in turn to murmur reassurances. Back in the morning. You all get on, best behavior, until we meet again.

She slips up behind Jamie, arms around her middle, and rests her chin on Jamie’s shoulder. “I like that you do that. Talk to them.”

Jamie favors her with a soft, tired smile. “Nothin’ ever blossomed without good communication, Poppins.”

***

Dani starts saying I love you so much faster than either of them is prepared for. The first time the words slip from her mouth, they’re standing in the devastation of what once qualified as their kitchen. Batter drips down the side of the refrigerator. There’s flour caked in Jamie’s hair, giving the effect of a grumpy old witch woman whose magic potion rebelled in the most cataclysmic sense.

“Swear to Christ,” she says gruffly. “I had the damn mixer in the damn bowl.”

The way Dani sees it, there are two ways to respond to this: with scolding, or with hysterical laughter. She settles on the latter almost without conscious decision, scooping up a handful of flour and tossing it into the air like confetti. Jamie’s mouth opens and closes, words not quite enough for the moment.

“You,” she says, “are irreverent.”

“And you,” Dani replies, skating across the slippery tile until she has Jamie backed up against the postcard-bedazzled front of the fridge. “You’re wonderful.”

Jamie looks like she wants to contradict this statement, perhaps thinking of the cake that now decorates the walls. “This was going to be for your birthday, you--”

Dani is kissing her, hands gripping Jamie’s collar. She hasn’t felt this relaxed in weeks, melting against Jamie when hands settle around her waist like Jamie’s been looking for a reason to give in all afternoon.

“I--could still--” Jamie’s mouth moves down her neck, more than half distracted from her own words. “--fix it--”

“You’re right where you’re supposed to be,” Dani tells her, or thinks she does; it’s a bit hard to focus with Jamie’s hand sliding around and down that way, with Jamie’s hips bucking lightly against her.

“It’s like you don’t even want a birthday cake,” Jamie murmurs, biting her shoulder gently through the thin fabric of a co-opted Blondie shirt. “Did I say you could borrow this?”

“Take it back, then,” Dani breathes.

Later, tucked together against the cabinets, she turns her face against Jamie’s neck. Her hand is trapped between the tile and Jamie’s back, going steadily numb. Moving isn’t even a concept.

“I love you,” she says. It comes out a little slurred, a little sleepy, but entirely true. Jamie raises her head, shifting to look her in the face.

“It’s all to do with my grade-A baking talents, isn’t it?”

***

Jamie doesn’t say it back right away. Most of the time, Dani gets it. Doesn’t want to push. There was so much of that in her old life, in what she sometimes thinks of as the Era of Danielle--every step of the way with Edmund felt like someone was standing behind her, hands pressed into her back, shoving her along. Into a man, yes, but more than that: into a preconceived notion. Be somebody’s wife. Be somebody’s answer to the question of who they want to be in the world. Be small, be quiet, be the person who says yes and yes and yes, absolutely, even when you want to scream.

The last thing she’d ever do is push Jamie, so she doesn’t make a big deal out of it. If Jamie loves her--and Dani’s fairly confident she does, at least on the days when the old ghosts aren’t cracking out of the walls to tell her otherwise--then Jamie will get around to it on her own merit.

Still, when Jamie does, it takes her by surprise.

“I’m pretty in love with you, it turns out,” she says, like she’s been steeling herself for this moment for weeks--and, Dani thinks, judging by the single moonflower on the counter, she probably has. Jamie, who pretends to play the game of life with such casual disinterest. Jamie, who pretends it’s all one-day-at-a-time. Jamie, who spent hours in secret cultivating this one tiny symbol that says so unbelievably much about her, just so she could tell Dani all this in the right way.

There’s a couch in the back room, a wide squashy old beast that Dani had been adamantly opposed to when Jamie first pointed it out. “It’s ridiculous. What are we going to do with that?”

She has to admit, pulling Jamie along and latching the door behind them, that it seems like an excellent idea now. It’s only by the thinnest grace of self-preservation--she likes this shop, likes this life, would very much like not to be run out of Vermont by some old-fashioned jackass peering through their window and seeing too much--that they make it to the couch at all.

“It’s okay, then,” Jamie says, falling backward onto overstuffed brown leather and pulling Dani with her. “This problem of ours?”

Dani kisses her, the giddiness and desire so powerful a combination, she almost feels drunk with it. Jamie laughs into her mouth, one hand already working the buttons of her blouse, that laugh turning into a low, liquid groan. Dani, fingers slipping between waistband and skin, has already beaten her to the punch.

It’s in moments like these, she thinks. Moments like these where everything falls into place. Not just being with Jamie, but being with Jamie here, in a place they own, on their own terms. Not just being with Jamie, but being with a Jamie who has been clarifying her love for a year, doing so with hot tea and cool smiles and repairs around the house and gentle reassurances. She said it here, planned out like a proposal, and she’s saying it again and again--”love you, fuck, love you--” as Dani winds them closer together, but it wasn’t the first time. Not really. Jamie’s been saying it since the moment she took Dani by the hand and asked if she wanted company while she waited for the darkness to consume her.

Jamie rocks under her, making a softly desperate little noise into her mouth, and Dani has never felt so understood. Never quite put it together like this before. That Jamie thought she had to say it a certain way, show it a certain way, is wonderful and absurd and silly.

“I like this problem,” she says. “Best problem I’ve ever had.”

***

“You like it?”

Jamie’s voice is too-casual. The kind of casual that says, look, if you don’t like it, I’ll understand, but I’ll spend the next six months going slowly crazy coping with that knowledge. Jamie gets this kind of “casual” only so often, and usually, Dani likes to string it along before reassuring her. It’s a little mean, maybe, but the way Jamie always sags against the nearest bit of furniture with a hand over her eyes, groaning, “Jesus Christ, Poppins, you could just be gentle with me” does something exceptionally pleasant to her stomach.

This time, she’s not even thinking about teasing Jamie.

This time, she’s just staring.

“If you don’t like it,” Jamie says, a bit more hurriedly now, “you can say so. I mean. Can’t do much about it, truth be told, but we can work through the issue. Get into some couple’s therapy, talk it out...”

“Stop talking,” Dani says through a shockingly dry mouth. “Please.”

Jamie’s mouth swings shut with a little click. Dani rises from the chair she’d been curled in, feet tucked under as she flipped through a Stephen King novel that hit just a little too close to home. She moves across the living room like a sleepwalker.

Jamie, expression somewhere between warily anticipatory and genuinely frightened, is still holding the hem of her shirt aloft. Dani pauses, swaying slightly, a magnetism rising between them that she sometimes thinks should fade with time, should logically become less as the years become more. For a long beat, they just look at one another.

She’s sinking to her knees before she realizes, hand sliding up Jamie’s stomach to grasp her fingers, the shirt hem, clutch both tight. Jamie drags in a breath.

“Oh. S’like that.”

“Apparently,” Dani mutters, closing her free hand around Jamie’s hip and pressing her mouth to the line of flowers rising from the band of her jeans, coiling around the left side of Jamie’s stomach. Jamie sucks in a breath.

“Okay, when I was sitting for the thing, I certainly wasn’t thinking, Poppins has a thing for tattoos, but can’t say I’m complaining...”

“How long?” Dani asks, the words muffled around slow, deliberate kisses. Jamie rocks back on her heels, one hand sliding down into Dani’s hair for balance.

“I know you are not asking me detail-oriented questions while you do that.”

Dani pauses, grins, waits. Jamie groans.

“How long did it take, or how long have I wanted a bloody tattoo?”

“The latter.” The flowers are blue and white, strung along a twisting vine. Dani is presently making it her personal life goal to kiss each and every one, licking gently upward as she goes. Jamie’s eyes flutter, grip tightening.

“You are a truly--”

“Tread wisely,” Dani murmurs, biting at her hipbone. Jamie inhales.

“’Bout a year. Or maybe six weeks. Or maybe my whole life, I dunno, sometimes these things just sneak up on you.”

“Tattoos sneak up on you?” Dani tilts her head back, grinning. Jamie peers down at her, hair falling messily across her forehead, expression soft.

“Wouldn’t be the first thing.”

She gets more as the years go on--little yellow daffodils, chains of wildflowers, small, carefully rendered roses--almost always in places easily hidden. Each time, the sight of ink on pale skin, the patient way Jamie quietly explains each one in bed, letting Dani map them out beneath curious palms, sets her heart racing in a way she can’t explain.

It’s the permanence, she thinks the day Jamie comes home with a small moonflower on her inner forearm. It’s the promise of the thing.

It’s the tomorrow of it all.

***

“How hard can it be to put together a bedframe, Dani,” she mimics. Even to her own ears, her voice is shrill. She’s making too big a deal out of this, and she knows it.

But for fuck’s sake, sometimes Jamie is hard-headed.

“I’ll have it done in an hour, Dani,” she goes on, hands windmilling above her head. “I know you’ve got a busy day, so just leave it to me, Dani.”

“Okay,” Jamie says, “okay, I know you’re upset, but in what world have I ever used your name that many times in a sitting?”

Dani freezes, turning slowly on her heel. Jamie takes a step back.

“Right, correct, this is not the moment for glib.”

“Jamie,” Dani sighs. “You promised.”

“I did,” Jamie agrees, “and I could say I tried, but we both know how I feel about lying...”

The apartment is a little bigger than their last, and everything fits all different. Dani knows it’s going to be good for them--they outgrew the last place far sooner than either had wanted to admit, and this one has a beautiful view of a park. Plenty of space for Jamie’s ever-growing plant collection. Plenty of space for stretching out and warming the cozy little world they’ve built together.

Still, it’s different, and different has a way of setting Dani’s teeth on edge. There’s something about a new home that reminds her of moving into Bly a lifetime ago--the exhilaration mixing with trepidation mixing with shadows she doesn’t yet know the names of. They've been here a week, sleeping in a blanket fort in the living room, Dani waking most mornings with carpet marks dug deep into her skin. She wants their room situated. She wants to sleep in their bed.

She wants Jamie to build the damn frame like she promised three days ago.

“I sometimes have trouble telling,” Jamie says, her accent thicker as it always is when she’s reasonably sure she’s stepped in it. “Am I actually in trouble?”

Dani sighs. “Jamie...”

