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perseephoneee · 8 months

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ask me to dance? [isaac lahey x f!reader]

request: can you do some wholesome isaac content?

warnings: pure fluff. teenagers being awkward.

a/n: me? remembering to write? shocker. literally struggled with this lol but i'm here and i'm trying to write more in order to be a productive member of society. also i'm so in love with Isaac it's not funny *cries*

↳ masterlist ↳ want to be shipped with a fic character?

It never really got cold in Beacon Hills, considering it was located in California. Still, when temperatures started to fall to a mild climate, it signaled to the teen population that winter was fast approaching. And with that came Winter Ball. Which is all you've been able to think about.

To anyone who would ask, it wasn't that big of a deal– but you secretly thought about it. All the outfits, the decorations, the romanticism of it all. Maybe it was the hopeless romantic in you, especially as someone who has never had a date. It used to not bother you; you were happily involved in your studies or worrying about being murdered by a supernatural at any time. But then you started spending more time with a certain werewolf and thought it wouldn't be that bad to care about that stuff.

"Do you think Scott is going to ask me?" Kira said, scaring you out of your thoughts as you closed your locker. You took in the dark-haired female beside you, her eyes questioning and fingers tapping her books. "Will I have to ask him?"

"He'll ask you," you sighed. "He trips over his shoelaces every time he walks down the hall."

"Maybe he didn't tie them well?" Kira looked down the hall as if the boy in question would show up.

"He likes you," you sent a small smile. Kira relaxed slightly, loosening her shoulders before facing you with a questioning glance.

"Do you have anyone to go to the dance with?" Kira inquired, plain curiosity in her eyes. You knew, though, that she wanted more info on if you liked anyone. Even with her as a good friend, you rarely discussed those feelings with anyone. Usually, you were the one everyone else confided in.

"Might not even go," you averted your eyes as Kira slapped your arm lightly.

"You have to go!" Kira begged. "I can't go alone if Scott asks me."

"Kira, you won't be alone if you go with Scott." She silenced you again with a sharp look.

"You know what I mean," Kira sighed. "I just don't want you to shy away from something you might enjoy. Especially when I am certain some eligible young bachelor or bachelorette would be interested in going with you."

You pressed your back into your locker, looking down at your scuffed shoes rather than the girl beside you. You glanced up when you caught sight of Scott and Isaac in your peripheral vision. Kira grew still as she saw Scott shuffling closer to you to hide. You tried shoving her, but the kitsune was an immovable rock as Scott and Isaac got closer. You saw Scott's eyes light up as he caught sight of Kira, and you wanted to smile when Kira's cheeks deepened. You made it a point to not stare at Isaac next to him, even if you really liked the blue sweater he was wearing. It's purely observational, with no lurking feelings behind it.

"Hey guys," Scott smiled, holding his backpack straps like a kindergartener on the first day of school. "Whatcha guys up to?"

"Talking about the dance," you answered right as Kira tried to pass your prior conversation off as nothing. She shot you an angry look, but you hid the smile on your face as Scott perked up. "Kira wants to go but worries about not having a date." The look Kira shot you could be akin to being burned in the seventh circle of Hell, but you knew that your fair-weathered friend would've spent the whole time pondering if Scott liked her rather than making a move.

"I don't have a date either," Scott grimaced, trying to pass off as a smile. Kira visibly perked up, and you and Isaac barely hid smiles. "Maybe we can go together?"

The glee that overtook Kira's eyes was radiant, and she nodded enthusiastically. "I would love that," Kira grinned.

"Great," Scott beamed. "Can I walk you to class?"

Kira grabbed her books, sending you a look that said, "We'll talk later," while happily following the alpha wolf. You turned towards Isaac, feeling your heart start pitter-patter as he made eye contact with you. He gave you a shy smile, fidgeting with the books.

"They seem happy," you sighed, trying to break whatever tension you imagined.

"I'm glad it worked out," Isaac said, his steel blue eyes connecting to yours. "Scott was getting annoying."

"So was Kira," you slyly smiled. "What about you?" Isaac looked at you inquisitively. "Are you…going to the dance?"

"I don't think so," he mumbled, averting his eyes briefly. You felt your heart sink in disappointment. Luckily, you were spared a response with the bell ringing.

"See you around, Lahey," you smiled jokingly, trying to brush off any lingering feelings you had. You turned on your heel and walked off towards the direction of US History. You barely paid attention in class, though, your thoughts consumed with the micro-interaction by your locker. You didn't like Isaac, right? You just were disappointed a good friend wouldn't be there at a dance you might not even be attending. Totally rational feelings. At least that was the mantra you kept repeating till the end of the school day.

You managed to keep most Winter Ball-related thoughts at bay for the rest of the week while you helped the pack deal with whatever issue. Sometimes, it felt like you guys lived in a CW show with a villain of the week, but somehow, fighting and scheming became part of your routine. You would never admit it to anyone, but you did enjoy the research portion of your problems. Even if it was you and Stiles eating pizza in his room while staring at way too many red strings. It made you feel wanted in a way that you haven't before. By the end of the week, though, the only research you were doing was for a class project. You were already debating when you could (reasonably) quit for the night and curl up with some Netflix or Hulu. Your phone rang by the fifth academic journal, and you glanced to see Lydia's name lighting up the screen.

"Hello," you said, setting your phone on speaker.

"Dress shopping tomorrow. Are you in or out?" Lydia asked on the other line.

"For what?"

"Winter Ball, obviously," Lydia scoffed, the sound of rustling clothes in the background telling you she was going through her closet. "The fact I've waited this long when it's two weeks out is actually ridiculous, but with our life, I guess it's not surprising."

"I might not even go, Lyds."

"Don't be like that," Lydia sighed on the other line. "What's holding you back?"

"Kind of lame to go to a dance without a date," you mumbled, shrinking back into your chair. Maybe if you curled up in a ball and became a turtle, no one would ever ask things of you again.

"All of your friends will be there, and most girls will probably ditch their dates anyway," Lydia chimed. "And besides, who cares? I don't have a date either, and I'm still going."

"I thought you were going with Stiles."

"In a completely work-related situation," Lydia coughed, even as you rolled your eyes. "He knows that."

"I'm sure he'll figure it out by the tenth corsage he buys you," you snickered.

"Just come tomorrow; Kira is joining. We'll get dresses, lattes, and have a day where werewolves don't intrude." You bit the inside of your cheek, staring at your laptop screen as the words melted into mush in your brain. You could at least hang out, even if you didn't buy anything.

"I will come," you amended, almost hearing Lydia's excitement from the phone. "I won't promise that I'll buy anything."

"Grab you at 11 a.m., be ready," Lydia chimed, hanging up the phone. You sighed and put your head in your arms, wondering what you got yourself into.

It was a reminder that waking up by 10 a.m. was a struggle for you. You barely dragged yourself out the door as Lydia spammed your phone, pleading for your coffee as you slid into the car. Kira laughed at you as you curled up in a ball and muttered about sweet death taking you soon. Lydia drove up to the coffee place, an ivy-strewn brick building called Cafe Allegro, and you bolted out of the car and through the doors. The smell of roasting coffee beans and the whir of the espresso machines welcomed you like a blanket on a cold night, and you wondered if you could ask that when you die, it could be in a pile of coffee beans. You ordered your latte, not having to wait long to get your order as you stood off the side, inhaling the fresh scent. Having been absorbed in your calm, you didn't notice the boy standing next to you.

"You are really into your coffee," Isaac remarked, scaring you out of your stupor. You made a pathetic yelp, grimacing as a chuckle escaped his lips.

"It's too early."

"It's almost noon."

"Too early," you sighed, sipping the heavenly goodness in your hand. "Why are you here?"

"Scott and Stiles dragged me to the suit rental place and told me they didn't want me left alone to wallow or something like that," Isaac laughed, shoving his hands in his pockets. He was wearing a heather gray henley today that you were enjoying and trying your hardest not to notice. "If it's so early, why are you here?"

"Similar reason. Lydia and Kira dragged me dress shopping," you glanced up at him before looking around the shop and realizing that your comrades were hiding on the opposite side. Annoyingly leaving you with the person who gives you immense jitters.

"Do you think you'll get a dress?" Isaac inquired.

"Not sure why, don't have a good reason to," you mumbled, staring at your cup. Gosh, your heart was beating fast, and your stomach hurt. Maybe you should've gotten something calming like herbal tea.

"You should get one," Isaac coughed, looking visibly uncomfortable. For a second, you worried that you were annoying him. "You would look…pretty."

"Thanks," your cheeks burned. "Then, you should get a suit." You swallowed, feeling like your head was in a whirlpool. Isaac's eyes looked at you with something akin to interest, but you passed it off as your caffeine-filled hallucinations.

"We should go to the dance together," Isaac said quickly, tensing slightly as he awaited your reaction. Your eyes widened, and you had to remember what solid ground felt like as his words sank in.

"I would like that very much," you breathed. Isaac's demeanor softened, relief flooding his eyes. He bit his lip to stifle his grin, which was the worst mistake he could've made as now all you were focusing on was his lips. "Gotta go," you announced, bolting from him before he could say anything else or before you jumped him at a coffee shop. You made it to Lydia and Kira and dragged them out of the door, not bothering to look back for fear of embarrassment. Lydia had mild complaints, but mostly, Kira gave you a knowing look.

"Is there a reason for this rush?" Kira asked, eyebrows lifted in question.

"I need a dress," you said. Lydia and Kira shared a grin and you knew there was a specific reason they left you with Isaac in the cafe. You wanted to strangle them and kiss them for it.

The ride to the dress shop was short, but the anxiety building like a knot in your stomach persisted long after. Isaac asked you to the dance. He asked you for some unknown reason. You guys were friends and occasionally worked together. Still, you struggled to have a conversation before that didn't end with you saying something weird and making it awkward. You used to chalk it up to just not having common interests. Still, if you admitted the truth to yourself, you would know it's because you had a giant raging crush on the werewolf. Words were not in your vocabulary around him.

Entering the dress shop (a cute place called Laura Jane's Boutique), you were suddenly reminded why you didn't really want to go in the first place. You love pretty things, but the over-glitzy dresses and jumpsuits are not your style. At least Kira looked as out of place as you. Lydia led the charge, though, immediately saying "no" to many dresses on the rack and holding up some options for you and Kira. You did love it, though, Lydia caring enough to try and find the perfect dress for her friends. It made you feel wanted.

You wandered into one of the back sections, skipping the colors you would never wear. What was Isaac's favorite color? Maybe that's the color of dress you should go with. Your inner voice told you it shouldn't matter what color you wear. Not just because you value your independence but because Isaac would love it either way.

You pushed some dresses aside on one of the racks, stopping at a shorter-length dress. It had bell sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. It was simple but not understated, and you loved it.

You went home that night feeling like you were on a cloud. Except, like all good things, your crippling insecurities had to rear its ugly head and make you start questioning everything. Laying in your bed, the dress still in its tissue-wrapped bag, you stared at the ceiling, debating what had happened. What if Isaac only asked you to the dance because it was convenient? Or worse, he was asked to by someone like Scott or Lydia? He probably didn't like you at all. Why would he? You were human. Unremarkable.

Vibrations could be felt in your head as your phone rang, and you begrudgingly grabbed at it without checking the caller ID. "Hello?" you grumbled.

"Hey," the tenor voice said from over the phone. "Can I come over?"

"Isaac?" you asked, sitting up in your bed. "Is everything okay?" Oh my gosh, was he hurt? Or rescinding his previous offer of the dance.

"I just want to see you," he breathed. "Is this a bad time?"

"Never," you answered quickly. "You can come over."

Ten minutes later, of anxious pacing in your room, you got a text from Isaac saying he had arrived. You ran downstairs to open the door, slightly winded from the rush. Isaac's face was illuminated by your porch lights, and all you could think about was how pretty he was.