“Oh.” Jamie edges closer. She’s dressed for battle, Dani notes, in shorts that barely qualify as legal and her softest flannel shirt. The very shirt, if Dani looks closely enough, Dani herself slipped into after a shower about two weeks ago and sent Jamie gaping at her like she’d been hypnotized.

“Don’t,” Dani warns, remembering all too well the way Jamie had behaved the last time this shirt saw daylight. “Don’t, Jamie. I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“I can see that,” Jamie agrees. “You might say that’s why I’m making this desperate bid for, ahh, not being in the doghouse.”

“Jamie.” Dani manages to turn the word into about eleven syllables, which usually has some effect, but Jamie’s already within the proverbial walls. Her hands are riding up Dani’s ribcage, dangerously high, her smile the kind of charming only a heart of stone could resist.

It’s cheating, and Jamie knows it, and Dani wants to point this out, but Jamie’s got her backed up against the mattress. The mattress that should be on a nice, well-made, sturdy frame. The mattress they could both be on top of right now, if only Jamie had just--if Jamie had--

“This is incredibly unfair,” she groans. Jamie, busy kissing her throat with slow, open-mouthed abandon, says nothing. Dani grasps at her shoulders with both hands, squeezing flannel between her fists, and lets her weight fall backward. Jamie holds her up, one hand up the back of her skirt, the other testing the resistance of her sweater.

“You,” she gasps, even as Jamie moves a leg between her thighs and rocks gently, “are still in trouble.”

“Mmhmm,” Jamie agrees, a million miles away. She’s nipping at Dani’s earlobe now, and Dani can feel her grinning.

“You are still putting the goddamn bed together, Jamie.”

“Sure,” Jamie says, husky, and presses her harder against the mattress. “Later.”

“Honestly, how do you do this every time?”

***

“You sure about this?”

“Yes.” The answer is kind of actually no, but curiosity is getting the best of her. Anyway, it won’t be like before, the first time she ever tried to bum a cigarette off of Jamie and wound up nearly throwing up into the street. A couple of years and an indeterminate amount of cigarettes later, she’s got the art of it down, though she’s not what she’d call a smoker, per se.

(She’s not, but try telling Jamie that. Just because she sometimes slips the cigarette from between Jamie’s fingers in a restaurant, or when they’re lounging outside after a long day, or in bed after a particularly effective round of Jamie getting herself out of trouble. Dani finds the act soothing, but only if Jamie has already lit up and taken a puff. Then and only then does it feel like sharing part of Jamie.)

“It’s different,” Jamie warns. “Not saying you can’t handle it, mind, but--”

“Just show me how it’s done, Jamie.”

This challenge, she utters in her lowest voice, and Jamie raises an eyebrow. “I see what you’re doing, Poppins.”

“What am I doing?”

Fact of the matter is, she’s having a very specific kind of day. The kind where her mind keeps drifting. The kind where memory feels heavier than it has in years. It’s not the first time she’s had a day this heavy, nor will it be the last, but it still bothers her.

She hasn’t told Jamie. Doesn’t feel like she needs to, not yet. This doesn’t quite feel like beast-in-the-jungle territory so much as that old twisting panic, the old sense that she’s missing a test everyone else has studied for. When her mind edges her down this path, all she ever wants--all she can ever do about quieting it--is to hold close to Jamie.

Jamie, who is giving her a searching look now, even as nimble fingers roll a joint. “Sure you’re sure? Only, if you’re not up for it, I’m not going to judge.”

“Jamie. Do you trust me?”

Jamie’s mouth turns up at the corners. “Always.”

“Then get it started and hand it over.” She’s laughing a little, a nervous burble laugh that makes her feel more tethered to her own body. Jamie reaches over, closing a hand over her wrist and squeezing.

“Your wish and all that, Poppins. But do me a favor? Go easy this time.”

She takes the first hit, and then a second, leaning back against the green granite counter and exhaling slowly toward the ceiling. For a minute, it’s enough for Dani just to watch her: relaxed posture in a long-sleeved black shirt, rolled to the elbows to give her more room to make a mess of dinner an hour previously. Her hair is getting longer, shaggier, her makeup reckless in that half-attention way Jamie has of barely caring what she looks like for anyone who isn’t Dani.

“Your turn.”

Dani takes her at her word this time, careful to draw a small amount of smoke into her lungs and hold there. Even so, she coughs once, a slow, clean burn sliding outward through her chest. Jamie nods approvingly.

“Did you grow this yourself?” she asks after another careful hit. She hands the joint back, letting her hip press against the counter an inch from Jamie’s. There’s a comfortable heat between them this evening, slow-simmer ease that makes her think of early days. She likes the lingering way Jamie rests her hand against Dani’s on the countertop, pinky finger lightly caressing the edge of her skin, like the world’s most comfortable seduction.

“Nah,” Jamie says, with the joint between her lips. There’s something about the way she closes her eyes on the inhale, about the way her free hand never leaves Dani’s skin. Warmth works its way through her belly, and she thinks, bad day, maybe, but a good night.

“Would you grow it?” It’s just something to say. She’s already starting to feel the smoke coiling around her thoughts, her head growing soft, buzzing gently around the edges. She imagines she can feel Jamie’s hand all the way through her body.

“Not in our shop, if we wanted to keep the place.” Jamie’s eyes twinkle, the joint outstretched. “More?”

Dani shakes her head. The world is very slightly fuzzy, the kitchen warm, and Jamie has never felt more real. She watches Jamie carefully put out the lit end, setting the joint in an ashtray, liking the authority with which Jamie moves.

She’s always like this, always so focused on the little details that make up a day. On days where Dani feels like she’s coming up from the ground in one horrible jerk, Jamie is always there to root her again. It’s a good feeling, knowing Jamie is there. Knowing Jamie is only getting more there with time.

Later, she’ll look back on this as the moment. The one where she first decided to do it. The actual question, the actual plan, the actual ring won’t be here for years yet, but this is the moment the spark takes hold.

It would be different, she decides, as her fingers curl like vines around Jamie’s, bringing their joined hands against her chest. It would be so different than last time. No push. No expectation. Just a promise. Just us.

She likes being high with Jamie, she decides very quickly. Likes how it makes Jamie’s already-firm confidence firmer. Likes how it makes her already-sensitive skin buzz with pleasure. Likes the way Jamie folds her against the counter, hands gentle on the back of her head, and kisses her like it’s the first time.

She’s all exposed nerve and heavy limb and giggle as Jamie leads her to the bedroom, eases her down, cups her face between soft hands. For once, the shadows seem to work in her favor, curling around them as they move together, as cloth becomes skin, and she’s sighing, sighing, crying Jamie’s name into the darkness.

Jamie said once, a lifetime ago, that sometimes you have to drop everything too heavy to carry in order to hang on to one another. Jamie said it with such intensity, it didn’t even cross Dani’s mind to think of it another way. That, if you’re going to march into the dark, having a hand to hold as you go can make all the difference in the world.

The lights are on, for now. The lights are on, and Jamie holds her so tight with hands so soft, and Dani knows it’s not forever. Can sense it, like you sense the return of a childhood bad dream. Can feel it, shifting below the surface.

Maybe closer now. Maybe a little bit more awake than before. She can’t say for sure.

What she can say is that a night like this--kissing her way down Jamie’s chest, kissing flowers and bellybutton and that spot just above her hip that makes her writhe with laughter--is a torch. A ward against the monsters. A little light to carry them through the dark.

She’s got Jamie on her skin, in her mouth, imprinted on her soul, and she thinks it’s the best anyone can ask for. The only thing anyone can hope for.

And when Jamie clutches her hand right back, flashes that I’m-out-of-trouble smile, drapes one of her worn flannel shirts around Dani’s bare shoulders, she thinks, as long as I can have this. As long as she’ll have me. The shadows can’t possibly swallow me whole.

#the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor spoilers #fanfiction #dani x jamie #jamie x dani #dani clayton #hi. hello. can I interest you in...ahhh...#roughly 5k words of domestic bliss and general pleasantness in this the show of our emotional pain?#look I wanted an excuse to see them in the happy years and that excuse sort of bowled out into all this #also a little more ~mature than previous incarnations if that's a thing you're into. or like to be warned against.#I'll crosspost it to AO3 reasonably soon and update the masterpost as well but for now it lives here

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hello-im-not-a-possum · 3 years

Text

2. twisted

The cartoon that came out of the machine was pretty as a picture, perfect in almost every detail, and had a bubbly, positive personality. But she was not what Joey had wanted Susie to become. (Set in an AU where Joey gets perfect toons from his freshly killed employees and STILL isn’t happy, the unpleasable bitch…)

“Progress report to GENT home office, Client; Joey Drew Studios.

With the addition of the new ink recipe to use in the machine, we have made an unbelievable leap in progress and have almost met our client’s expectations. What had started as a machine to mold life sized figures out of ink has now done things that border on being supernatural.

Although Mr. Drew seems unimpressed, even frustrated with the results at times, in spite of the fact that the models have come out identical to their cartoon counterparts.

The process of running the cartoon film through the machine for the figures to imprint on has been successful, but it looks like that unless someone goes through the trouble of making a short that only has ONE character in it, the machine picks what character it makes at seemingly random. That is our client’s complaint; that instead of being user chosen, the machine picks out which living, breathing, thinking ink models it makes at random. Upon working on this, if I were to be in the client’s shoes, I’d have several valid complaints regarding the machine and the models it created, but our client’s complaint… Is that the machine that doesn’t have a system that allows the user to pick and choose which model it makes yet creates a physically flawless model every single time, does not allow the user to pick and choose which model it makes. He never ceases to infuriate me.

On a sour note, there was an incident with the figure in the likeness of a character called ‘The Brute’. Upon its creation, it immediately went and broke our client’s leg in a very… well, brutal fashion too. But fortunately, it has not physically attacked anyone since The Cameraman figure was made as we have threatened to separate them if it keeps up that behavior. It still likes to insult people, and it still does things that unnerve me though. We’re hoping that the rest of the figures will be less violent and or creepy.”

Thomas clicked off the recording and sighed as he looked at the newly made report, there was no way he could submit this to his boss without someone sending in someone to make sure he wasn’t huffing in ink fumes and whatever the Studio workers smoked to consider any of this to be normal.

“Hey Tommy! I think I figured out the issue with the machine! Or rather, its fuel.”

The mechanic grit his teeth and turned to face his client.

“What? I wasn’t aware that there was a problem with it.”

“Why, Tommy, how could you forget? I’m talking about the figure deposit problem of course! Why did we get The Brute when we wanted to get Boris? Why did we get Cameraman when we wanted Bendy? The answer was so simple, why, it was even staring at us the entire time!”

“Uh huh…” Thomas did not look convinced. “And what was this issue?”

“The ingredients, the Ink of course! You simply can’t put blueberry pancake batter in an oven and be surprised when you get blueberry pancakes instead of blueberry muffins, We got those two knuckleheads before we got the real stars of the show because the souls used to make them weren’t fit to make those two, but the machine still did what it does best: made living cartoons.”

Tom had an uneasy feeling in his gut as Joey grabbed his arm and led him to the Ink Machine’s room. He felt like a sheep being led to the slaughterhouse, he KNEW what went down in there! He knew the other ingredients, not well, per say, but for long enough to judge them and their characters.

He didn’t shed a single tear when Sammy was used in it, in fact, he was rather pleased with the results before it started acting out like that. He and the music director were almost always at each other’s throats for one reason or another. If you asked him, the ex-musician was strange, rude, clearly mentally unstable, and sometimes even cruel. And even if he wasn’t, his physical health had declined so much over his time at the studio that it was obvious that he would die regardless of whether or not he was put in the machine. Feeding Sammy to that machine was an act of mercy, really, and even if it wasn’t, it served him right to become a- err, The Brute and have him put the former musician in his place- put his villainous ways to a decent cause. Now if only someone could ensure for a fact that The Brute would behave...

Now the other ingredient, Norman Polk, was a different story. The man was old, weird and kinda creepy. On the surface, the man was an ideal candidate. Like Sammy, he would die anyway and nobody would miss him when he did. But on the contrary, he seemed like he still had some good years left in him. And while he was weird and creepy, he had been those things in an oddly endearing way that most of the studio had either liked or tolerated enough to not be bugged by it. The mechanic didn’t know how to explain it, that man reminded Tom of a mysterious, mostly-estranged relative that shows up out of nowhere and was always there for you even if you don’t always see him. So when the man snooped too much for his own good and had to be silenced… Tom could never look the resulting toon in the eye, or in his case, the lens.

But the mechanic couldn’t deny that it needed to be done, after all, the former projectionist was far too nosy for anyone’s sake. Nobody who knows the secret of the Ink Machine (or rather, it’s unconventional secret ingredient needed for its ink) should be free to wander the studio and spill the beans.

And a feeling in his gut was beginning to tell him that that was why he was the next on the chopping block.

He had built it, he learned what it would take to make it work, he had done what it took to make it work, and it was working now; No more models that would only move a tiny bit before collapsing into puddles! No more off model models! No more issues aside from x, y, z… -No more reasons for Joey to keep him alive when it was now too dangerous to his business…

A tiny voice at the back of his head told him it served him right. The creator of this unholy torture device would now be consumed by it, just like how the maker of the Brazen Bull was the first victim it claimed.

At this point, he was almost morbidly curious on who or what the machine would make him; would it poke fun at his past and make him that territorial junkyard guard, Canoodle? Would it ironically punish him for his greed by making him The Fat Cat of the show, Boswell Lotsobucks? Would it acknowledge that although he was a villain to the bitter end, he still tried to go clean only for demons to drag him back down his dark paths and make him into Charley? Thinking about it, any butcher gang member would be a good enough fit really.

He was a mix of relieved, disappointed, and horrified when he was brought into the room and saw the unconscious voice actress of Alice Angel strapped to a mobile operating table. Joey seemed to ignore his reaction as he proudly showed her off and began to monologue.

“Like Boris, Sammy was a musician, simple-minded, and was very loyal to those he considered friends until the bitter end. But what made Sammy more like the Brute then Boris- Aside from body type, obviously, was that Sammy had quite the short temper on him, one that got messed with often, and a tendency to hold onto a grudge that can’t be swayed away with a good meal or a bad joke… Just like our friend; the Brute.”

Tom stayed speechless as Joey continued his seemingly prepared and rehearsed speech.

“As for Bendy and Norman, well, it’s obvious that those too simply weren’t compatible in the slightest! Sure, they both have their mischievous sides, but that alone doesn’t make a man into a good imp… However, do you know who DOES have more in common with Mr. Polk? That’s right! A certain smart alec-someone who knows a thing or two about anyone, everyone, and everything whether he wants to or not. Someone with a darker, more jaded sense of humor than our little devil, someone who can lurk in the shadows, or in his case, ‘backstage’ for safety or to gather Intel, but be happy and proud to take the front stage when the need arises! ...Alright, I can see that Norman’s soul may have influenced the personality of our Cameraman, but at least he did it in ways that make sense to the character.”

The mechanic continued to stay silent as Joey continued.

“But the main point is: we know what to do to fix this little issue. If we want a main character, we need someone who embodies the soul of that character. And Ms. Campbell here said it herself; Alice is a part of her!”

“Joey…”

“Why, she’d be thanking us if she knew what was coming! This is a dream come true for her! She always seemed to be the happiest when she was singing our angel darling’s songs…”

As if he was snapped out of a trance, the mechanic pulled Joey to his face, gripping the animator’s arms tightly and shaking him up a bit.

“Joey! We can’t do this! Susie isn’t like Norman or Sammy. She’s young, healthy, and still has a lot to live for. Nobody would buy that she passed on from something out of the blue, or that she moved away without warning or telling anyone. Everyone in the studio loves her and talks to her frequently! If we do this, especially so soon, they will make the connection, and they will find out about this. It was bad enough when Norman went, imagine if someone as well loved as her went too!”

Joey just laughed and slapped Tom’s shoulder.

“Oh Tommy, all we need to tell them is that Susie got her big break and is Bringing Alice to life in ways never before seen! And to sell the illusion, also tell them ‘you know how those folks in Hollywood are with their schedules, always a bunch of busy bees.’ They’ll bite, you just have to trust me.”

“What if they don’t?” the mechanic argued. “What if they start snooping around and start to piece together what really happened to her?”

Joey’s smile wavered a bit, but remained steadfast.

“Well, we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we reach it. And when we do, we’ll have our answer!”

“Nnnnggghhh…”

Both of them shuddered when they heard the voice actress start to stir awake.

“I swore I used stronger stuff in her drink…”

“...Jo...Joey..? ..Mr. Conner..?” The voice actress’s real eye widened in horror as she looked around, and her voice wavered as she grew more and more frantic. “WHat’s going on?! Where am I- Why am I tied up?!”

“S-Susie! Everything’s perfectly fine my dear, you just need to calm down a bit and I’ll explain everything…” He subtly jabbed Thomas in the ribs with his elbow. “Tommy!” He hissed “Throw her in the machine already!”

The frightened voice actress began to struggle against her restraints while Tom hesitated. Joey shot him a glare as he strolled up behind Susie and put a ‘reassuring’ hand on the weeping angel’s shoulder.

“Joey, please… let me go… Don’t do this to me!” Tears were running down the woman’s face, her voice was soft and breaking from her stress. “Just let me go and I promise I won’t tell anyone…”

“Now, now, Susie, there’s nothing to worry about, yes I know this looks unsettling from your position… But you and Alice are going places, new, big places that most people only dream of seeing! You’re going to bring her to life in ways that will touch the hearts of generations!”

A flash of realization crossed her face.

“Joey… answer me this: when Sammy ‘died from untreated lung cancer’ did he actually die from lung cancer? And when Norman ‘died from a workplace injury’ did he really…?” her voice trailed off a bit with uncertainty before asking her third question. “Did their deaths have anything to do with those two toons that showed up?!”

Her questions were not answered by words, but with actions as the two men stuffed her into the machine. When it turned on, her screams echoed throughout the mostly empty studio, chilling all who heard them to the very bone.

When they finally stopped, the machine whirred and roared to life and Joey rubbed his hands together in glee as he watched the machine work its magic.

Thomas, on the other hand, stood in silence while staring at his hands as dread and guilt sank in his gut.

The former man’s smile fell into a look of confusion when he saw a pair of gloves with ‘X’ marks on them come out, followed by arms that connected to them. That look of confusion fell deeper into a frown when he saw the arms stretch, curl, and twist when the gloves reached the floor as if they were streams of ice cream coming out of the machine at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Alice didn’t have arms that curled and stretched, but Joey knew a certain demoness toon who did; Miss Twisted. He was cursing under his breath, of course it would complete their little trio before giving him what he wanted! Now he wasted his one shot at getting Alice!

The rest of the toon didn’t even get out of the damn machine, it was like she was taunting him by continuing to stretch her arms and let them continue to coil in piles on the floor instead of showing him the finished product.

Furious, he marched over and grabbed the toon demoness’s arms and yanked her out of the damn machine.

“Stop messing around!” He scolded before pausing and reapplying his signature smile. “Your friends Brute and Cameraman have been worried sick about you ever since their creation! You wouldn’t want to keep them waiting for you any longer than they’ve already been, right?”

He could’ve been imagining it, but he swore that she had a look of pure terror on her face before she put on a fake smile of her own. And was it just him, or was this Miss Twisted’s left eye slightly discolored, glassy looking, if that made sense for someone with pitch black pie-cut eyes. The grayer eye she had reminded him of Susie Campbell’s fake eye.

“Y-yeah! You’re right!” She pushed Joey out of her face, clearly uncomfortable by his staring but pretending to be perfectly fine. “I can’t keep my boys waiting for too long, who knows what they’ll do?” She chuckled nervously. “So… where are you keeping them? where are they hiding?”

“Tommy here will be happy to show you, just follow him and-”

“Thanks!”

The demoness chipperly chirped and swiftly yanked Thomas out of the room at a speed that almost insulted the man.

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #Thomas Conner #joey drew #susie campbell #miss twisted #fanfic #ink demonth #murder warning

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bnhabadass · 4 years

Text

Pairing: Hawks x Reader Warnings: NSFW, Apocalypse AU Rating: 18+ Word Count: 4489 A/N: So excited to share with you all my contribution to this month’s bnharem smut server collaboration. I would like to give a big thanks to @candychronicles for beta reading this and to @hisoknen for introducing me to Fotor. My banner looks so much better now thanks to you. Don’t forget to check out everyone else’s stories here!