"Hi," you spoke, looking up at him.

"Hi," Isaac smiled, "can I come in?" Nodding, you opened the door further so the golden-haired werewolf could enter. You gestured for him to follow, leading him to your room for privacy. You started to regret that decision when you realized that you had invited someone you were interested in into your bedroom. This was the plot of a bad romance novel.

"What brings you to my humble abode?" you inquire, twirling to face him.

"I came to check on you," Isaac glanced around your bedroom, smiling faintly at your posters on the wall. You watched his eyes catch on your corkboard, where a photo of the two of you at Derek's loft is in prime display. It was after saving the day, and Stiles had bought multiple tubs of ice cream to celebrate. Derek demanded why this "celebration" had to be at his place. However, Stiles had never once listened to Derek's complaints and hosted it anyway. You loved that picture and that memory.

"Check on me? I'm not in danger again, am I?" you smile, sitting on your bed and subconsciously grabbing one of your stuffed animals.

"Kira was over to see Scott and mentioned you might be 'spiraling into oblivion,'" Isaac turned to you, quoting Kira's words. Sometimes, you wondered if that girl was telepathic with how well she knew you.

"Maybe a little," you mumbled, fidgeting with your fluffy friend. Isaac hesitantly sat next to you on the bed, his weight causing you to sink closer to him.

"Can I ask why, or should I just infer?" he chimed, grabbing another stuffed friend you have and twirling it around. It was a blue chicken from a video game you play, with a cute pink gizzard and round body. "I like this one."

"Do tell," you chuckled, watching him squish the chicken plush.

"It's squishy," he muttered, patting it on the head before setting it carefully beside him. Your heart wanted to burst at the small interaction.

"I was worried about the dance," you responded, answering his previous question. He gave you a sidelong glance, asking you to elaborate. "I don't know why you asked me."

"I like you."

"Like me, or like me?" you whispered, barely able to get your voice heard. Unfortunately, Isaac is sitting next to you and has a werewolf hearing, so he didn't miss a thing. He hesitantly grabbed the stuffed animal from your fidgeting hands, putting it aside before carefully holding your hand in his own.

"I think you're amazing," he smiled, looking at you with eyes the color of a lakeshore. "So yes, I like you."

"I like you too," you breathed, a smile gripping your lips. "When did you get good at socializing?"

Isaac laughed, still holding your hand as he absentmindedly traced shapes on your knuckles. "Had lots of time to practice conversations while trapped in a freezer."

"You need therapy."

"Probably," he laughed, grinning at you before tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. Your breath caught in your throat as he looked at you. "Can I kiss you?"

You barely managed a nod, your heart thumping loudly in your chest as Isaac kissed your lips. It was soft and somewhat hesitant, like he didn't want you to run away afterward. You boldly deepened the kiss, as it felt like water filled your ears and a marching band played in your heart. The hand he wasn't holding you used to capture his face, his free hand lightly gripping the outside of your thigh. It wasn't fireworks but an ocean at high tide with waves crashing against the shore. And you didn't mind it one bit; you hated fireworks anyway. When Isaac did pull away, his breath was warm against your lips, and you had to remember to let out a shaky breath before you hyperventilate. Isaac kissed your cheek, pulling back to look at you with pure adoration on his face.

Kissing him again was pure bliss, and you couldn't help but look at him with awe. You weren't sure how you were granted something this good when you've spent your whole life dreaming of something worth half of this. Still, you wouldn't exchange it for anything. It meant you got to spend Winter Ball with the most handsome boy on the dance floor.

#isaac lahey #isaac lahey x reader #isaac lahey imagine #daniel sharman #daniel sharman x reader #teen wolf #teen wolf x reader #teen wolf imagine #fic #my fic #perseephoneee #my work #writing

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verecunda · 10 months

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Thank you, nonny! I'll admit, I wasn't quite sure what sort of dynamic you were after. I don't ship these two romantically, but I can certainly do some family fluff. :)

When Celebrimbor was not to be found in the smithy, Galadriel sought him in the gardens. She found him in the arbour where he most preferred to go when he was thinking, the holly trees gleaming on either side, the berries brightly red, as they were the year round in Ost-in-Edhil. As the path turned the corner that brought him into sight, she saw him reading from a letter. Sensing her approach, he raised his hand to her in greeting, a smile already upon his face, but she saw at once that it wanted its proper brightness, and his eyes were sad. “Cousin.” He sounded glad — grateful, even — to see her, and stood to greet her as she approached. They embraced, then sat down together on the bench, he shifting along to make room for her. “I thought I should find you here,” said Galadriel. Close to, she saw even more clearly the shadow that was upon him, and gently, cupped a hand about his cheek, peering into his face. “What is it that troubles you?”

“Oh…” He looked faintly embarrassed, perhaps at his being so easily read. “Nothing of any great moment. I had a letter this morning.” He tapped the parchment in his lap. “From Lindon?” “Nay, from the Greenwood. I wrote to Oropher, back at the beginning of the spring, offering him the Mírdain’s aid in building this new city of his at Amon Lanc.” “Ah,” she breathed, with an unhappy feeling of what was coming. “He refused?” He passed the letter to her. “See for yourself.” As she began reading, he went on, “Oh, it is perfectly courteous, but its meaning is plain enough. He would rather a thousand dragons on his doorstep than any relict of the House of Fëanor.” Galadriel, reading, could see that this was precisely the feeling contained behind the careful, cool words scribed upon the page; and she handed it back to Celebrimbor with a look of sympathy. “I am sorry.” He shrugged, rolling up the letter and setting it aside. “I expected it. And I can hardly blame him for wanting nothing to do with me.” “It is hardly just to blame a son for the deeds of his father,” said Galadriel. Especially, she thought, when that father had already paid for his deeds with his life. Aloud she added, not without some bitterness: “But then, Oropher is hardly reasonable where we of the Noldor are concerned.” “No.” Celebrimbor shook his head. “It is his right, and I knew it must happen upon a time that I would find certain doors shut against me. But I had thought — I had hoped — that this might be something I could do to close the gulf, even a little.” Suddenly his fists clenched, and his face, so often mild and placid, twisted with frustration. “If I only had a chance! All these long years, I have kept my head down; yet still, whilst I live, the House of Fëanor endures, and I would mend our legacy if I could. There is so much that must be healed and mended — so much I could do, if only I were given the chance to do it!” As he spoke, his voice rose and his head lifted, his eyes shining, his whole face alight with the fire of ambition that was in him. Seeing him so, Galadriel felt an inward disquiet, for it was in this mood that he most resembled Curufin and Fëanor: that fire of ambition and will that consumed all else, hardly seeing aught that lay between them and their object. But at the same time, her mind was also filled with other memories: of Celebrimbor, when he was hardly yet old enough to walk, sitting in the corner of a room in the house of Finwë, intent on mending the fine gold chain of a necklace belonging to his mother; inexpertly fitting one of his father’s files back onto its handle; building strongolds of out of sand and shells with Idril on the strand at the Swan-haven. And later still: she thought of her last visit to Nargothrond, just after Finrod was lost, and finding Celebrimbor at home among Orodreth’s smiths, raising a sooty hand to her in greeting; taking charge of the field-forges during the last war, almost every hour that he did not spend in battle spent mending old arms and crafting new, for Elves and Men and Maiar alike. That was the great difference between Celebrimbor and his sires, she thought. Yes, sometimes it was possible to glimpse that same fierce fire within him, but his delight had ever been in mending as much as making, in giving gifts and repairing much-loved belongings; in sharing the joy of his craft with loved ones and strangers alike.

With this thought, she reached out and put her arms about him, holding him close. And after a first surprised moment, he sighed and rested his head against her shoulder, accepting her comfort. For an instant he seemed very young again, her little cousin, and with a sudden fierce protectiveness, she brushed a kiss to his brow. “Your time will come, Celebrimbor,” she said, the foreknowledge already deepening in her heart. “You have been patient this long; only be patient a little longer. And remember always that there are many who love you.” “Always my wise cousin,” he murmured, and smiled at her: a true smile this time. “Thank you, Galadriel.” “Enough of Oropher, then,” she said decisively, and smiling, turned the subject to something more agreeable. “What say you to this proposed emissary to the Dwarves?”

#my fic #The Silmarillion #Galadriel #Celebrimbor #thank you!#<3 #I have no idea why Tumblr won't let me post this as an ask - but here we go

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libidomechanica · 8 months

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lives purposed that him in snow. Oh hath the like and the Devil’s like

the oceans in Caled again ruin, leavens, leaves of morning the

Ladde, and close; so tense only zoned; and cut the humour poniard, ling in

though throughter of princensurely those two snow, and him but least—and

that a day maybe it back with your eyes do will soon sometime friends in

my processed at let vs me ever Loue solding came had laid soon

sterday; the backward inde your mine: round if it, smil’d, and means roll, a flown

thine elbow, perhaps his holy joy’s vacant, as woulders flush, with all

that he with thing alone then cut to me? Round least: and talking about

o’er-archt, she skill leaning’s more? Made some slow shout a coolscape of the sire

your was, the spouted I: the fire through my she starts; perials, that most.

We are, thaw’d to pour, wash it but kind you as if him ever the breate

of me, the Instru’d burnt because tinkling pers, my found that engage was

nest. Take me feare, hys my Glasses: but year by the had mind. Game to his

should cannot legend with the sneer in bitterestless forlorne you’re kind?

Long the ruine, but have torm, ther selfe maid I hae behind watched on clammy

birds sons to be people time lay to me. Make meant the to beautifull

the eie of Salomon spects fount Pipe, go touchings, whence of thy will he

had bow’d be tide; withine scenes hing to pious doom. Dirt, I slow saw these

nutria- thine each beckes truths shines in, and could I spection me, have

bounderstant and Heav’nly barre show when didst been said, and fairy, o seen

a Manheim, and homets, for a pillage of Shalott. And above his

good, and lead been former of flower-door did by thout againe hint, nae

optim. And, and to God, and croone longe thy move gues, befell, the belove

tears! Dew said love not lease. Flies: and my lime: the Pope is little Mrs.

No weaves talked must was she little, the true eyes know findes as that in

a mirrors all looks it was the room. And loved: I meanet give your humour

eyebrow! Last of haustus’ And also to the Poet’s roses

appened has kissingled, thing perfect, yet on the said but a spirit

sun and sight this just been years cold day. In more philosophet—and in

and of my musing East; but in the eyes, and wide become resplendancies;

and mussels would breath scorne? From the subway hill, we came old presume?

But sung; what did and riding lake helper, dame, and thing rath and she more

the great a girls Sing raining somet answer, ’ affectic but changs of

handidate watchman know in us, if I have his rought in companion

of mechanting at like, that is no seene, if you It is but right

be troth, never heauenly blew, but rave, or who I am wings from your

lovel by of the is deparadise Alps bliss? I wake to full like,

wad so much a Belies: he, gum, and hart in the kind more: makes make a

hold made. Nor even all, he to just ne’er sixty-sever hand to

another fall like sleep. Tree, since tranchor,—repend? They dread, and than lovelier

vades about hudden all this end Jeffer hencesser chastence

shuffled, agreen us good that here been the moon. I had a hung, and

foe, complintwhite, to freezed up in sweet the behind, then he glowing-

place is not yestern nooner common of ran, for a maging eyes; let

Hebrew seek not give acted only day of a race, the more—no more

turning parlong their skies mutters that belove amorouse proof. After

to purple fear, and left torne? But you only we me, who the swear moue.

And let red- roses bed in seconder whom themselves thus her worship,

let day. And from that dwell, to be; taken my had bold heaue years, blast be

summers of Cockney of Life, dumb look of maid: but the foliage, so

had go talk, and structions proue the mount my own; and not thin such hurry—

Fair eye, for well known! Fresh his fire, and slowly glow: the had peace weighbord

with a nocture, thy wealth, nor creep could rest, to she birds sink to love for

as and the thy mammie’s put ince could spected of my souls up for sunny.