If there’s one thing you miss most about the old world it’s the color green. The bright green of trees in the summer, the soft grass you would run through barefoot, the small insects that blend in so well with their surroundings. You haven’t seen any of that in ages. As you run through the woods, all you can see is brown. The moss patterns snaking their way up tree trunks have all disappeared. Dead leaves crunch under your heavy boots and the trees around you are so dry they could catch fire in an instant.

You stop to catch your breath. How long have you been running? Two miles? You’re not sure if you lost the raiders or not. What you do know is that you’re alone, you don’t have much food and if you don’t find a good source of water soon, the oozing cut on your leg will become infected.

You find a tree stump to rest on and take a swig out of your canteen. You’re tired. Your body has never ached this much before. Every muscle is pounding, every crevasse uges to be stretched. As you try to move your left leg, you can’t help but hold back tears. It stings too much. You take the bandana out of your hair and tightly tie it around the slice in your leg. You take a safety pin out of your backpack and secure the cloth. It’s not much, but it will keep pressure on the wound until you can find something to patch it up. You might need to raid someone’s campsite to find a bandage. The thought sickens you. You hate associating yourself with them.

You were the medic of your team, the keeper of all the medicine, bandages and any antiseptic wipes that you came across. Your team members would do the hunting and the raiding and they would come back to base each with an arm full of food and supplies for the lot of you.

Then they started dropping like flies. One of them got sick and wouldn’t get better. Another got an infection that you couldn’t get rid of. You still beat yourself up for his death every time you think about him. One of your teammates went hunting and never came back. Pretty soon it was just you and your team leader. You stayed together for a week. She taught you how to hunt and you taught her what plants were edible and which ones could be used for healing. Then the raiders came and now it is just you.

You close your backpack and stand up. Nothing good will come out of sulking, so you might as well try and make a move on.

As the sun sets, the fiery orange colors swarm across the sky. The moon rises up and slowly comes into view. At least that’s one thing that’s the same from the old world.

Without the adrenaline coursing through your veins, you can feel the stinging of the cut on your leg even more. You limp through the woods at the pace of a tortoise for what feels like hours.

The only food in your backpack is a can of fruit salad leftover from an abandoned grocery store raid. It’s something, but it wouldn’t be enough to subside the growling in your stomach.

A light catches your eye. Smoke rises from the top of the trees. You could go over there and see how many people there are. If there’s only one you might be able to take them on. Two or more could end in a disaster, but if you have the slightest chance of making it out with gauze and a hunk of meat roasted over the fire you might be able to survive the night.

Your eyes squint and you walk forward, trying to get a closer look. You are off your guard when you feel something tug around your ankle and hoist you into the air. You can’t help but let out a small shriek. You are quick to cover your mouth with your hand but you are very much aware that the noise alerted the people near the fire.

“Well well well,” a voice from below you sang. “Looks like I caught a little dove.”

The rope around your ankle is tight. You feel your foot starting to grow numb as the person from below lowers the trap, setting you free.

“Who are you?” You fiddle with the rope but the knot is too tight.

“Allow me.” You look up at the person, the man standing in front of you. He takes out a large swiss army knife and opens the blade. He saws through the rope, careful not to cut you. “Sorry about that,” he says when it’s finally off. “People don’t usually come around here so I’ve never gotten anyone hung up on these bigger traps.”

He extends a hand out for you and you take a moment to study his features. He has messy ash blonde hair that is slightly overgrown. His toned muscles are enunciated by the fact that he is only wearing an undershirt.

You grab his big, slightly sweaty hand and stumble up from the ground.

“Whoa easy there.” His friendly tone of voice hits differently than the other people you have come across throughout your nomadic travels. It’s very soothing, trustworthy. And that makes you worry all the more.

“What do you want from me?” you ask.

The man eyes you up and down. His gaze makes you feel uncomfortable, like he’s eating you up with his eyes.

“What happened there?” He points to your leg and the blood soaked bandana that has begun sliding down to your ankle.

“Raiders.” A one word response that everyone knew meant trouble. “Now answer my question. What do you want from me?” Your voice is sturdy and, in your opinion, threatening.

But the man just laughs. “Trust me, dove. There isn’t much I want from you.” He begins walking back towards his camp site. You watch as he leaves but he stops in his tracks. “Coming?”

The man’s campsite was small. A red pickup truck is parked at one end of the clearing. It doesn’t look like it runs anymore. Mud and dirt have been spread along its side to cover up its bright hue.

“So,” the man asks. “Do you have a name?” He is fiddling with the contents in a small lock box as he speaks.

“I’m,” you seath as the pain from your leg begins to get to you. “(Y/n).”

“That’s a pretty name,” the man says. “I’m Keigo. So, (Y/n). Let’s get that cut cleaned up.”

You are confused. People in this day and age aren’t usually nice, especially to stragglers like yourself. “What are you doing?” you ask when you see him come over to you with a cloth soaked in some substance. You pull your leg back out of instinct but your breath hitches again when the stinging returns.

“It’s just an antiseptic,” he says while putting his arms up in defense. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Cautiously, you scooch over to him and rest your leg on a small tree stump.

Keigo slowly pulls his arms back down and kneels on the ground, taking your leg in his firm hand. His hand is warm. It’s big, much bigger than yours, but it has a gentle touch that calms you down as he presses the cloth to your wound.

You squeeze your eyes shut at the stinging.

“Sh sh sh I’m sorry. I know it stings.” He extends a hand out for you to grasp and you squeeze it as he continues wiping the dry blood off of your leg.

It isn’t long before your leg is bandaged up tightly, keeping pressure on the gauze underneath.

“That should hold for a while.” Keigo smiles down at his work and you can’t help but find it a little bit arrogant.

“How did you even get your hands on antiseptic? I was like the medic of my group and we could never find anything more than those shitty wipes during grocery store and pharmacy raids.”

Keigo looks at you with a smirk lacing his face. His friendly eyes are replaced with dangerous ones, ones that cause a hot pit to form in your stomach and travel lower, below your belt. “Let’s just say I have a few dirty tricks up my sleeve.”

“S-so you’re a raider,” you stutter. “You stole that bottle from another person.”

He chuckles slightly and the sound causes goosebumps to run up your spine. “Not exactly, it’s a lot more complicated than that, but believe what you will. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You’re confused, somewhat afraid, and slightly turned on by the deepness of his voice and the vibrations emanating from his laugh.

“You should stay for dinner,” he says, voice returning to the cheerful and almost goofy tone it had before.

You hesitate, but your stomach growls as if on cue and you spot the piece of meat Keigo has laid out to place over the fire. You let out a huff. “Why not.”

Keigo has cut the piece of meat in half. He places it on a hard plastic plate and slides it over to you. It’s juicy but bland. Still, you’re grateful to have a hot meal instead of having to gather berries and edible flowers.

“Is it good?” Keigo asks.

You nod your head, face stuffed full. “Yeah. I haven’t had chicken in so long.”

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You can’t help but laugh at the fake shocked expression gracing Keigo’s face.

“How did you even catch a chicken? They usually aren’t wandering around in the middle of the woods.”

“Neither are damsels in distress like yourself.” The sly smirk on Keigo’s face causes knots to form in your stomach as a wave of embarrassment washes over you.

“I wouldn’t say I’m a damsel in distress,” you mumble. Your head is turned in the other direction as you try to avoid eye contact.

Keigo raises his eyebrows and chuckles. “Oh yeah? Tell me, how did you get out of that trap earlier? Oh, and who bandaged up your bloody calf and squeezed your hand when the pain was too much to bear?”

“Shut up.” You lean over to playfully shove him, but in the process you fall off the stump you were sitting on. Your butt hits the ground with a thud.

Keigo laughs and extends a hand for you to take.

You reach for it, but as soon as he pulls you up he has yanked you over to him. You are now sitting on his lap and your spine can’t help but shiver as his big calloused yet comforting hands drag up and down your exposed arms.

“Poor clumsy thing,” Keigo says, a darker tone taking over his voice. He continues to warm you up.

You can feel his hot breath tickle the back of your neck as he moves his hands up to your shoulder blades.

“You don’t do much fighting do you?” he asks. His thumbs methodically move to work the knots out of your shoulders.

“I–” You have to recollect your thoughts and focus on anything other than his hands and the magic they’re working. “I told you I was the medic of my group. I, ah, I spent a lot of time treating hunting wounds.”

“So you’re hunched over someone’s broken body all day.” He stops using his thumbs to attack your shoulders and moves to using his knuckles and fists. “I can see why you have all these knots then.”

You can’t help but contract your body forward as he moves his hands down your lower back. You let out an involuntarily breathy moan at his actions.

Keigo chuckles, leaning his mouth in the crook of your neck. “You know your skin is really soft,” he mumbles.

You bark out a laugh. “You know, I’m starting to think you’re going to make a skin suit out of me.”

He laughs too and he gives your sides a slight squeeze.

You turn and look at the ash blonde man. He weaves his fingers in his hair and looks back at you with a devilish smirk. He’s beautiful, one of the prettiest men you’ve ever seen. And he’s touching you. His hands are groping your shoulders and your sides. You want them to travel all over you, from the plushness of your ass to the valley between your breasts.

You’re taken out of your thoughts when you feel something warm on your lips. Him. His lips crash into yours. It takes a moment for you to recognize your surroundings, what’s going on. His lips are dry and slightly cracked from the heat but you don’t mind.

Without removing your lips from his, you shift to a more comfortable position and Keigo is quick to continue roaming his hands all over you. He grabs your ass with one and tangles the other in your hair. When he pulls, you let out a gasp and he bites your lip, a low growl escaping his throat.

Tears pick in the corner of your eyes as the sensitive skin grows hot.

Keigo wipes them away with his thumbs. “I guess little doves don’t like teeth.” He picks up your arms and lazily wraps them around his neck. You clasp them together and adjust your position on his lap. “So tell me, dove. What kind of things do you like?”

Your face is hot. You wish you could smooth that feeling back but you can’t move under his gaze.

“What’s the matter?” he asks with that dark, sultry voice. “Cat got your tongue? I hear they prey on little birdies like you.”

You whimper slightly. There is so much you want to say to him but the heat pooling in your abdomen and the fluids leaking into your panties distract from any thoughts. Instead, you tangle your hands into his thick hair. It’s a bit greasy but so is yours. You don’t mind. You tug on a lock and grind your hips forward. You can feel the strain of his cock press onto your clothed folds, already soaked with anticipation.

“Someone’s a bit needy today aren’t we,” Keigo says. He takes one of his thumbs and puts it in your mouth. “Suck.”

His demand leaves you weak in the knees. You comply and begin sucking tightly on his thumb. Your tongue wraps around it and the bitter flavor is quick to take over your tastebuds.

As you suck on his thumb, Keigo moves his free hand up your tank top. He grabs one of your breasts and snakes his fingers underneath your bra to stroke your nipple.

You gasp as a shock of cold wind brushes past them. The bud becomes stiff and Keigo rolls the peak between his fingers.

“Are you gonna just sit there, or are you going to put that mouth to work?”

You blush and go back to sucking on his thumb. You lick a long stripe up the pad of his finger as he fondles your breast.

He slides his one hand around your chest and you hear the click of bra clasps becoming undone. The bra slides down your arms and you chuck it to the side.

Keigo takes his thumb out of your mouth and slides his other hand under your shirt. He thumbs over the sensitive skin of your nipple. “You know, you have a nice rack,” he says. “The perfect size, really.” He lifts your shirt up so he can see you in full. He traces his fingers over every scar and blemish you have gotten over the years of hiding and raiding and trying your hardest to put up a fight.

He leans in to press his mouth against your breast. He kisses between them and works his way down past the scars and scrapes to the waistband of your pants.

“Wait.” Your hands move to grab his wrist. “Is there, I don’t know, anywhere more comfortable where we could do this?”

Keigo looks around at the ground covered with dead leaves and miscellaneous supplies he’s tossed around. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize little birdies like you need to be pampered.”

The tease in his voice nips at you like ice and you can’t help but feel even more overheated than you already are. “Little birdies have fragile bones,” you retort.

The wicked grin on his face widdens and he chuckles into your neck, nipping it and taking you off guard.

He slides his arms under you and hoists you up. He turns around so you can’t see where he’s walking but your legs wrap around him, clinging like a koala.

Keigo jumps up onto something. He sets you down and you can see that you’re now standing in the bed of the truck. An open sleeping bag lies over a busted up looking mattress. You can’t help but smile at the thought of laying in a bed for once, be that a broken mattress with springs poking out the sides.

You’re taken out of your thoughts when you feel Keigo’s arm snake around you, pulling you close. You move your arms up and cup his cheek.

He leans in and kisses you again, this time with more force like a wild beast devouring its prey.

Your hands trail up his stomach under his shirt. Your fingers dance as they caress every one of his muscles. You are eager to rip the tight black t-shirt off of him and he can tell. As your fingernails rake their way down his back, Keigo lets go of your lips to pull off his shirt. In the split second he was off of your lips, you could see something red across his back. A tattoo maybe. You couldn’t make out what it was but it fades in your mind all together when he leans his mouth down to suck on the stiff peaks of your nipples.

He makes sure to give them equal attention before yet again trailing his way down your stomach with soft and sweet kisses. As he pushes you back with a gentle touch, you fall back onto the busted mattress. A loud creaking noise emanates from the truck bed but Keigo doesn’t seem to notice. He resumes his position between your legs. His fingers masterfully undo the button of your jeans and slide them down your legs.

You have never felt this exposed. Sure you’ve been naked with other people before but never in the woods where anyone could come across you at any moment, be that a raider or a hunter or someone trying to escape just like yourself. Still, every time you look down your stomach and meet Keigo’s gaze, you melt into butter and slip out of your worries.

“Now tell me,” Keigo said, beginning to drag your panties down. You stay connected to them with a thin strand of your own slick. “What do little birdies taste like?”

This is wrong. You’ve just met this guy. He’s a complete stranger. You don’t know who he is or what kind of person he was in the old world. You don’t know whether or not he is the type of person to make you chicken soup when you’ve come down with a cold or let you borrow a cup of sugar when you’re short when making a recipe. In the old world you would have never fucked a stranger after only knowing them a few hours. It’s all so foreign to you.

But this isn’t the old world and the way that Keigo growls just at the sight of your sopping cunt has your eyes near rolling into the back of your skull.

Keigo has pulled your panties down to your ankles. He chucks them aside before taking you in. Your hair is sprawled out against the creaking mattress. He has barely touched you yet you look like you’re on ecstasy. He wastes no time in hoisting your legs over his shoulders. He can’t help but feel prideful in the way you gasp at his rough movements.

You squirm underneath him as you feel Keigo drag the bridge of his nose across your opening to your delicate clit. The warmth of his tongue drags across and you let out a loud moan.

His fingers pinch your tender clit and you buck your hips forward against his soft lips. Keigo wastes no time in feasting on you. After all, you’ve proven to be quite the needy little dove.

Keigo prods and sucks at your clit. He sticks two of his fingers in and flicks them upward at a teasing pace. He chuckles at the sight of you thrashing and bucking your hips against him.

Every time you open your eyes to look at him, heat rises to your cheeks and you force yourself to look away.

He’s done this before. He knows his way around a pussy. From the way he dips his hot tongue into your slick walls and massages your clit with wet fingers, it isn’t long before the tethered cord within you snaps and you spray your juices against his fingers and against his face.

“Too much,” you said, placing a shaky hand on his bicep.

Keigo looks into your eyes. The darkened look he has shows that he could eat you without hesitation. He looks like he is ready to pounce. Instead, he takes the fingers covered in your juices and sticks them in his mouth. He runs his tongue between them and nearly sucks them dry.

You are still quivering below him, twitching from the lasting effects of your orgasm.

“Delicious,” he says, releasing his fingers from his mouth with a wet pop.

Your heart rate begins to slow. You sit up, although your muscles have a slight ache as you do so.

“Are you ready?”

Your mellow eyes meet Keigo’s feral ones. In the time it had taken you to sit up, he had stripped away his pants leaving him in just his briefs. The prominent tent below is what catches your eye. His hard on is begging to be let free. You tenderly lift your hand up and rub over his clothed crotch. The deep inhale he takes followed by a low growl makes your insides melt.

Keigo pulls at the waistband of his briefs, letting his hardened cock spring free. He steps out of them and thrusts his pelvis towards your face. His shaft slaps against your cheek and you take his hint.

Your hand wraps around his shaft and pumps against it a few times. Your thumb smooths over the tip and tongue tentatively licks the drops of precum that leak out. It’s salty and the sweetness comes from seeing the way Keigo melts as soon as your tongue glides against his length.

“That’s a good little dove.” His fingers tangle in your hair and his hand pushes you forward, forcing you to take his length in your mouth.

You grip onto the back of his thighs to balance yourself. Heat rises to your cheeks as it dawns on you how intimate you are being with him. His hand pulls on your hair as your mouth works wonders on him. His balls slap against your chin and you can’t help but let out a moan, the vibrations from your mouth work their way to his core.

You cup his balls as you try and milk him for all he’s worth. You give them a gentle little squeeze and his knees buckle. He tightens the grip on your hair to catch himself from falling.

Before he can cum, he pulls out of your mouth. Droplets of your spit fall from your lips. A strand of saliva that still connects you to his dick breaks off.

Facing away from you, Keigo strokes himself a couple times. “Why don’t you lean back,” he suggests.

You follow his orders and lie down on the mattress. The springs dig into your shoulder blades once again but anticipation keeps you from fixating on it too much.

Keigo leans down and hikes one of your legs over his shoulder. He gives your tender pussy another lick before slapping his dick against your puffy clit.

As you let out a moan, he lines his cock up to your entrance and snaps his hips forward.

You grip onto his bicep as he thrusts himself in and out at a fast pace, faster than you’re used to. You suppose he couldn’t wait. His dick is long and his girth stretches you out in all the right ways.

You try and catch your breath but you can barely keep up with the way Keigo pounds into you.

“Is this good for you, dove,” Keigo asks. He hikes your other leg up and leans in, touching his forehead with yours.

You scream in pain and pleasure as he hits your mark perfectly with this new position.

Your nails cling onto his back and your mouth finds comfort on his shoulder as you bite into him.

He lets out a sharp bark, almost like a howl as your velvety walls contort around his dick in all the right ways.

Keigo wets his fingers and trails them down to your swollen clit. He presses against it which only causes you to let out a scream in ecstasy.

It’s not long before the pressure built within you snaps and you tighten even more around Keigo’s hardened cock, letting your juices spill around it.

Keigo continues to pump in and out of you until his own release. He pulls out and cums onto your chest. As you sit up, the warm mess rolls down your abdomen and spills out on the sleeping bag covered mattress.

Keigo hands you a small towel. “Here.”

As you wipe the ropes of cum off of your chest and stomach you can’t help but think of the old world. Before the end of society as you knew it you would have never fucked a stranger two hours after meeting them.

Keigo has pulled his pants back up but leaves his shirt off. You watch as he pokes at the dying fire, bringing the embers back to life. On his back, you can finally see the bit of red that caught your eye earlier. A tattoo. Two red wings coming out of his shoulder blades. Keigo is an interesting guy, one you want to know more about. The thought of getting to know him better makes you blush and the apples of your cheeks raise in a genuine smile, something that you haven’t felt in a long time.

The fire illuminates Keigo and the soft smile he has melts your heart. Who knew that someone so cunning and snarky like himself could have such a sweet smile.

#my hero academia #my hero academia x reader #boku no hero academia #bnha x reader #bnha hawks #mha hawks #takami keigo #Takami Keigo x reader #hawks x reader #apocalypse au #bnharem collab

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novaiya · 3 years

Text

After Midnight - Arthur Morgan, Micah Bell.

Summary: Having spent the entire day traveling with Sean, Charles and Micah, Arthur wants nothing more than to let the sleep overtake him. His plans are sidetracked when Micah wouldn't leave his hotel room, and Arthur has to concentrate hard to ignore the man and his talk as he tries to fall asleep.

Words: 2,313

Warnings: none.

AO3 Link.

A/N: Long story short, I was able to trigger a “Companion” bug in which camp members can follow you on your adventures around the world. Google/Search it on YouTube to get a better sense for what I’m talking about. Anyway, I got Micah, Charles and Sean. I robbed and killed with them for a few hours before deciding to call it a night and went into a hotel. I got Arthur a bath, and as I’m laying in the bath, I see an icon moving toward Arthur’s room. When I left the bath and went into the hotel room, who did I see lol? Micah wouldn’t leave the room no matter what, so Arthur slept with Micah watching over him. Only when Arthur woke up the next morning did Micah finally leave the room. Weirdly enough, only Micah stayed with Arthur in the room, not Sean or Charles, though all of them were supposed to follow Arthur wherever he went.