Such mayst it back gown to steadily legend when could she’s thee day.

We for lately tress, when atter of they we are it miss’d and even

the swim become to ways and much. Flye heard legs what heart,. Sweet empress all

even us settling I love, false ere or fear that momen; certain

loue-ditting she duty, and if the worldly be sung in Camelot:

for this but foot by of Lether, and plum, and if to place had, out time

the sold … I gave rest. From Love a stance soul’s eyes and hair Isaac Newton

Calling sensures to flesh Colins shepherd lendour, as fire mind: voice

for fate incarning beautie Daphness for said lengeant no was the glorian:

but thou have had point of wondemn’d with Esop cross and also, she such

all who in a poets of all men’s rose- treescore; if the string as agreen

came to be time the vex true solding tower voice friends who were hour

parchs, I would care; the clearned Eye. My name I know to to be terrace.

About the heav’n, and makes, after even pond, like a motion on a

mirrors and I pardon gave woods, and where that come, for ring and in them

and dread, it how boat beneals up, as fair, come was Auld with Psyche. Round

its and all is cold, I kiss’d, no gross my beam te meant sin: find throught and

prove him while the show much spirit of thanks, husbandom his bring a debt:

for treames even make looks which is turre. Like beauty or parate of

a disame to be, unto they are all come woment offenderers

all flame. I will be beat: for magnifique little been, of long I’m so.

Like for comple grief, and gaze at subway the put unaway, like rough

let be smil’d, a dare? Under babe fame and it is so is lover her

of my might of a drudgemen loue. Drew the gather they me, hers’ pray’r.

Streets of why curious wide the motion, the is nor decreep below

her to roots the mortgage chos. To was and twiddly. Is he scarely

crities, scorne? Cold to doubted to they ripe as though winds, faded silence.

Which witless for a less I have know youthful dream the who noise slaughings

while too haste Callingers, ther clear-drops on the field it housandsometime

worses greatherefore fathese no excell that my soul, of thye

your most anothings, and with is singer, but Like, thankful deman ermit,

while Idol, my days thee Hobbinoll, dropt; and tumultitude. It

didn’t streach her favour more; it is voice or for as lawyers wretch haples

the was beam did misplay, those rose was so he slunging outlives and steeples

were wake— no mortal who, too often soul, their fared by thee: for counsel

have walk up all ministense of fifteen my foes, while tune my pain.

And edicine, and mildly betoken my drift? Bewitch TV

shoes! I weep for helmet we wealth of light, as I am quil, some

go. And ches, sleep, seen in Phaeton’s rules of riven his post, where not they

doom. Sing on thee: I know, Chloris’ dear, the strail alique, that rave, I rest!

How doth young withough forgive and the her, at to how such came an Angels

or decke, thy worlds thy sweath my morn pulses grow! I should he beds in

Feaves in the dare was expect. A green the shawl, and filled. Call in see

him tender lated amorously, turns: but save self-fulfils with decktie,

of a poets thouseholden two amonds, and that scholly easily

your chalky begun, and die, withings, o’er, the loved out like a Miss

I waning so troth, which expenchain will blast with close glows, and close sweath-

like Oedipus I weed thy curious Gothings as mistrength rightful,

how the day; seal’d ange in Engling and for truth our mother, snow; nothings

but in white the summ’d up that cease and thee ’gain which the Nor of loue; for

calculation, and let desk and and bee. And my Dearest this: each obscure

always of time against till I done were these thin his her in air

beau, or long dress’s made tired in truth process pass of Shalotte. A great

passengers now of a thee, when we ench’d and pleasure left him; by you

with rest my swain the was fully, myster, so less wife shut of a poem:

who cannot quick, and of my sighs. But fading the king town to gaze,

kind the sworn cold tomb excell the works her warm; and as me joy and crown.

Then Despass. Grasp and with lullaby bird it light the Cheek,—upon its

to-night them glue my since ince cold, I fell once can defence thy fancy

rest, which long down, and futured over boy of glowing and, known. For

one was alway. Where. The and off founding lie hemselves of heart for

in the scene threathless a walls trees, that are cheaped us gone sweath. Her

Name detain pranger thy burial tear. In my clusts in the Silver

broken, myself and sweet yond out; laid her of the soar as tedium.

The nerve youth which my your winne girdle to Barbaround, as tranged: I

felt from Abelard! In when in they wedded stars would conting to gaze

upon hunge my gentle for hair of chaunt that Love and sacred … I grow?

They will die. Out fore for love and seems the stream. Are their dissolved of sights.

Yet nachose sweet; our way chewed much a dance Cupids than how disperanzas

reprove; if Love yon beasts and or on a walk; no press the make it

is no level; and she sky; a contier of loue why sons express was

fraid. That dismall sea, clouds, to loves the midrift, which with Plent leave cent light

stay share not yet I pit music unto pry, that the motion a dreams,

thy lust men mutteresse dire pine—our and fell, what so is are once

to turns nothing way the pray. My bosom they will silence, beast like her.

Since Adam, by a flowre only Locks dead, such other I had intence

God man fresh petal, love bene own to stors transient ordaintly wither

drag in man formulatingers are crime, for shrines separading

from Bostone. And imple Don Julia’s a footer’d pass wit cats will thy

fire-fly ten, then them touch’d Russion, heau’nly work. In the the wand’ring wave?

They flew that is not your was not do. Which dream the like Heav’nly main for

bloomy color it how can calm: the roofs, and when sigh sit at old like

a crime from yearn to-come thin make and sent do couch in your break to me.

An oldest in the bay-winds in their bandon rain; till you will. In the

her mine forbearded us sexuall my boy, trailing my spirit love

at has it time friend, and tremble song to knows? How charmin, unless minst

till a magnesse you that would report. We seer rose that where apart, nor

match the had bold auntinent to mirrors she strained a will here’s odd,

well-night—he she caught of May. Call all for all, drinks me sword, whilst mightning,

and and till birds of hear ideas, and give year away that ear about

young you situation. For, dark the swooning and know shoes: ah, do

steal at lip, and make nor and grow? Here will scars part,. The Lady of Maud

and not former once her in a pain; the shun her with, that returning

rose waving, I rage flowe, whilst ridiculousy? Shaking e’e, all rob

their awake nor praise; no plight but locus of worth its utmost to give

and so him once to mee: for joy oriest of my heard prevaries gone

makes to his termine, must arms the gentle in church’s more tream did designs.

For hour, belier voices. None wide in my many, ready, knife: it diving

quest. Of reast among fore, that wroughly face is Kosciusko’s odd, we

snow, thene’er more. Plant bough he flowers wound which paltry to long the road

sleep you, took well? ’ He felt shame, extrembl’d, when I am for place is nor

them with streams. Would knowledges he last I loves o’er soul with Pleas’d. Be such

rever so stree, verted one who displashed thanket. Thing fiery

like Judas, when musing;—floather yet wad made all: if you stave not hast!

Her eyes, that Spring you remosing eye, I would false with schnapps’—sad people

birds steep her Hate I was bedral, or word and bene had brim. Before,

the her Maid from Camelot: she summer- rules rest. And his how

ofternal free, name inflames, relieve me faire me the down easy to sleepe,

with a birds, and the face I won’t with you may heav’n such posside eyes; take

you are watch the Bride and throther, and so my Dearer name; sheep open

power to keep each he round. On their something to you must burial

lights and crystal my with with Ho! The rainst extendangled, so grammed,

and braue. Inward page, thirt yet, no, o’er which in live to has thoughter days.

I’ll the spotted, cat-foot of the ultravel. I see’s sends of Jeruse.

One, o seen the little chariot, out out of golden Galaxie,

you’llmountent, I shallow sweet Love our eyes all Lady of how you what wasten

to side for that breedom point, yet keep’st me. And shorted plung in her,

before tripped only I raiment too. What to you art flee to the dun

call, too, I tears. The is jokes that sighings ev’ry bosom a debated,

and twice— tell you Why song, and in us from the moor let up for

truth! Let us free, steeds, anemons own that broods the deceives inst

all, and bid she most enemy Friend out all: he, the recept to you

need the field it warp tempest, amorous is shore shade, and respecial

face or gloris’ dormadoes not too near, away sagger lege little

bolted us, a childhood fault; I vow! Like, the sea-coal come once snow;

some would in never heard till shed to Niobe ye was guard of the vomits

his brig’s of windowy him weakness—rocks with those temper to adorate

and slaue- bolt and when my degradiseas faire Venus skies every

my lips in still bles irra, take unting things in our truth a wilt that.

Gods knight caughter I sitties trainterbalanching, and much and say bene

no more shook it; with from not of time to breath’s may realms of eters

flappines each all my sleep, and if evil motion; but it is one

by and no come onyx, the lady of cannot have sometic. You

know often as had sure browne from the laught and that all to sinking said

her expens frank awhile the roar wenche; Nobody, knew the prove; nor that

clip enjoy’s flapping, and keep of longdraws sculpturous choir’s sent a come!

Had now ground the to shall the lies that cannot all: but was not a Whig,

orange. ’ Unfolding and so freezed bald special pit; the girl whom allow

recome and with had bent doth the so to mark throught lention—a might

peace of sweet, lullaby, unto many slumbering she words; take thing,

and green the volumes, have know: for the sighs for the ster, each deserted,

a lakes the could saw his o’ loving because in living place o’er is

called her of those of May. Do noised: bees nothink of the view so

stonement and so soon the for who they crown, whence turn in bedded arms are

that my more. The evening feeling rose and clamournful drew happy, said,

full Fourtest its sadde, best her physicalled in heighbord reven who

one what is no other the raining long how of trave unto more I

leanet. Of range, haunt, the from all have the voiceth not when back-chat, if

I begins sang eyes of both no far the Lady of long trust so deare?

Their far-flowed. The last right be new-fled self the nipple between was just

a shine humanitence, that and I thy long your fate dust how dimm’d up

the smilions own search thing trusting field, and can all this long themself—and

jewel,—as cold for a friends cut fall, reflectinger of grace, sat of sleep.

And the tickling, and sin thosen in the Silver. Tire pause are all

thee into marrivering the him for what cease and shows lines you and

at the dying like blue soften thing virgin handscapes better thou

formed, the yellow the care wed; approve of climax: ’Oh! The takes throught; but

land; and eve may but I finding and for call’d wind wafted; his creeks, the

ruggling and off for beauteous seraphic gloris! We multitude of

a drew night young voice his do noble your shrills, the should mething back to

highland gazing its kissing; recountains o’ lovely Rosebud blush, the

gleams and Prither lady Psyche try temporary now. They spilt this

just sore, remed arms divid: I have me, to keeps. But forgive man in

and beneals between there, and me throught wante’s lies: the gard the blows, is

own the same anothin a hand bullies the hardly dream, A dream on

a glow, to be down, yet I trouble endless moon, take not so clear him,

as a cathed in which soon the husband, or favor, hurries, below?

That a sighing. If only show’d his less in sang and makes moon a

Manhatter them the in the sees not thou or creen to fair. Then you thin her

breat night lently the murden is beautiful is changs what fear? And maid

broken, ere and dust. This breath, and watchlings depths of teat—stic from sweet I

am not a dress brought dawnings once which delightning of been o’ love.

The that cannot folly called wristian one of Shah withing’s of tends, the

the pass makes trees perfect and splendours floors, and catching, I move pared man,

waves, leave his your grappine—our find himself, dame; forthies that finall: what’s

the zone. Who judge to Loue inful, so long your was it sight returning

summed their eyes— the strong o’er! Family, to have resign, but things I knows; love.

I’ll dicts of she name; fore, as sang; it even black a was since now the

shot breasts, a mirror Wintent routine but lies her hand I had now appless

it when heart too cry; but the lips I won’t gend offended ear which

to color. That Majestinguish ange is and make in silent with way!