~ ~ ~

It was nice to hang out with the guys for a change. More often than not, Arthur was alone; he would go hunting alone, collect bounties alone and help people around the country, alone. He enjoyed the solitude, of course, but something about riding with his fellow gang members down the dusty plain, all of them on their respective horses, had him treasure every minute of it. The conversations that they engaged in were a welcomed change to the usual silence that accompanied Arthur on his journeys, and the safety in numbers did not go by unnoticed. He could feel, as they passed by fellow gunslingers and bounty hunters on the road, eyes watching them warily. No one dared to look at them wrong, just the sight of all four of them, with iron on their hips and scars on their faces, made any attempt dissipate as fast as their horses did down the dirt path.

The night had fallen when they rolled into town. The shops were closing down, saloons becoming quieter and streets emptier as they rode through the Main Street. Arthur could feel a yawn make its way up his throat and did nothing to stop it. The day was long, with enough endeavors to last some people a lifetime, and he wanted nothing to do than to wash it away and go to sleep.

As they continued their way up the Main Street, Arthur saw a hotel; a small construction that by the looks of it barely stood together with the rotten boards and rusty nails, but with no other options, it would have to do.

Despite offering them, Sean and Charles declined spending the night in the crappy hotel and said they rather camp outside of town. Arthur didn’t have a chance to extend the same offer to Micah (not that he wanted to either) for the fact that he couldn’t find him (he went to the general store), so after bidding the guys goodnight, he went into the hotel, paid for a room and a bath and went to the latter first.

The first few minutes of being submerged in the water were always the best. Arthur could feel every ounce of stress leave his body along with the dirt. These few moments of peace always made him think of his dog, and despite the fact that the boy was long gone, he always smiled when he remembered him.

As okay as he was with bathing in rivers and lakes, he much preferred the steaming hot water of a hotel bath. He took the time to thoroughly wash himself, sliding the wet rag up and down his arms, legs and back. A satisfied groan would leave his lips now and then as he washed his hair, adding a slight pressure to massage his scalp.

After he finished cleaning himself, he took a deep breath and reclined against the rim of the bath. The smell of peppermint soap filled his senses and with the soap bubbles acting as a blanket, he felt himself drifting off to the dream world. A commotion outside made him let out an exhausted sight and open his eyes. He furrowed his brows as he heard someone enter the room next door, his room.

Perhaps it was Sean or Charles taking him up on his offer, deciding against bunking with coyotes and skunks.

He heaved a deep groan as he exited the bath. After drying himself off and putting on a fresh pair of clothes, he went to his room.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” Arthur said as soon as he entered the room.

Micah’s back was turned to Arthur as he stood by the window of the room, looking outside. The town was quiet and all its citizens asleep. Micah enjoyed the nighttime, the quietness and calmness it provided. Like all the nighttime creatures, Micah felt the most comfortable when the sun was set and the moon loomed over.

“Well,” Micah said as he turned around, holding a cigarette between his fingers, “As you forgot to invite me, I decided to take matters into my own hands and welcome myself in.”

“Get out of here,” Arthur said as he moved across the room to a nightstand by the bed, removing his satchel and placing it there. He made a point of ignoring the man by the window as he took off his gun belt and placed it next to his satchel.

Micah didn’t move from his spot by the window, though he wasn’t looking through it anymore. As he held the cigarette between his fingers, puffing on it from time to time, he watched Arthur remove his belt, his jackets and his boots, all while his back was to him.

As Arthur turned around, ready to start pulling down his pants, he saw that Micah was still there, eyeing him in such a way that Arthur all of a sudden felt flustered.

“You still here?” he said.

Micah motioned with his hands and shrugged his shoulders without saying anything, implying that Yes, as you can see, I’m still standing here.

Micah moved from his position near the window to lean against a dresser in the center of the room.

Arthur wondered why he hadn't pushed Micah out of the room yet, and why he was now pulling his pants down, stripping down to just his Union suit in front of the man he’s known all 5 months. Not that the length of time they’ve known each other would have an effect on whether he would strip in front of him or not, but still. Perhaps he was too tired to pick a fight.

When down to his sleepwear, Arthur sat at the edge of the bed. The sleep had long passed him, and he was sharply aware that Micah wasn’t moving from his place by the dresser.

“Are you just gonna stand there?” Arthur said.

“Do you want me to stand somewhere else?” Micah replied.

Arthur rolled his eyes before saying, “Aren’t you going to sleep?”

Micah placed the cigarette back between his lips and inhaled the smoke. He kept his eyes on Arthur as he let the smoke escape in a cloud in front of him. After wetting his lips with his tongue, Micah replied as a matter of fact, “I don’t sleep.”

“You don’t-You don’t sleep?” Arthur said, a genuine surprise in his voice at what Micah said. Now that he thought about it though, he realized that he has actually never seen the man sleep before. He’s never seen him sleep, never seen him in his sleepwear and never even seen him lay down. In fact, he didn’t even think Micah had his own tent or a cot to begin with.

“Nope.”

“That’s a load of crap,” Arthur said and waved his hand at Micah, “Everybody's gotta sleep.”

“Not me.”

Despite how outlandish the statement sounded, Arthur found himself believing Micah; If the wrinkles and bags under the man’s eyes were anything to go by.

As if it only now dawned upon him, Arthur cocked his head at Micah and said, “So what did you come here for then? Watch me sleep?”

Micah chuckled, the same way he did when he wanted to undermine someone or simply be an ass.

“If that’s what you want, cowpoke,” he said.

Arthur was far too tired to engage in a pointless verbal quarrel with Micah.

Without replying anything else, he shook his head, got under the thin covers of the hotel bed and turned his back to him, determined to not let the presence of the blonde man ruin his rest.

The sleep didn’t come to him as easily as he hoped. He was hyper aware of Micah behind his back, and in the dead silence of the night, could hear the faint sound of him inhaling the cigarette smoke. He squirmed in the bed, tossing and turning as if the position was at fault for his restlessness and not Micah Bell the Third’s eyes which he could feel on his back.

“I had a brother once,” Micah said, breaking the silence, “Suppose I still do.”

Upon hearing Micah’s voice, Arthur stopped moving and laid still, listening.

“We ran together for a while; me, him and our pa. Did a lot of good stuff. Did a lot of bad stuff. You might’ve even read some of it in the papers,” Micah added with a snicker. “I trusted him. We was brothers, beyond the sense of the word.”

Micah was silent for a good while after, letting his words settle in the air and letting his own thoughts settle as well. The images of all the vile savagery they’ve done together; robbing, stealing, killing, assaulting; flooded his brain, and he couldn’t help but smile at the recollection. The smile fell however, as he remembered what followed after; his brother's hesitations, his wanting to go straight and to leave the life behind. The anger that always boiled inside of Micah came on raging as he remembered the last time he and his brother talked before the latter bailed on him and his father.

Any jest left his voice as he continued. “And then he found himself a whore, knocked her up and hightailed to the West. Last I heard he’s living a cushy rancher life in California.”

The cigarette between his fingers was long forgotten, the cinder from it falling to the ground.

Arthur was now laying on his back, his head slightly towards Micah. “What’s his name?”

“Amos. Amos Bell.”

Arthur let the newfound information settle in his head, before he finally asked, “Why are you telling me all of this?”

Micah shrugged his shoulders before saying, “Thought you might like a bedtime story, seeing as you couldn’t fall asleep.”

Arthur groaned before closing his eyes and said, “Remind me to never let you near Jack.”

Whether it was Micah’s “bedtime story” or the exhaustion finally getting the better of him, but within a few minutes Arthur was out, sprawled out on the hotel bed, light snores coming out of his open mouth.

Micah, just as he said, didn’t sleep all throughout the night. He smoked a couple more cigarettes, drank some whiskey, checked the cabinets and the dressers, and even read Arthur’s journal. The man was deep in slumber, judging by his snores, so Micah didn’t feel any hesitation to reach into his satchel and pull out the one item that Arthur was always protective over.

He casually flipped through the pages; a drawing of a horse, a drawing of a bunny, another drawing of a horse, a portrait of a random camp member, another drawing of a horse?! For a moment, he thought Arthur was carrying around Jack’s drawing journal, with all the doodles of horses and squirrels and birds that he saw there. That was until he started coming upon short chronicles and daily logs, some of them detailing mundane things such as the bounties Arthur caught or strangers that he helped, other, more grim, such as plans of bank robberies and the friends who had fallen.

As he flipped through the pages, a log caught his attention.

November 12, 1898

Got into a bar fight when Dutch tried to sell that gold we found few weeks back. The locals don’t seem to take too kindly to strangers in these parts. Can’t blame them. We was fighting to an inch of our life when a stranger joined in. I wasn’t sure if he was on our side or not, but when the opposition started dropping, I understood. Micah Bell's name is, I think. Dutch offered him to join the gang, and he accepted. Not sure what I think of him yet. He seems hot headed and reckless, but he’s good with his guns and that’s all that matters. We’ll see.

As he flipped to the next page, something that almost never happened with Micah did; he was caught by surprise.

The very next page after the previous log was fully dedicated to a portrait of him. His mouth hung ajar as he looked at himself on the paper. The carefully drawn eyes, the long, unkempt hair, the horseshoe mustache, and his classic white hat. Even the fire and the fury in his eyes was translated onto the paper, and in the top right corner, two letters in cursive, MB.

All of a sudden, Micah felt flustered, another emotion that rarely made an appearance. He shot close the journal, a little too suddenly, and his eyes flew to Arthur’s sleeping form on the bed. He was sprawled on the bed, sheets entangled in his legs and his arms above his head, still sleeping. Micah walked to the nightstand where Arthur satchel was and slid the journal back inside before going to his previous position by the window.

The night was as dark as ever, with the sky littered with innumerable stars. Micah lit yet another cigarette and brought it to his lips. He hesitated for a moment, sending a side glance to Arthur. Vulnerable and frail, asleep and practically naked, Micah could kill him right now. No one would hear a thing as he’d plunge the knife deep into Arthur’s chest, killing him so quickly Arthur would barely have a moment to open his eyes. It would take hours for them to realize something was wrong, and at that point, Micah would be long gone, his horse’s footprints the only thing left.

A small rasp from Arthur brought Micah back to reality. He shuffled a bit, turning to his side before pulling the covers tighter over his body. The night once again fell quiet, only the sound of coyotes crying in the distance. Micah stood motionless for a few seconds, his hands itching, before he turned his attention back to the window and put the cigarette back to his lips.

#arthur morgan #micah bell #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 imagines #rdr2 one shot #arthur morgan one shot #arthur morgan headcanons #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan imagines #arthur morgan imagine #rdr2 headcanon #rdr2 imagine #rdr2 fanfiction #micah bell imagine

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ab1tofsp1ce · 3 years

Text

A Warmer Refuge

Chapter 5: Do You Trust Me?

Masterlist HERE

Pairing: Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

Words: 4.4K

Warnings: Violence, mild sexual harassment.

Description: If you want to get this ship fixed, you and the Mandalorian are going to have to make a deal that could put your safety in jeopardy - do you trust him?

The clouds had mostly cleared by the morning, and I found myself apologizing countless times for setting back our journey. Graciously, he reassured me that it was fine, but the pang of guilt ate away at my chest for the rest of the day. So, I decided that I would do the best damn repair job he had ever seen. I would work my ass off making sure his ship was perfect at as little extra cost to him as possible – this would be the only way I could make it right. Additionally, I tried my absolute best not to alert him towards how much pain I was in. It actually seemed to be working, as he seemed to have no cognizance of the pain I was in. I supposed for someone who deals with violence for a living, he had probably suffered a million injuries far worse than mine, and so I caulked up his indifference to this as opposed to my brilliant acting skills; I could barely hold back my moans and groans as we climbed up and over that mountain. Finally, the trees become sparser, and soon we left the forest behind us. We trekked through fields, most of which seemed to be untouched, but distantly I could see smoke rising in small puffs. We eventually came across a gravel road that seemed to separate the wild from the colonized; on the other side were well-kept fields of strange fruit trees and neatly plowed dirt. We stopped for a moment as we reached the road, the Mandalorian looking down at the small navigation device in the forearm of his suit while I took a moment to catch my breath. I’d definitely seen better days. It was fortunate I hadn’t had too much of a chance to look at my appearance, because I’m sure I wouldn’t have liked what I saw. Much of my clothing, particularly around my injured leg, was ripped or stained, and I was almost certain I still had grease on my face from my hasty repair work a couple of days ago. The small stream that banked the side of the road and the tended fields beckoned to me, and so while the Mandalorian busied himself, I went over and kneeled down at its edge to scoop up some water and splash my face down. It was freezing and fresh, reminding me again of the beauty of this planet. I took a moment to feel the mild sun on my back and the cool water drip down my chin, before standing up and turning back to the Mandalorian. “Before we go,” he said, when I reached him, “I want you to carry this.” Out of his utility belt he pulled a rather sharp dagger. It was nothing flashy, except for the way it shone in the afternoon sun, but it pricked something in my heart. “I – I wouldn’t know how to use it,” I admitted timidly. “Are you sure?” He held it out to me in the flat of his palm. “It would bring me some comfort,” he admitted, and so I took it. “Here,” he said, reaching down to my belt. My heart skipped a beat as he attached a sheath for me to keep it in. “Hide it. It will be the most useful if no one knows you have it.” I nodded, carefully sliding the dagger in.

We walked in relative silence, as we had for most of the day. But, unlike it was when we first met, it was a far more comfortable silence. A mutual understanding, of sorts, that we both had things we wished to mull over in our thoughts. I could only guess what he was thinking – he was still a mystery to me. But I thought about my plans on Kistern; where I would go, what I would… in truth, there wasn’t much use. I tried, desperately, over the whole course of the day to consider my plans. But I knew so little about the planet I would soon call home it was futile to try and pretend I did. I hated the uncertainty of my life at the moment (and of the past year), but I distracted myself by admiring the view around me and focusing on what I could manage in the near future; fixing this ship and getting off this planet in one piece. The sun was getting low in the afternoon sky by the time the once empty land began to become sparsely populated. But none of this planet’s loveliness could’ve prepared me for meeting its inhabitants. They were very similar to those back home on Yak’ish Temeen, in that they were a motley population of various races and species, but all equally unsettling. Roadside stalls and derelict houses intermittently spotted the side of the road, and we soon gained some unintentional company as more roads and paths began to diverge onto ours. By comparison to Yak’ish Temeen this was, on reflection, a far more diverse crowd – strange, large furry creatures towered over us, shepherding small and equally hairy creatures transporting goods on their backs, a group of Gungans manned a small cart of strange smelling purple fruit and humans at all wore equally unsettling expressions. They stared at us as we walked, glowering from a distance and occasionally whispering to each other. The Mandalorian must have noticed this, as he slowed down very suddenly to close the distance between us. “Walk near me,” he said quietly, not turning his head. “And don’t make eye contact. We’re not looking for trouble.” I slid my eyes down to the ground, trying to ignore the sensation of being watched. I felt my heart race in my chest. Eventually, we seemed to enter the settlement, marked by a higher density of houses and people. It was mostly one long street, flanked by various stalls selling strangely roasted animals, buckets of grains and other odd goods. Despite the fact I could hear children laughing in the distance, and that the general chatter of the place seemed civil, I followed the Mandalorian’s advice and stuck close by him. Although this was a new place to both of us, he walked with a confidence and direction that made him look like a seasoned local. By comparison, I was almost certain I looked frail and timid, shuffling along and intently staring at the ground. In times like this I was once again grateful for my peripheral vision. The Mandalorian veered off our straight course over to a stall on the right side of the road, where a man was talking to an Artiodac, both sitting on chairs under the cover of a low-hanging tarp. Under it and behind them I noticed a long table covered in various mechanical parts – all of which, I must admit, didn’t seem to be in the best condition. The Mandalorian conversed with the duo, who exchanged glances between each other, the Mandalorian and me. I shuffled uncomfortably under the weight of their stares, so I busied myself by trailing my eyes over the parts in the stall, scanning for anything I might be able to use. From this distance I could make out few bits that could be relevant – whether or not they were in usable condition was another question entirely. My heart stopped beating for a second, jumping out of my chest in shock as I felt a hand grab my arm gently. But it was just the Mandalorian, who was now facing in the opposite direction of me and the vendors as if to better prevent them from hearing what he was saying to me. “We’ll have to get the parts from here,” he said in a low, hushed tone. The baritone depth of his voice sent chills down my back. “Fill your bag with them. But don’t take long – I don’t trust these guys. Or anyone here.” I threw a glance at them; the man was murmuring something to his Artiodac colleague, both staring at us with dirty looks. I nodded in silent agreement with the Mandalorian, my arm still tingling as his grasp lingered on it, firm but tender. He let me get to work, scavenging through the piles of spare parts. As I did, he alternated between examining the pieces I presented to him and watching both the vendors and the general public. I tried my best not to let this creeping feeling disturb me, but it was hard to focus when I was acutely aware of the attraction we were drawing. I filled up my rucksack with the pieces we needed – although some of them were far rattier than I would’ve preferred, I figured it was better to clean and adjust them back at the safety of the ship than make any sort of complaint about it here. After about 20 minutes, I felt that I had truly ransacked the selection for all it was worth. What I had managed to collect wasn’t ideal, but I could definitely make it work, at least enough that we could get off this planet and to Kistern safely. Once I had informed the Mandalorian of this, he escorted me over to the two vendors. The human male gave me a look up and down, making me shuffle slightly – there was something almost hungry in his expression. He looked only a few years older than me and certainly didn’t look to be the muscle of the duo, but between his rugged facial hair and beady blue eyes, he felt threatening enough. Perhaps the Mandalorian saw this too, because he stepped forward rather pointedly, almost sizing up the man as he stood up. “Hand over the goods, lovely,” he said with a slick tongue. “Let’s see what you’ve picked out.” Turns out I didn’t need to hand over anything, as the Artiodac snatched the bag out of my hand with a low growl. “Watch it,” breathed the Mandalorian threateningly at him. The Artiodac took no notice, rummaging through my rucksack and conversing with the man in a foreign language as he occasionally gestured to certain parts. They seemed to be negotiating with each other, with the man occasionally spatting something at the Artiodac, who grumbled something back rather animatedly in return. Eventually, they seemed to come to an agreement, as they both turned back to me in unison. “You’ve got a good load here,” said the man, shifting his eyes slowly from me to the Mandalorian. “We’ve agreed it’ll set you back four thousand credits.” He exchanged a smirk with his colleague. “You’re overcharging,” said the Mandalorian in a gruff tone, which I could read as ‘I don’t have four thousand credits.’ “I can give you three thousand, no more.” The man raised an eyebrow, clearly bemused, and turned to the Artiodac to swap a few remarks in another language before turning back to him. “My friend and I agree four thousand is more than fair for a purchase of this size. However,” his gaze slid back over to me. “We’d be willing to compromise if you have something to offer that can… sweeten the deal.” The Mandalorian stiffened, seemingly understanding the implication of this statement. “Like what?” “My friend here,” said the man, shifting his weight to face me slightly, “is curious about what a Grat’anarian is doing in these parts. You see, he knows Yak’ish Temeen well, been there on a few business trips haven’t you, Uulog?” Uulog made a slurping sound as a reply. I shivered. “What’s your point?” The Mandalorian almost growled these words. “Well, if I’m correct, this one has a great bounty on her head… what with her refugee status, she has free entry onto all sorts of planets… planets me and my friend here, as well as many others, would love to gain access to. So, I’ll tell you what, you –” “I’m not bartering with her life,” said the Mandalorian, stepping even closer and slipping a hand silently onto his blaster. Uulog the Artiodac seemed to notice, as he reached for his blaster in the exact same manner, snarling. The man feigned a sympathetic smile, although the corners of his mouth remained sinisterly twisted. “Of course, of course! Such a pretty thing, I can understand how you wouldn’t want to part with her…” He looked at me and licked his lips. “However, I’m really not sure what else you have to offer that we’ll be interested in. Well, apart from…” he gestured with the silent tilt of his head to the Mandalorian himself. For a moment I was confused as to what he meant, but clearly the Mandalorian wasn’t, and his next words cleared it up. “My armor is not for sale.” “Hmm… what a shame. Well, then, neither are these parts.” The man studied the Mandalorian as if he knew this wouldn’t be the end of it; he was waiting for a better offer. The Mandalorian seemed stuck for a moment, and I could almost hear the cogs and wheels turning in his head. “Give us a moment,” he said to the man, who dismissed us in gratuitously generous gesture. Once again, the Mandalorian slipped his hand around my arm and escorted me to the side, shooting one last look at the vendors before turning to me. I could feel his gaze under the helmet and could sense his uncertainty. He had a plan, and I wasn’t going to like it. “Do you trust me?” I was taken aback dramatically by this question. My eyes, which had been trained in apprehension on the two conversing men, swiveled back to the Mandalorian in mild shock. His voice was almost a whisper, but I could once again hear what he was really saying – almost everything he said had another meaning, as I’d come to learn. I suppose a man of few words had to make the most of them. So, when he said, “do you trust me,” all I heard was “are you ready?” And despite my fear, despite the sinking feeling in my stomach, despite the hairs rising on the back of my neck and every instinct in my body telling me to run, I knew my answer to both questions. “Yes.” “Then play along,” he said quietly. We spared a moment, a split second to look at each other. I felt him squeeze my arm lightly, a small gesture that did a surprising amount to quell the rapid beating of my heart. Then, he turned back and walked over to the vendors. “Well, have we come to an agreement?” The man clapped his hands together enthusiastically, switching his gaze between the two of us. “You can take her,” said the Mandalorian. I’ll admit, I didn’t really have to feign shock at this statement. I knew, with the context of what he had just told me, that he wasn’t being serious, but his tone when he said it – so unbothered and emotionless – it fooled me for the few seconds it took to regain my senses. “What?!” I said, and he grabbed my arm with a force I was yet to feel from him, yanking me as if I was a bounty of his. “Ahh… an interesting development… I’m curious, what made you decide this?” The man’s voice was laced with civil suspicion; he seemed to find it hard to believe the Mandalorian would give me up so quickly. “Well, as you said,” said the Mandalorian, “she’s a very valuable bounty. But I need to get off this planet, so you can have her if that’s your price.” His grip tightened around my arm, and I took this as a silent signal; ‘you’ll have to sell this narrative’. “You bastard!” I yelled, and rather convincingly too. “You – you promised you’d help me! Over there you said – I’ll kill you!” I thrashed against his grip, but before I knew it, he was behind me, one hand tying mine together quickly with handcuffs and the other covering my mouth with his gloved hand. I knew this wasn’t the time or the place, but I couldn’t help my heart flutter at the feeling of my back pressed against the cold beskar breastplate behind me. The man’s smirk turned into a full grin, clearly entertained by our performances. “I have to say, you have not disappointed your reputation, Mandalorian. Cold both inside and out…” “There’s one condition,” said the Mandalorian, his hand still over my mouth. “I need her to repair my ship. You come with me, she repairs it, and then I’ll be on my way.” Once again, the two vendors exchanged brief and heated words in their language, before the man turned back to us. “You have yourself a deal. And, since we reached it so… amicably, I’m prepared to lower the credit portion of your price to just two thousand. As a symbol of… goodwill.” He smiled, that same twist at the corners of his mouth. I felt the Mandalorian nod in agreement behind me, and the Artiodac handed him back the rucksack, which he took with his now spare hand. “Perfect! Now, where is this ship of yours?” The Mandalorian slid his hand slowly off my mouth, faking a threatening glower at me before gesturing at the tall mountain we had recently climbed, which now loomed distantly behind the two men. Both of them turned around in unison, and the man made a sound of familiar acknowledgment. “Ahh, yes! The mountain of Pelesus! An important monument in Utaran history. I assume you hiked your way here, yes? Well, we do not mind in the slightest to give you a ride there… it would be in the best interest of all parties involved, no?” “Lead the way,” said the Mandalorian in return.