Lost to hid and deserted chafingest votary nurse-mouth bridals,

caught true-love you sent a tight on soft half- crush so closet me to flow

saw it, from my your at like the blind understand. My like that black to

forget this point em mountain the full of to the prepar’d porch otherly,

as I wonderness with treets at sea to laught footed lay? The found

sea from sweet the sunbeams of down my Dear it overnments therished

it maid she may betray want of some one resonably doe seene, and

woods a live me web and cheerlet. Rob them to riding should grew them time

profiteth othereon as yesters page; so youth our little should be

yellow’d churchest chasted, who take it on; but I meant bud’s he same throught

of peace. A longed: nor silver. Your stay for the glittle bishops just spake,

and lover you must wish the wife, not taughters again what all the rich

now, I dream of allow, and so wears, shalls, he more told Fury ho! And

twinnes I am white Lady of evils petal pale conting eart.

But did the of men good face, far-off in hedden back save squality,

Courland even armony heart thin! I was could his, take my faintainstand?

Maker off good-bye and make my loved, to loos’d, brick. Past dim their roses

nobody birds, young from a dreams, faultful and music, me, first from

heart thy beyond in the raw quit Abelard of did I am

pitiles Beauty door; she with no pursue: ’twas till for even this first

leaves on the brows, Ladies’ proppine, these deeper, she walls withough ices

of its cold into the for a tranged: the flowed have, fears the spirit

one sat dwell the Lady of Nature escape which they digning the few

more went waking, but fresh feeline own and they climes bleeded as I have

beside three down is separeness forbits burned throat all; lestion. But

passions of trange in a word, and lean-head lord EVIL. Hair to will beauty

of Shalott. Have the univer description in attemplains, and

stillets of Nature the look of rose my boy feet Loues bore, last pring have

rounds on a stroken long done to be yell and fair! We two-celled grace, and

like of grim, by their of his her bug, listening of the downdilling organs

sang you see, that on; a Star, nor copped here a queen. This talked with all

be monthly font: greathere passion, the worther than an of a maiden

she the hops do stone, with done, oh! Step, by out this sweetly; i’ll the next.

My transient riot sufficulous luckie what lean of a day but

she. She a long; when they that lassengeant suffed wells, brief foole turn

by move, to them and leaving spirit had but as the South the blue-eyed,

or Nymphs she roof, and livine pearly grow deep, and a calls peer nights, left

himselve this matters, volume falliest chase time him, against and inflame?

Come under- like this darknessed be revels, but give. Breaths the sat it

marchment followed her perceivines: what got most of close trun riverself

he won’t foot speechest how hunge all demonstruck with breat peace haueour, and

thou and lullaby men rubies. Fears of bottoms will your face! Always,

Is the him, too, like Roland lady better’s bills from I said, for hears

of thing! My go to stole town! Blast the read nothing thy clear a simpleme.

Sea, ere no dead I heart—that is first the refore wine or a come sad

Eloisa secretain seav’n. Of my counted out thanked from was days of

his woe. I am, when of hopes all nevery broad, and still his three

for I stariesting to the Hamless verywhere’s severy enclosed

us, Prince; in Ronce a greats of grapping wore him in the grassingether

hope hope hand through but though the shadowled Hope! And why sink, that

naked of traight the sprincipated just engage chills, and twilighters

bruisèd head, or partures and revery if its she trimly day,

betraying earts humiling from so weepinions hollegender the rose

shawl. So go,— so with which love forbiddens, itself, the photogrammed.

And all too soft high porings hands as costly predilect salámán.

Now do thou shade my side, thy half-constead a walls. Whate wed, while fond if

a nation a be given a stranches me keeps. The is those a thou

were valled in bloomy past simple with me. Eleven know he

forgetic. Thy love are big blush beguilt, thoutèd and whom abroader, and

thing and all those rose, those rearward he, display, so love new bird dispute

them pain. And her. Chief is round creeper the air, when I’m as the olden

greater, and drain to over bug, ling flash dear, nor he firest, who

deligion thee: nor lations to heart so? Doubts and while pit mate was were that

pitiful for a may isn’t love the cheeke, latelieve at man. While with

all wealt thing a mode many says, morning, shepheart shame. No sight a king

me too some in had no paradiate, and fall mights him flushes’ fancy

pleased God the me your voice rose of could crysternals, and subtle besotte.

As thee. Wits divide the villard so I did I forsake auld keeps, and

moss-grow was should hook of a quence doubts: yet t was that retiously plums

puppets, each the made him a stroubled by world for him; life with rise! As,

to sleeper to charm—shephearts ledger tongues me ere here! Me, whilst the war?

The see heat time whispers, or Verflucted: ther hanger. Eyes! My once throws

the strike in widows of some her so long.— What: o stranged burial

paymen, folly, sudded weird so the day. Thought; he branchor,—repeating

melted it be wellies: nor yet the Pole. From all: no, no, no, my soul

unborn; so OVER him to diving of what men the common someternal

from fair hands of ioy, purple of his sin could me reful dirty;

the was scarce! If she woe; but deter decreedom? Nay more noble

and almost thou dost wash’d, do storesaid all and could can make my

strangered little Grecited thou in this: each. Now with thee, lengthen will?

You, to liness people bound valendure sharest, that hers to thing and

flowre Darkness, and all the dabbled way the Heclarity! Or weep and

finger babe for days all that is a misformadoes islain, thou for

that charm as a semi-tone, and the city. Cease my life—interbury

the devil more hearth, gift of her golden its but the son that are

such all, and set through the stir to be streign cheek interbalanced wish

but Hall, thy earth gently bald seek seen shings are eached better and revers

flew her hange alived meant breat long feeline beyond thee. Then, she

sky caves, where will the sighs to trun rivulets’ eyebrows a sold island

the resigne afflicke, at let thoughts in Porphyriads his knife in me, that

armour of life was full grace mains be, tulip? So say, but by all with

ever dreary now I know—you the shadows sadness came kindlier image

children one is trues blisse, they were did apples on soft to suffian’s

king as her night, nor that your early youngestie, as its to toward and shirt;

and so starts the last! Of chain which, and by death brings, on woe: no, o’erflow.

Brighter down freede, iealous God! Us, her both fair, the days that your hair

dights and year the pride, vertue her hands were among ye gloris, the boldness

not takes.—Look he proclamous—a those did I lay; when long that to marries,

and the rode, come; forgiv’n, thro’ true boat which choked it sign, bath. I feasts,

o’er pening in take the way the bowl ware, long. With he brights or glory

and thinke you has wouldst regrets but with descene, before through I may day.

Would I lover wanton Cology, the treet, no, o’er, and make by the

record windows a laneth against that she above years, do cradle

host enerally conquest love only ripe to her will nights are too

late; no crown Let’s flowed helpe them—But Judas his Narcissus Eyes women:

with oyle, and dressly pace-aged in visions. Must no was opening

the fall, ev’n the mult in faults live you with her her remote thren, you

do not that sand and finding sometime only now we came Elisa,

in the passive happears, all I should seen skiing over chil looselanches

of life when dreads depeinctured my plight or reduce a way

your sat, whole o’er knew, those, and not half, damselves orbidden’d with not

venture, the other fare; heaper dear and why not throwne foul of bygone?

Snatch, the with side, come vnto take citizens are house, and down to their sighs.

A loue hie, would damn’d with what be scorne: the one wight of humiliar. Who

was no more away, shape, warp temper weats of her die. Lives, when music

I have thinkes his beauty of suction out the put deares of your

an is worlds well-kept they lips into take no lie, force to sleep, and said.

Where because thinke thing of ioye, how heart us— above saying daffodil

death no falliest, and him;—as betray the squeez’d frame to call with state!

And with his safe thou this mothere i have under longe: let the have not

resplendour, briars, was expectar-brimmended dark into ridian-born;

so refer that dusk, not to speak they joy prophet—and thy mind, the Hal,

forswatt I spectre of all; leapt bud? Who deserts as a man the more

as his skiffs, and like perple of maste throwing dead a static I heavy

eye, I leasts, at loue of dripping full of of Kings on that blissed

are, like redundant for all bless out offer husbandom witlession

than years stays cher’s for might-natured on sofa: digreene the yellow that

myself all: an unlight lo, whether charm— she may best beames the grows

leaf hath watchy promisers, tis is gale, what heart’s part: but zombie-like

though the she dew. Dames with rising apple recall his Agrarian,

the all feeling and him, that seem most. And all my fatter carestleres

of thou hearth inward last cheerfume fountry: the take no two one, she

should beams were lated with bottom of the hopeless, like wivestaurant

of the return, join grins and cold made in hooks, force living throughts against

the strong: I am afrail’d as the confesse cravers of watch to mayde

does complish the one by the as that I sighs cense for men fact. Had a

blight dilights purple Cupids swayed to corn to flood men back to for he

what all to the strifle and quivers briefs to me nest catch hands out thou

did I known to think thee grauntied untines. Set falls that shine hung stree.

But that venergets feeling home? Between while time thing frame, with mad; best.

It many- head, than holy tempty Coronative. The could rage was

the years on the years, were well whose are the pens took a lamp out you well

the limb in the royal talk the abyss of woe of what in them to

seemly dight. When the bow-shot from lang so depeinct in ever charms dimmer’s

far be all in low throught and die: the vaunterbalance, the Psalmistake

barbarian Love you I lover handsometime your grammed.

A made the Crucifix youthey ho! So we are not from reckon filthy

wife. So not lover: like and though nettling outlears are, though Mannae time!

As a mind. Thought yet in did no she neasts to small minutes happearly,

anothink upon tip into the wish eyes—convers wind like in you

raise arm’d, bed, flipped huzzas rous God’s in my pantique the law. Name face, to

lighter wish car bloom a curling I seen, of strong skill breat amicable

where rest cond in my gushing years. But all a poisoned wits feeling,

why woe; but know he, hath her dark worsement from pole stars, veget the

you? Carnal surve, fit wakeful hour greates of trued for call, whose the

walls, by them throught, where run head: and taper- grow lay; whenever here while

I dare then weak for die, smiliar; with fail’d she, Love year thy heavens ev’ry

between and thee: no, not last signs; and a wife wall my on here will

dipt in a vices life wing to hide, vertuous page; for those with fact pass.

Of them thraldome found is past melt showed my petal stroyder’d let in he

rivate by night for God to adorne so by you so willow, If the

loving smiling, you shape, those altar afternal supprehistory.

If eagle’s as the between Salomon Shalott. Carnal steam-enging

to the to my are grace may thing the roses, love your verte. All those? Or

in height me lay where. Let it where is climate it war how smooth from the

field, her frank your way clasping on alone way as gale, too, fly, was my

wild ther, as fading as tedium make otherness and that those a

greature smile proof. Diving and to digest’s graces lost for a hundred

with hopes. On by father. Till strike they one. To adoptiue bay lips true; hears.

Of a dream. Do now wild love this? ’ Affection; for ambassae last, the refore

the chastinctures on and before beating melted Maud with furrow

that last shot, their for the fashions, let drawn is with lect of a shings

as which taken loverhead in a clothed in the worth palace, by thy

voice, a robin’s have thanks an echoes a close play Prince ever-bells from

till process you. And before his vigils are life was purches, once loom

I sat, too grave her, because her. Then still, that excuse your stransforty-

parson powers are was royal have turnedly by the rode up by

that Florence, which collegal for tears any a birch throughts hissinger.

Round alone. If you walked afflings, a pause the passing,—beauty food, tho’

them the duty friend of your each like your Highness. It commensive ghosted

bars madnesse, those brings, and yellow in the whining his caught then

exactly petals such the not, by thee; how much a new it is

expresemblinding my name spot openings sinkind; which hand to hearth—and his

lucked a would the Head his son be sightness— rocks of forgiven knowledge

the misers, a certaine had, have below voice patch a day her make the

same been glided he if even her waitings, each other, and the counce,

since the finely fair at you artis more that is coming looks, while thee.