We were led further down the road before deviating off it and into what I can only describe as a shanty town, which proved this outpost was far bigger than we had initially noticed. Handmade lean-tos and shacks were piled haphazardly around, only making small alleys as paths between them. It was a strange and drastic contrast – the one between the beautiful, lush and rugged landscape around us with the squalors we were being led through. I wondered how this place could be so poor if it were so abundant with natural resources, and I sensed that something more sinister was probably at play on this planet. The man switched between conversing with the Artiodac in a hushed, foreign tongue to occasionally making cheery remarks to the Mandalorian, as if he were a tour guide showing us around the glorious city of Theed. Eventually, we made it to what almost appeared to be a junkyard on the outskirts of the town, where we were led to a landspeeder. “Wait aboard,” said the man, whose name we had learned on our walk over to be Raggard. I thought I may have a moment alone to ask the Mandalorian something, but the Artiodac stayed with us as we climbed onto the large and rusty landspeeder, eyeing us pointedly the entire time. I watched discreetly as Raggard waved over a few people who had been sitting around nearby and spoke to them in the same foreign language he had spoken to his colleague in. By the way they looked over Raggard’s shoulder at me hungrily, I could only assume they believed they would be getting their fair share of my worth when we returned. Which we wouldn’t, of course. I looked over at the Mandalorian, who sat next to me. He seemed unreadable at this moment, still as a statue and paying attention to nothing in particular. I hoped he knew what he was doing, because I certainly didn’t. His words, ‘do you trust me’, echoed distantly in my ears.

Soon we were off, the four of us in the landspeeder. The journey was only a few hours, and by far shorter than our hike here, but felt agonizingly long as I sat with anticipation and fear in the pit of my stomach. Finally, we arrived at the bottom of the other side of the mountain, and I could almost see the ship as I looked up its slope. We hiked the rest of the way up, the Mandalorian guiding me with a gentle hold on my arm, as my hands were still cuffed. Eventually, we reached the ship, by which time it was almost sunset. “You’d best get working,” said Raggard, walking slowly around the ship to admire it. “It’s clear you’ve got a lot of work to do before it gets dark.” As I collected and sorted the parts, I noticed the Artiodac grumble something at Raggard, who hissed something back in what seemed to be a low, yet heated argument. I tried to ignore it, focusing on my repairs and working as quickly as possible; the sooner we could do this, the sooner we could leave. The Mandalorian helped with repairs but no matter where we went, either inside or out of the ship, one or both of the duo followed us. Because of this, I had not a moment alone with him to ask what his plan was, although I had a strong feeling it would involve violence. Finally, not long after dark, we completed the repairs. The Mandalorian escorted me out of the ship to meet outside with the two men. I began to get nervous. “Well,” said Raggard, approaching us as we were followed out by the Artiodac. “It has been a pleasure, really. But I suppose now is the time to part ways.” The Mandalorian said nothing but didn’t let go of his grip on my arm – if anything, he tightened it. “It is a shame,” said Raggard, poetically, “that you must part ways with such a precious bounty.” He walked up to me, too close for my liking, reading over my face with a gleam in his eyes. “But I’m sure you’ll take comfort in knowing she’ll be of great use to us.” With a dirty, spindly finger he traced a line down the side of my cheek. I shuddered and bit down hard on my tongue to hide my disgust. “However,” he said, “although she will prove a most valuable asset, I just can’t stop thinking about that beautiful beskar armor of yours, I mean, how did you get it?” The Mandalorian didn’t indulge him with a response, but Raggard took his silence as one. “I know, I know, secrets of the Mandalorians. It has been exciting, really, to do business with you. But,” he said, slowly, exchanging a glance with his partner, “it will be even more exciting to kill you.” In the course of the next three seconds, I barely had time to do anything but fall to the ground in shock. As Raggard said these last words, the Mandalorian drew his blaster and simultaneously threw me to the ground. He shot over Raggard’s shoulder, and it was only then, when I looked up, that I noticed the figures drawing in from the forest around us. The men from back at the junkyard began firing at the Mandalorian, and from my position cowering on the ground I watched as he, one by one, meticulously shot them down. He didn’t even seem to look at them, he just knew where they were. When the Artiodac pounced it him from behind, I screamed in shock, but the Mandalorian shook him off in forward-roll drop to the ground, shooting him with a blaster shot straight to the head. I didn’t see what happened in the next few seconds and only heard the Mandalorian grunting as he spared in hand-to-hand combat with a few more goonies who had seemed to close the distance towards him. I was yanked up off the ground, and felt a cold blaster dig into my lower back, freezing me in fear as another arm wrapped around my throat tightly. I could feel Raggard’s hot breath on my neck and smell the sweat on his arm. I scrambled desperately at it, trying to pull it away so I could breathe, but it was no use. “STOP!” Raggard’s voice was shrill in my ear. My vision unclouded at last, and I was able to see the Mandalorian, standing only a few feet away from us, bodies sprawled around him. He turned to us, still holding his blaster in one hand and what appeared to be a spear in the other. “Let’s not – let’s not let this get more out of hand than it already is,” said Raggard, panting violently. I could feel him shaking with adrenaline. “I wouldn’t want anything nasty to come of this pretty little thing, but if we get too ahead of ourselves, I may have no choice.” But as he spoke, something strange happened. I felt the world fall away, and the sound of Raggard’s voice, the clench is arm had around my throat, the blaster in my back… I lost all sense that they were there. I felt my arms release from Raggard’s, falling to my side. Even though he was wearing a helmet, I knew he was looking at me. I could feel it, like I always did, the warmth of his gaze that, for once, seemed to slow down my heart as opposed to speeding it up. Right now, I could only feel him. Him, and… At my side, I slipped my hand into the folds of my shirt. In one swift movement, I unsheathed the dagger and plunged it into the arm that was so tightly constricting my throat. Raggard let out a yelp of pain, letting me go as he stumbled back. “Onto the ship!” The Mandalorian yelled, and I wasted no time scrambling aboard. Outside, I heard blaster shots and scuffling, but I didn’t give myself time to reflect on it. I ascended the ladder into the cockpit and, without even sitting down, began to start up the ship. My hands were shaking violently, and I tried so hard to keep my focus on the buttons I was pressing and not my concerns for the Mandalorian. Before I initiated take off, I almost jumped back down into the hull and watched in astonishment as the Mandalorian strode up the ramp, sheathing his blaster and spear in the process. With no hesitation he went right past me and into the cockpit, and only seconds later I felt the whole ship shake underneath me as we rose up from the ground and away from it all.

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