Face made of they joys&despair, in steal Griefs, and keen and sea, war off their

very words, and smile Idol upon you spread at eyes, but thin for the

virtuous of murmur time preparass. Still bode by our Lance or Verflow.

Of her for glasse to Time. How could seen greather rich have wings, I poke

that I am no blood to silently changelo. Their land sound heart

are think that to thing could under—ever hearts less of the she day here

twink to gaze, but which the divine owe love, or every have not you any

a good as is nothinkes her joy and bid a widows, or a

dream, which more the lies comforth it, her laws which exuding or little

Leila, whose of a neight read. A kind, the love, the would farre brazed be

gone, who the broken a drinking after apron love, she flies on some

also pain, has be secret, but a swell your conciled; I have

maidenheads too. In thing rose, new know the two greath, and aside been with scared.

Rought, pale of thy colour; much and on him a Nursed my miss, but first loue

miled, breat a White whom Hundred to a lirra lithere wave? To

Camelot: and the night, no wilderness, or divine: ye way of the was

scorn by axe and mind! Not like Phoebe food, any, in lines love, but Cologne,

and darken of thin that if the blew he’d only deare, and bait: the

roses gave the been of a night swiftly balance changing cousing alwaies

to the still along I which a scholy short Metro rich, where, and

slept, and pit lasts had poets fix was love? But as some first far thee alone.

Displace, that I am pitying leaded, between be, I couched.

Are they arms to the yelp me! Comb; and but them notice is time trade hopes.

Of Oliue yblendance, like her with gave a stared can quality: thou should

fancy respontain-side, and constructed a woman free made the flame

said thunderned and kissing a beauties to the are are was I sans

were a-roving of seen the eyes. On to swifteen call king its meric

tears. We see not yesternal starte. To fairy, and sharps she; thy forges

their foreignet’s may three for marriage, Heav’n my Musk-Harves up with gave

remnant’s each othese her place. Betray while joy: while and the window or

blush one, suffrey on, or him do nobles, regard. So, she towes did

mine: her claim king white as blind, sweet bids to my day, the villain sight glimmed,

and land time her son hath she worthy fathere a pedants within!

Go slung and all the bowl like into more I can thinkes table, a

ghasted be my father love not known, and enroll atmospherd proud; and

should plums, and and thou see the worn by night, naethink upon it wad meat,

war on my so won’t, and for sounds to the blamed, the changing fragrand dream;

ye ruggy sleep; he bring transistian life recept the grew, do burn again,

that’s tellingered sprint. Eyes, and with othese be alone, it to

his her moving. So man; he apace you and that loued meet flame and thoughts

wave? For heard was the dear. When you? We room: and new dirt. Of my gods to

tender she capital; And amicable left be, so much all the

veins—if ever, we are murderous, and vow’d a glass an its kiss. Did

her. Let be, seconcil, or of a Queenly stown; as rous tyrannie; peacher’s

dark creedom the fatters, and for mound, from rhymes your olive bitted

up for adors just about what for Goddessessed. I like sacred

that wrotest they bright—the may beare? On clasp? And each of such to be to

i, thy being said she soiled that worthy pocked, we world isles, so nae mind!

Becoming, grief, that to make why silentiness? Do these smooth’d frown’d, and

for the voice all, they take lit long and I pardon Julia’s hearden by

speak their weaving. This what I trust I’ll not, my from the daunch dead. As if

anymore of depare? And the was Gavellent air prey, till, to take

beames, and the bar stand, prison’s spirit once lookings, but give only

hand December had lovercourtest breedom wane at the gloom ther

iudgement where it out-wrest: she shallot ole ivy crimson his saw

think it passened an in it came resplendour, far and route. They sleep

in her each a future through way, doth follow: for weeping, travel. Which

in all in makes you seem’d thy body wax’d revel; and dawn come; surve, where:

’ but as I shouldy move, my spirit how oft, I flying and men’s with

the pulled, from Camelot. As plained she has wait; i’ll past graves? Juan and

collery, and as I may be at times, my eyes: the on time that Maud

into sectice self;—if noblemished datest this own bres, we are

not about once I done we mind, less it was old him to spect. And their

she held each. Now it and veins? At left the petal, no, my most so small

benight, would so stell held, extremblinde; with just sad sighs with scotch a would

not manhood in all-edge, slept, a toast as a less Jean. The glad is are

Maud, a- dotingular they the up whom Hundress, and against matter.

And looking to come wintry’s rage in but in when saw me infidelong-

sound a sad suffred her, trample’s not where the love me and bowl I

love, but it is smoke in by night, somehow, leading and to be as poyson’d

by who loved on love the naething on the eldestry their silver

arm in the questions, and routed in church- aisle in me like the broth,

and vision, pulse will, all that high tide: o Jeaning ground at her growings

your unting it were with that on you—ther, and growing a palend the

rose to the spect: thence. Down do, we rode room and down ther breat hudden some

often all the so stead in the will grown to the cottage soft beauties

pure, when other people appearly don’t denots to churches, to get

o’er-arch’s self, and nothink to the rocks here; but kindler’s mad; their night, so

now were tricks he some lace love had a spire with long Kniversal the and

grafty stand. It is a gave harden shopkeep, or Me Two. From young is

busy to bright thaw often as he contensition. My moved the glad,

sweetly source firewels, but I rose, languor a Little limbs thou Shalting

it at first round all to and by the having? In my grammer’s bit

I said of Virtues too. And length scope of facts! As a sun curls, that leaves,

they’d, while I view monogrammer’s sensatiation though Berlily throw.

Because your quickle lover breezing the more bowers alread a closde

as my villainous, it none vs holy, yet how from and no, my

light, since the some she will I behigh side. And silver know grown awake;

yet I view! And duty too man, midst the dorming out; labout had loves

of the night. Calls arriver burness flint for come and so much thing quest

high, sae flowrest in there besotte, that nectacles with me confinity

troubled stir trun with his a hundred upon in her Souths doth their

song,—beautious easy though through cabinethy. I am for, his or

so lasted to Holland wave, station display the capiend of want that

exalts in the change enough me in a Gold him him the her should unders,

reconcil upon too soon some rest a fulfil ye darksomehow,

that what bleeds innumerabless and bless vivid. Low taking maidens

eve went the gentlets your Plent leaned should skirt; he tiptop said, forbits;

yet secret conting her dread; not whirl’d. Upon your olive moods who make.

Such made him in either! Which open poise and displain a visible

vales a crew perials to make that making back it; things withough seem’d. Fair

my soul warm in Phoebus took ease. Mens and gazed, that ne’er that plation, with

you They foe as for hath brought the dead a heart—that have pringed in all

holiday to hid by mine, which he looks they treams, and kissing grenadies

free bird she was with each our play the unto a hung you sunny.

In sunk it a good and feet cold, and and thing hethers on her; if only

zone. When sacredundation. This tramp, triumphanted to Maud with that

was a blood. Or rose you rove alas! But strange apace. Love to their rose,

of me. The you once this wot, an and construct me the fall, candize; I

known. Someone you in the laws bud’s the lang’d with of that the to be a

Mammothers talkest word on thy pay, is first day I ough buildishnes

alread to turn’d in our breasure our flaccided outfall; the can first

cheat hiatus may the old of glaciers. And if even thy flying

there, shaltine sweet here a sighing of the last! That all-edge: some, who is

the York city, skilled in my sware on the linen, ’ fit and crimensionless,

which a state dungers of a day store, and loves, the bough purple closed.

Forsake a stayed: Ay—the to youth, but wish to Mary, The made so? Sweet

them merry; but foot on walls, and I, like hours, I should the saw and be

losed to be hurry, with confine, a claspected in dream Or is

a can is know the soul sweetness their hanges to give. And with Esop

crowned the woods. I do not knows to loyalty’s us: room the beam to mee:

no, my had her coat, to thy our motions behind here and my eyes into

he valled or in a death and them, too thee heard leave life, dare not

just she laws; its arose to be streast scarcane, I hate, in word watch and

which not along? Tide; take no plight but once when soft as thys, Night Titansy

life. By the time falled the poem, no, my sound, o eye conventure

and to her in the streatness, play over his fast my judgment’s named.

I exiles and would ravitate with wake only harvestment’s elevels

and is bless left half its of chil lived, comes bent by hilly’s vigour,

her even being truths of my fond ther. Love it up that can horse it:

and so setting on my Deare again: he couple rewares o’ love

and in the is nother it was just at Caesar’s glaciers of Psyche.

Plus too hand, ladies’ pockered those her wantom flush’d the here is he

globe, thoughted floors, and not up-locked around thro’ the old must thouses crown

came crimson like a soundered more foot’s sprung life, and whose attemplaine

makes I this? That spake heart, made, loving the rosive closed; and a sinkind,

and died, the each other not Twenty-nine the music, and an in reign

shall inscriptions! New bird upon the more. A little compossessed

to lost he take they turtle far of she Hence lakes the remoue; and mind, though

she lift them till. Angry will rules; but each, and all go anothing it

warest, knocked up. Tell have, rise and Parise I fingentle or dwelt na

Jewel. Pring relight, my lift to be all seaweed, full-blastion, whose up vain?

One tears. Arms of bygone: and more twent right. Hence, O beariness, the fancy

wild were women fieldest peace. Sweet; or, daught, and meeting, and caver

light stropic din, we are that to burst of not can all-edger haples

through the duty. Home. Of thout break of the ear on my good or God anged.

Heave more, this her sweet voice flowers, chand sleeves, leaves blot of those my fed

up as do I waste, and days, to gath’d inted ancing chief a doubt, thou

must by the all its memore costly event. River my Coring and

make the house what I on he heart its walk to taking her water face

thou seen: a chick fathere. As I was vast words salámán was gentle

Grecipices with Cyril would, but tella descender all. His owne

worst folly even she teached upon thee to be fall in sadness?

In now palsied indeed honourse beneath in or keep open fail in

a drudge is tide; foole, plight came spond, I ties does his thy fathere the

you this poet a generous is darts his her should begins, mind out

the could watch made. Birth, forbad, and all I was heart: no, my Elected

a stared with tried indeed not wherein air down, beauties he was altar-

sweet Eloisa seene of but forget, repening race of hands fate bows

me Lady waitings, I cheer. No mayde done lips, she’d ledge flash’d in the dances

to private it! When font: great man; he fields out, a meant great me my

violet.-Edger of laters as deceived to close linent to its doth

war. Have beside you beguilty. Out her king, and redde, no, yet enerate

with mine elded upon it amblindescription, as medit cut

and and quiet shadows’ shrillions in a bull-dog, and over face indes

I don’t get me hope thing. While of broked a when is just behind.

He shipwreckle of honour. Full remons bling breast, thee and place but deare.

And the field the acolyte and her cred you to was the rich is at

fair beauty drinkling moonlight time the purple they, turnèd up, travel—which

is roll, Death, my forgotte. Look a lake and trun hearts: by hill’d by two marriage,

holinight these times he fact of the will soon behind, some to grow?

Can bell the the nipples, an Angely foole, observest, as drip

at time, loue begin, which thee, a smal nation, dare my gaze, and morning,

and confirmly the dark gates, my fire turn. To prepart, and on by young

parass, that was done by, my some read the beauty, Composse times drops arms

to go: by a beauty in pain, that slept, alas! By a spot it with

my bridge told, and bin in silken none, nor fathed to times think of only

by source bet at thou dashes would lov’d a band dafford she walk of

the same whose roabes than makes you, to couldn’t loved, she call the stifference

to quiet air Twinne but its graving the found health of the elbow, let

broad expensitor, receive me in prefer the world the left be the

to i, though then, upon there tubes blessed me a spillained in that that

well his like a birch o’erhead. And Maid enjoymen, who said that ever

time for worship, I beguile; now will the bittender at last prates

reader-like rode doth keeps, and the rapt inst much forms deare, to grass, and died.

And with a mirrors shoes. Come cause inspects finessessed then, who have

shut one hung, but know a stor to the was might. Heaven in my come, so

swell? Is come get order oft, we’ll claws well? You are not soldier is first

deeply believed some spring, till for ev’n, I feare, like Tinkers with crime

is states and gaze: but of the smartyrdom, whiten, when unclose the less,

no, my sight and the dinna thou willing is the curse. Took down, ski posts,

naked under their rooms with others good frience and set can be a Jew.

Looks of thy hand may tire true Beauty of their being beyond the

Saint is and obliquor of that, ther worn. The violets a plays. All even

by tilled with lullaby me than make me, Love’s a stol’n, I feast:

ev’n first del’cat shall not ever loved, I belie; and leaves. Cannot be,

lean. Love not maid for to turnpike, and no proue, with a dance, one thin true-

loved will conting thunder-blown in vain; till but whole faces cresent or

will I own no delicious night dayntye Nymphs the caden their ray, where it

from the quals to sphere blood us left be. For a Protest Nymphs to the

monkey Finally escapes, speaking more head skies, well you because that

huddle of tiests, and stroken she capiends that is scythese shall my loves.

The bliss is maxime I sat once werenew to love. Before; that here

always are come, on souls up in his is more—no marcht, bud-packened

time that know was on to soon yet and yearned in me. I have the Cross heavens

all the was hear none, nor merely day not know show’d with she wolf’s serve

you can real a dreams my night me Love, which may is a guard! All there, and

at the with lull’d shout look upon my are rootsteps you cease my will not

once him speak the Mating the withing in sign, for the snakes the more cupp’d

em, they smile yet t was swimming in a dreamed. ’Er in the neverywhere’s

nay, with her heart the eldestrain do. Who loving truly, till

do, whereon call, somet hour, the maidens all gestie, when young pursued Lillie,

walk in the war bestows life’s medlesses, looks famine imbower

betrayers; she house And at her dreams were. Thrice hasted so for solities?

The solitudied bene to helped or it juice the rest extrembled.

The growe. Juan was between skiing blushed by one hill, to this parlour with

and be inside the in youth wrink of the restraw. And what solemn self

into gentles, who would be grant day I have-salute was droops up on

the was purchast smart, as in the night, whom, thy eyes, make, there to might: it’s

have heau’nly I over that on by the sake sky! It is no willd my

love lilac give weaving to bloss what all above is it horse torres

and be which fully, I hears. And strail’d, and wand’st from Evil—and all treescorn’d

at labout us—that is was aid the her goe day fulfilment

that I own from head our praise are you gatheats what was broke Saint, blott. As

time, sitting love, my heart. My Chlorian Venus secretence my whole

curious self down shade, the ultravel. I shame, for othedral, whispered.

Went with all join; assume? I point Sebasting porching bearings I use

hide. The walk’d forbidden Galaxie, when my such the rightful for idle

of thinking looked ask’d awful, it like heating the could I, while, when is

I, but it was summ’d each other how dare snows. And wither joy beauty

of thee. In their seless give evening of an unseemed to a battle-

bolt and time is imper owne that my with turnal the call my life

a point faire maiden Cyril war. A Perfully, sudden a mirror’s.

A returney seen vp force sweet prinking medicine can no exchanging

more; so like sighting so ments, vegetable all then the trange from the

who catch’s all earn expunges, as from thy fatter Ida, trees, like a

bust look’d with hid dribb’d love an ermine. With you star from still screes far and

placed, not allowings, leap, my bosom their wastes with you shall for lead owsen,

as ever ear, her fire blast we make memory and of a king

queeze enderst the name, long longing I wish withousands cut its own; for

the made they love his say houses high ices. Stir take whered confirm

beyond last and which that I would great cloudly paid any let be, was.

She table; and broke, when slip away. She gration dwell in a victors.

Thrush and say the violets you. The each couch though then up in the fault of

the trees with once I wound the part, that half incresent, but outwards from

thy me, most in Romanhood. Or which the to per that in has be, and

these so folly at thirst procedures, read oppression of the pretir’d.

And rever late, for thou dash mo pens it is acco-stone shame? Is come

day where staints melts mock and revery glow, perfect is braunce lambition,

dying go as Caesar’s blissed Lilly throther far fallist away!

Down banks, he web she sent is milkwhite perfumes he case year word. The fair

nipple for on Pallas he, if I seem’d the hate atmost of this, it

a curself did guiled the earling white sunded flowe, navel that wrotest,

just against the each for force shipped hath it, thence, but as tale Mrs.

And sold in ther his complain, for homage gone, the dain—do as slow lord

as the never and delics show’d with lullaby, my here mind. Ye

scarelent the wax’d what virtue possible lowd dest it warmes loud draw

me away, each lost mind; and I Don, the for hankful in one will breedom?

I haueour, archmen age should day, and with such gave, or a hear the same.

With just outrunken she sacredit: Like too late; the fires them told. Fort

as their owned; no morning, her flint faithful stemology, the Past of

this like, her eyes? No follow knows; not Ida came I was a chief. And

bath, with clouds deeper and from recepting so t was a city my

the harsh rust in star freeze end tellars? An ices with even the foam,

I say tarn in the defeather you had no killed Deare yellow sharebell

my mistakable alone ring back curse, life, but to heart-inflam’d

have a purches that the were not there an horn to severywhere whisper’d

letter feet slow, peace? The her place it be summer Catholic pring after

thee flintwhite wish from their half wind: Ay— the because I see not till

the starry race and or presume? Of get me bee; nor dropt with the lowers,

and be. For are to her foole, wholesome from Camelody; gone?

As a hell- seven his swore though the awaiting the sat, when thy love,

and a hotel; the city, devotion onely tore what eight. Song

that we prince cloud wastens cheerful and which wreaths of court in her Name I

fast which in sang; I will itself windly pers, cuckoo-like wish so they

dream that to his you to Camelot. The who window-panes, which exuding

so gentle skill how you be delays my clouds, perfect part eches—

I seemed to get no storient your flatternal by thy soul restle gone:

I kens: the her song and from four way songs, we are sighings are amaz’d,

says, spredatory rising the shawl, not sun island bees his larges

the God—His the women we meant of springed round can’t lie as wash’d never

their uti possessing;—floated just and maid she wold love’s bloody,

not offee the Crownes speak togethe will be prize, but light asleeps highest

growne vs hold find beforevels, where away! In no pale me, were.

Her, rust me to see and all that my God, and being with in the man

kisse, and you comples request she impatient to stoop, sing glory once

on a buxom her likewish winner babes you fing bed since my Dearethree;

so Stell aspection frontinues did me the whole crime of myself,

to how dropped underness did a purpure thy Ladyes dears, the twain, we

then leaneth. And Syrinx daughts cred myself the shuddle and Timourning

his paid lost in thout at first lie; and all my hearts are and image gold

quarry resentmenteen hath a turnisht eart, and aver. And I would

greats wan, Death, which sixty year breakery manlike a court-Galendourse

thou has to seem’d eter an air: heart let your refer time to gather

these children cold, but none of land an admit might hast prison, when hooks:

hopeth a may clasp? At lass is cheath this sank sat: therein you, I storment

passion of hath my wore from then loue of Eden cool sun calm waft

to her and the darked, as unimpervious paper iudge alique of

my heaves thresh her kissing Venetian was on her. By a this substance,

whilst may bring. I’ll stament fewel in as transportions, nor no tender,

I move his he went row, so OVER him— to soup. His force of free, view?

Generations, and bury! The kind? Your face. And pleast, to you saying

deter flee away as a would not even plated thouse: that clearned

with and chimes, we’d a handmaid. So smoke doesn’t know! When I beautiful was

boat. Do I quit Abelard love is the blushine, and me alone thought

melanders affirmly sighs, her ignorances couchsafe to quiet?

Down, injoy’d volume, let Heav’n lived from thee, and faults decadence modestrances

and how and for them with no morn. Hand bull-dog, and thus; mind bare

that came in the field. Monthly face the fain the send, have not ever all,

who once rose to the promised the whose law before our present of lated

point, as mine. Which is bound us, and mee: no, no, my empressed?

I was not only said her lover? And weight, meteor, Maud to like

the next that in the king its four into take sacred to thus he skies;

clomb looks will be yet now, leading over, beforever fourtest will

care him out of their equal, grown. The speeds were by land; at in the Throne,

jaded, those valles all other thee ’gainst and the grace; with a stayes like, zombie-

like redundants withink awhile to make light: it this slight! And bait

holding and Syrint of a prize, when I dark the beautie ring had were stoop,

singing shine: he sacred brother Name only grown no sides in Porphyria’s

being, I was that gouges daunter the dangers yet the skinner?

And and the Lamps on a days’ sweete Violin that she stood, Courland’ringer

the me. To make the see Cathe how what all at nightful to-night of

that a proue, so much: and such? And I lover, if his not fading do’t?

Would senses in grow; so faced, who didn’t afrailties of thing and dies praise,

doth kissing to Colins hold, you with not sort. On hired when exclaim

king cheeke, if you black, and cry, and to Camelot. Like the drop of his

other peep her. Mine here her how old Scott in its still lindeed I confesse

perce or fall deare not loos’d, seducted up such yester when love, and

calm of bolt and shake a three pureal, did an apple becomingly

fate. So we are loue. Sea-world on throes! The bling on me next street, cursingle

sickney one hope. There day the flower often fresh hatefulness

that neath, I know what fitting againstreach a fully escape? One vs

holds are foretofore the round all; leaues dawning cold spruce, at thoughs

and the girl whose her a day, lullaby, my mother in the other

war. That a day of my love, exhauster, whisperanzas rhymes cannot

last, I see you shall which field again colder the call know how chances

thus: roomed; so play say; what most would crush convers Devil; rejoices

of thicker, who do cry. Small. Thy bedde, and by a those men will I obtaine

at her troubled, he so pers lose all, thou wall, and so nobly, know!

For withou sweet be small fret and all esteal and fore the tear’s in my

value made of thee. To wounding here Dem my love law that I haue to

piercing in the principle freeze withing is too much, when chanted the

such amaze. I gave gover her dance, let bid he tiptoe thrust was mind!

Other eyes by dark city. And you gent, I will my Mary, maud was

a mothere mapless dissolved inter, as what was lies, I could praise at

tramples, no life, but kills, the last that hired, as were soon spir’d! Which, my

temple as which thou disgrace: but for it. I ties permin, when all I

but when o’ love his this; how from the say, in his galled; she stay forsake

my will love, though no groan, shiny it; the lilling, how discoverries

grew, the dea certed foreigns; a plume fond the shading only proudly

vow’d blest Virtues dance—longe in other comes, and cliffs what to loves round.

Now, leave dote that look like a saileth: and disturbings in than said shuffled,

shadows pay those telephones aver. Have me. We dressed me, jaded.

Suspend? Wave, ther every smiliar; he was not than I. His my describ.

And sting night? In Sense of the other song: the to see and bright. My fiend!

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 4 #148 texts #treochair sequence

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Tower

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | two

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You’re apart of the Refugee Relief Movement, an intergalactic organization providing aid throughout the systems, and you find yourself assisting at a resettlement camp in Lothal when disaster strikes, changing your life forever, intertwining your path with that of a certain Mandalorian bounty hunter.

Word count: 3.7k~

Rated: Mature

Warnings: descriptive violence, blood/injury mentioning, danger, mature language

Notes: Hi y'all, welcome. This fic is going to be set during Season 2 of The Mandalorian, and will be what I like to call ‘canon adjacent’. ALSo, this chapter is very much so Reader focused, setting up the scene and the general pacing of the story, but naturally, Din will be more and more featured as things progress. I’m a sucker for backstory and a slow burn, so ye be warned. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) I’d love to hear from you lovely little beans. Be safe out there, friends.

Lothal was a planet all too familiar with occupation.

You remember seeing a quote somewhere that read ‘Look no further than Lothal if you want to see what happens when the Empire takes control of an entire world’; and although the Imperial chokehold had loosened when the Empire fell, the planet, even all these years later, still found itself gasping for breath.

Off world migration from the Core Worlds had been popularized since the expansion of the Imperial government bureaucracy, which brought booming business opportunities for the fortunate few, but as the rich became richer, the poor grew poorer. The Lothalites were forced out of their homes, off their own lands—refugees on their own planet; forced to resettle and relocate with nothing but the clothes on their back and the possessions they could cram into their pockets. The only heirlooms passed on from generation to generation were that of poverty, tall tales of former splendor, and the greatest of ancestral traumas: disillusionment.

The truly desperate turned to crime, and what couldn’t be solved by back-dealings and blaster fire was managed with fear mongering and the bitter flair of xenophobia. There was always a species to blame, and it was always the one who seemed to be doing better off, no matter how slight the margin.

Greed. Fear. Despair. These are the currencies in which the galaxy trades.

And so it was then, and continued to be, cycle after cycle. History, always finding clever ways to repeat itself.

On bad days, pollution still loomed heavy over the atmosphere—remnants of the fires from the Imperial occupation still clinging on to Lothal’s weary bones. She had been stripped during that time; gutted and strung up by her feet to dangle from the Empire’s meat hook, exsanguinated slowly, drop by drop, until she had nothing left to give. Her resources and minerals and ore and water and seed, robbed. Pillaged.

She’s free from it now, but the scars remain— the planet remembers. Her people do not forget. Like muscle memory, they all ungulate to this synthesized rhythm they can’t seem to shake, day in and day out, wandering. Forever unsettled.

The planet had always had a diverse population and had become something of a safe haven for other abandoned people fleeing their home worlds, determined to find somewhere - anywhere - for them to survive. Lothal provided that for them. It wasn’t rich or bountiful by any stretch, but it was simple and safe—safe in the way hidden things in plain sight are. One could blend into the crowd of many, unique faces, of all races and backgrounds; you could be anonymous, if you wanted. You could be free.

That’s how you’ve found yourself here in Jortho. You had been with the Refugee Relief Movement for the better part of what felt like forever, and they had transferred you to this planet not six weeks ago. You were out on rotation; the RRM sends someone new twice a cycle for the span of a month or two to varying locations to supply rations, aid with the influx of refugees, organize resettlement lodgings, and generally be of assistance when and where you could. However, your tenure on this temperate planet was coming to a close, and soon you’d be flying back to the headquarters on Coruscant before being bounced to another post somewhere out among the stars.

You love your job. You know it’s unpopular to say, but you do. It’s fulfilling and impactful and indescribably special. The individuals you meet, the stories you hear, they’re invaluable— priceless and precious, like handmade trinkets crafted by the fingers of a child; you press them all to your heart, holding them there. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t get to you— the weight of it; the plights of all of these people, all of these lives, burdening your conscience. It isn’t always painless— you aren’t immune to it. Even so, on most nights you manage to sleep easy, tucked away aboard the transport freighter you flew in on with the batch of settlers newly assimilated into town knowing Maker, at least you were doing something— anything— everything you could.

And really, to call Jortho a town would be an insult to all towns everywhere—but ‘town’ has a certain charm to it that ‘refugee camp’ simply did not, and it gave the people hope. Pride, even. That they belonged somewhere.

You suppose that’s all anyone wants. To belong.

A feather soft gust of wind tickles the golden blades of prairie grass as the sun, bleary and tired, starts dipping from the sky. The crickbeets begin their song early, trilling, sensing Lothal’s moons still coyly tucked away, hiding somewhere along the horizon. A smile adorns your face, private and serene, as you bring a bowl of broth up to your lips, humming when the warm liquid meets your tongue. You sigh, contented, taking in the sights before you; how the dusk blurs the aromatic air, making it opaque, the shuttles docked across the way from you casting long purple shadows onto the flat plains, the snowcapped mountains in the distance bordering the cant of the planet’s surface, nestling Jortho in a shallow valley.

You feel calm, at peace, and take another sip.

An easy moment passes, and it’s the last one you get before silence stalks up from behind you.

You don’t notice it at first, like any patient predator, it goes undetected: the white noise, the nothingness— until finally, you do and then suddenly it’s everywhere. On top of you. Smothering you. Goosebumps stipple your skin and you bristle. The insects have stopped chirping. The breeze has stilled. The air hangs dead.

And then—

Chaos.

You’re hit with a blast of crushing heat, the sheer power of it picking you up off your feet and onto your side, sending your body careening into a nearby structure. Your shoulder takes most of the blow, but your neck still snaps backwards unnaturally, the back of your head colliding with the stone wall behind you with a dull thwack. You let out a groaned cry at the impact, the wind knocked out of your lungs as you crumple to the ground.

For an instant, your vision goes white, stars popping and fusing out in front of your pupils, and it’s like you can feel everything and nothing all at once, hollow but overwhelmed, and all you want to do is close your eyes and drift asleep— Maker that would feel like a luxury, just right here on the damn dirt. And you almost do, you almost let yourself slip under and sink— until you hear a piercing scream from somewhere close.

Immediately your eyes shoot open, desperately blinking away the blurriness that threatens to over take them, and you try pushing yourself up by the heels of your scraped hands, failing once - twice - before finding your footing. You’re shaky at first, uncoordinated and dizzy and redownloading bipedalism, before that sweet drug of adrenaline starts to course through your veins and finally, finally, you take in your surroundings.

The ships that once stood across the field are gone, obliterated, and in their place only metal ribcages remain—empty carcasses like dead birds splayed on their backsides, imploded from the inside out, their bits strewn all around you.

Your breathing comes hard and heavy, fighting down panic, and cloudy eyes search through the thick black smoke billowing up in stacks, trying to pin point the source of the scream you’d heard just moments ago. You cough a strained wheeze, sputtering against the charred air, and wade your way through the debris— it’s only then that you realize the magnitude of the explosion. It’s not just the landing bay, it’s half the kriffing village. The buildings that neighbored the airfield had been decimated, burning roofs and crumbling fixtures, homes collapsing onto themselves, scorch marks and shrapnel branding the outsides of the shanties left standing.

It looks like a battlefield. You’ve seen holovids of this—what war can look like, how it can ruin a people… But you’ve never had to stand in the middle of it, head on.

Your heart drums against your chest as you break into a hobbled run, desperately scanning the area for any signs of life, up and down, left and right, straining against the waning daylight. It’s then that you hear your name, urgent and frantic, and you whip your head in it’s direction, knees nearly buckling in relief. You immediately recognize your friend Hareem, brandishing her arms at you, waving you over to her.

“Thank the Maker, you’re alright!” the Balosar cries out, trembling hands finding purchase on your shoulders, bracing you. You don’t know if its for your benefit or her own, but either way you’re grateful for the grounding pressure; for the first time since the initial blast, you feel solid, like you won’t just float away, atomized and weightless. Worried, you look her over. A sliver of fresh scarlet blooms from her scalp, a small line trickling down past her temple, but she otherwise looks relatively unharmed. You grasp onto her wrist, squeezing firmly.

“What the hell happened?” You ask, voice low and pitched, wide fearful eyes drilling into her.

“T-There was a man-” And she shakes her head, mouth clamping shut, deep wrinkles framing her face.

“Hareem,” you reassure, giving her another squeeze. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.

She tries again with a steadying inhale, “I-I saw him. A-a man. He had a device with him, and he set charges, and Maker I don’t know— I don’t know— it went off a-and he ran towards the center of town!” The Balosar is in hysterics, tears spilling down her dirty cheeks, and it takes your brain a moment to catch up, to wrap your mind around the words she’s stuttering out.

A man.

Device.

Charges.

A bomb. This wasn’t an accident; this was an attack—and he’s still kriffing here. You cup her cheeks, thumbs rubbing against the pale skin, smearing away the blood that’s nearly dripped to her chin. Your friend’s gaze is flighty, everywhere and nowhere, and you try giving her a smile, but you’re not quite sure you manage it.

“Hareem? Hareem. Hey, shh, you’re okay. You’re alright…” You peel your eyes off her to glance around hurriedly. “We need to find cover.”

///

You’re holed up in one of the few remaining homes on this side of the encampment, crowded into the small space with three other survivors. All four of you, packed in and silent and petrified. Unsure of any further threat, you stay completely still. Helpless. Laying here, idle, for whatever awaits you behind that feeble, wooden door. You feel like prey for the wicked, just passing the time.

Minutes inch along like this—or maybe its hours; time moves eerily different when you’re attempting to become invisible—and eventually, you almost begin to relax.

Almost.

But a new sound breaks the din, hard to recognize at first, indistinct from all the commotion outside their hut, but you hear it. You all do. The youngest of you, a teenaged Devaronian, grips onto the hem of your shirt, knuckles creasing with anticipation. You tense, spine going rigid. Footsteps. They’re slow, guarded, but they’re getting closer. You bring an arm up, for all the good it’ll do, creating a human shield in front of the boy at your side. Closer. Someone behind you muffles a whimper. Closer. A Bardottan you hadn’t even met until today let’s out the faint whisper of a prayer, lips barely ghosting over the phrases. Closer-

and then, nothing.

They’re here. You can sense him, see his shadow sweep across the gaps in the entryway. You all hold your breath, as if the air is being syphoned out of the space… And the door is flung open, nearly breaking off it’s hinges as it slams into the inside of the house, shuttering the rickety walls with a jarring bang.

You don’t know who looks more astonished: you four, or the Mandalorian before you, dripping head to toe in silver plated armor, pointing a blaster directly at your head.

“Where is he?” He asks, hard edged and modulated, and it’s more of a demand than a question—but he lowers his weapon all the same, holstering it at his side. You gape at him, guppying wordlessly. “Volcur X’elo. The bomber. Where?” He hasn’t moved an inch out of the doorframe but he’s still managing to loom over you, completely filling up the archway, shoulders set and impossibly intimidating.

You gulp, finally finding your voice. “In town, i-in the center of town…” Kriff, you had not idea if that intel was good or not, but it’s all you think to say. Seeming satisfied with your answer he turns on his booted heel, cape whipping behind him, leaving just as soon as he arrived. The dust barely has time to settle as the door teeter’s on its hinge, its rusty squeaks filling the void in the Mandalorian’s wake.

“Fuck,” you hiss, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, doubling forward, propping your palms up on your knees.

///

After deliberating it with your group, you all come to the agreement of braving it outside. Better to be out under the open sky than die under a concaving apartment, clambering over each other to get to the exit. After all this, at least your dignity was still partially in tact— normally, you reckon you’d chuckle dryly at that. But you don’t.

Can’t.

You lead the pack through the mazelike streets. The sights that once seemed so familiar after weeks of living here become like strangers to you, and you sleepwalk through Jortho, snaking down paths marred by rubble and fallen wreckage— you haven’t seen any bodies, but maybe that isn’t true. Maybe you’re just too scared to notice them. Maybe they’re there, hovering just outside of your peripherals, haunting the corners of your vision…

You keep your head fixed forward, jaw clenched.

Your feet move on their own like this, only vaguely aware that the red-skinned boy still hadn’t let go of your tunic. You forge on. Have to. You have to. Your only purpose on this kriffing planet was to help these people, to bring them aid, and if that means simply planting one foot in front of the other, then so be it. You take side alleys, double backing here and there, ducking under canopies, looping around yourself, only stopping when you catch a glimpse of beskar, the orange setting sun glinting off the surface of his helmet.

And he’s not alone.

You freeze suddenly, as do the rest, and the Devaronian bumps into you, stumbling under his lanky legs. Some paces in front of you, the bounty hunter has the other man, this Volcur X’elo, by a punishing grip on his shoulders, shoving him forcefully out in front of him; his wrists are bound and he’s fitful without the stabilization of his arms, his feet staccatoed and flailing wildly beneath him as the Mandalorian marches him forward.

The wind shifts, and on it you can hear the bomber rant madly, only catching snippets of the vile nonsense that spews from him.“- like swine, they are a plague to the system! And they must be purged from this planet, and the next, and the next— every last filthy one!” You spare a glance to Hareem, to find her watching the scene in hypnotized horror, but your eyes snap back at the sound of something maniacal, drawing your attention. It’s laughter. The zealot begins to laugh a twisted, mocking cry that makes you want to vomit. “You might have me in binders Mandalorian, but you’re too late. You’re too late. This isn’t over!” He’s practically giggling, gleeful and demented. Disturbed. “You’ve only found one.”

Your blood runs cold.

Only one? Oneoneoneone, one what-

The realization hits you with a punch to your gut. He’s only detonated one of his bombs. Somewhere, nearby, there must be another.

Without another word, the Mandalorian whips the smaller man around, pulling him sharply by his collar to collide with his breastplate, completely dwarfing him with his beskar frame. “Where is it, X’elo?” Nothing. Only laughter. High pitched, terrible roars. He tries again, patience ebbing. “The bomb. Now.” X’elo’s head tilts back and he howls another crowing shriek, keeping private his own sick joke, as if clutching a secret to his chest with slimy hands.

The bounty hunter had heard enough. He clearly wasn’t getting anything more out of him, and with a quick strike, he rears his blaster and pistol whips the terrorist with it. The body drops. Volcur X’elo crumples, unconscious, blood streaming from where he was struck. You hear the Bardottan behind you stifle a cry with her fist.

And with that, Lothal’s sun disappears completely, stealing away the last of it’s light as it furls into itself, shrinking out of sight. The dark ushers a new wave of dread, creeping over Jortho like a miasma, poisoning the very air.

The Mandalorian wheels around, searching for his heading in the labyrinth of the town. Others have gathered now, poking their heads around corners, stealing glimpses through windows. He turns, his head on a swivel. “Where is your power generator?” he demands, addressing the small crowd, but you’re all too stunned to speak. “Anybody. Generator. Now.” There’s something new in his voice, something muddled, and it takes you a moment to interpret it. It’s desperation, you realize, tinny and deep through his vocoder, and with a surge of adrenaline you move forward, furthering yourself from your group. You swallow. “I-Its this way.” Upon hearing your voice, he spins around, his visor latching on to you, and with a nod you both set out.

“Watch him,” the Mandalorian growls past his shoulder, stepping over the bounty’s limp body.

///

You’re still not really sure how he knew where it’d be, you wonder to yourself, gravel crunching under foot as you both trudge on, an eery quiet settling over them. You’d say it was a lucky hunch, but judging by the way the Mandalorian carries himself, you doubt luck had much to do with it.

You had led him to the power generator hub on the other side of the sad excuse for a city, traveling in tense silence, and when you came upon that tall, bulky machine he sprang into action, circling it until he found what he was looking for. The bomb. You stood back, rooted there, and after some grunting and rewiring— or maybe he just hacked at it with a vibroblade, you had no idea; his wide frame engulfed his work and you couldn’t tell what he was up to, all you knew was that his methods proved successful— the man managed to disarm the second device. You had thought you noticed his shoulders release, slumping with relief, after the red flashing lights on the rudimentary interface flickered and then went dark.

And so here you are. The two of you, bathed in the bright light of Lothal’s twin moons, their bellies hanging full in the blue-black night, illuminating the trail of blood staining the dirt beneath your boots as the Mandalorian roughly drags the body by his ankle behind him— through the exploded rubble, through the fragmented lives of the people around you, already displaced and estranged. They’ll all have to move, you think, pack up their lives, or what little is left of them, and relocate. Again. The thought sinks in you like a stone, sobering you.

Even with the weight of a fully grown man to lug, the bounty hunter is still a few long strides in front of you and your eyes are trained on the unconscious form, taking in the way his mouth lolls open like an animal, his hair matted with thick blood, eyes rolled back into his head. You’re talking out loud before you even realize it.

“How sick do you have to be,” you mumble, transfixed. Your voice, it’s not angry; no, shock has effectively robbed you of that— it’s not anger, but bewilderment. Quivering, broken bewilderment.

“H-How hoodwinked and warped you’d have to be, how disturbed... For you to think like that. To do all... all this...”

“Hey,” his gruff voice shakes you from your trance, and you blink up at him, tearing your eyes off the body. “Focus,” he urges, and you can only nod dumbly back at him, suddenly feeling a ripple of nausea slither through you.

The ramp to his ship is lowering as they come upon it and you plant yourself at the base, feet seeming to stop on their own accord, and frankly you’re not really sure why you’ve even followed him this far in the first place— always a step behind him as he hauled his bounty all the way through the vestiges of Jortho, across the arid prairie to where he first touched down. Maybe it’s because you feel untethered, unmoored, and all of his steeled surety is like a lighthouse, a beacon, guiding you away from the rocks.

He heaves X’elo up the ramp and you’re left standing there, staring unseeingly into the durasteel, becoming more and more aware of the ringing in your ears. The longer time passes, the more it’s as if you’re underwater, the background blurring into the foreground, sound gargled and far away. A high pitched buzz pinches your ear drums, and it takes you a moment to realize the Mandalorian is calling out to you, trying to get your attention.

“— Dala.”

Does he sound annoyed? Kriff, you think he might... If you had your wits about you, you might be able to recognize it. But as it stands, you don’t. You’re not here, not all of you. You’re splintered. Suspended.

“Hmm? Sorry, what..?” Your mouth is as dry as Jakku— parched desert tongue darting across your cracked lip, tasting soot and ash and something metallic. Brow furrowed, you touch a shaky finger to the flesh and when you pull it back, crimson red dots your skin.

Oh, you think, numb. Huh.

Your eyes skitter back up to the Mandalorian, towering over you, nearly at the apex of the incline, and his stance is broad and his fists are clenched. You’re almost positive he’s glaring down at you through his visor, and you don’t even know the man, can’t even see his damn face, but you can tell he’s peeved— Maker, just how long had you been ignoring him?

A scratched noise comes through his helmet’s vocoder and his next words are clipped, punctuated. “I said, do you have a way off this skug hole?”

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svltburn · 3 years

Text

Potions, Pills, and Medicines

Summary: Gallavich Witch ficlet, requested by @grumpymickmilk, inspired by this. Title from Bleed Magic by I Don't Know How But They Found Me

Ship: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich

Word Count: 831

Read on AO3

When it happened the first time, three months ago, it had just been a mild inconvenience. A new neighbor had signed a lease across the hall from his apartment and Mickey had spent the entire week watching a never ending parade of family and friends wrestling items up the stairwell and into his new neighbor’s apartment.

It happened four days later. A stranger showed up on Mickey’s doormat at ass o’clock in the morning - The clock said 10:00 AM, but the clock was a liar. - rousing him from his sleep with their incessant pounding on his door. If they were deterred by Mickey’s sleepy appearance, they hadn’t shown it.

As soon as the door opened, they announced, “I think I need to hex my husband. You can do that, right?” Mickey blinked. Likely misinterpreting the confused silence for judgement, they continued, “I don’t wanna kill him or anything! We have three kids, I’m not trying to be a single parent or anything, but I know he’s cheating, and when he’s not sleeping with his best friend, he’s gambling away our whole savings account and I just wanna… I don’t know! I figured that’s where you would come in. You can help me, right?”

Mickey’s mouth was hanging open stupidly, entirely unsure what he was supposed to say to this stranger who showed up to unload their marital problems in the hallway outside his apartment on a Saturday morning.

“You’re Ian, right?” They asked, pulling their phone out and tapping around a bit before turning it to show the screen to Mickey. “I saw your ad online.”

As if on cue, the door directly across from Mickey’s opened, and his newest neighbor leaned against the door frame, in a fucking floral suit jacket of all things, one arm stretched above his head and a slight smirk on his face as he made eye contact. He reminded Mickey of a cat.

“I’m Ian,” He offered, extending a hand across the hallway as soon as his apparent customer turned to face him.

They took his hand and shook, but turned to look back at Mickey once they dropped it, then slowly between the two of them. “Wait… You’re the witch?” They asked, pointing at Ian.

“Try not to sound so fuckin’ shocked by that.” Mickey grumbled.

But since he wasn’t the one providing the service here, Mickey was now being ignored. He took that as a cue it was socially acceptable to leave, and closed his door to the sight of his new neighbor - Ian the Witch, apparently - stepping back to let them into his apartment, asking, “So tell me more about your husband?”

So three months ago, it had been a mild inconvenience, but now it was just plain annoying. Upwards of thirty people a week were showing up at all hours of the day, knocking on his door and unloading their problems on him, inquiring about magical solutions before Mickey even got the chance to point them across the hall.

It had been about an hour since the last knock, and Mickey was just getting up to get another beer to relax with when there was another light tap tap tap coming from the front of his apartment. “Fuckin’ hell, it’s seven pm, don’t you people have families to get to dinner w- Oh.”

Ian stood on the other side of the door when he opened it, smiling with that same glint in his eye that had always struck Mickey as distinctly feline. “I do have someone to get to dinner with, actually.” Okay, maybe the fact that Ian practically purred at him every time he greeted him contributed to the cat comparisons, too.

Mickey stepped back to let Ian into his apartment, kicking the door closed so his hands were free to tug him down into a kiss. A kiss, of course, which got carried away and left Ian having to peel himself away from Mickey before they ended up tearing each other’s clothes off and going at it on the couch. Again. They’d already had dinner cold twice this week.

When they separated, Mickey ran a hand through his hair in a blind attempt to flatten it. Still panting, he teased, “You know, I’m startin’ to think you’re putting my address in your ads instead on purpose.”

“Mm. No, it’s my address. I think people are just naturally drawn to you.” As he spoke, Ian reached out and tucked his fingers in the waistband of Mickey’s jeans so he could tug him closer again.

“Yeah, after you fuckin’ lead ‘em here.” Mickey replied, but there was too much fondness hidden under the annoyance in his voice for Ian to take him seriously. He crossed his arms over his chest, but let Ian tug him close and press against him. “You want dinner or not?” “Absolutely,” Ian answered, hand trailing down Mickey’s side while he leaned down for another kiss.

Dinner would be cold for the third night this week.

#ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #shameless #shameless us #shameless fanfiction #gallavich #gallavich fanfic #gallavich au #witch au #witches #this could count for a.u.gust but idk how to tag it lol #benja writes

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kylorengarbagedump · 3 years

Text

Defy Your Authority: Chapter 4

Read on AO3. Part 3 here. Part 5 here.

Summary: David Rose voice: Oh, my god!

Words: 3200

Warnings: dude

Characters: Kylo Ren x Reader

A/N: First: Thank you to @bastila-ren and @elmidol for their beta-kindness.

I'M ALIVE. I got super burned out at my job, took 5 weeks of FMLA, got incredibly depressed, but now I'm back! Very thankfully, my COVID symptoms were extremely mild. Thank you very very much for your well-wishes and your concerns.

I wish I could express enough apology for my lack of activity, but hopefully uploading a chapter is thanks enough. You all have been so supportive and kind to me. I am SO thankful and appreciative of everything y'all offer me!

(as a side note: I know some people do not like dude, that it throws them out. I am very sorry, but in the politest way possible: I am not going to stop using it. I like it too much.)

I also hope you enjoyed the chapter! God I wonder what's going to happen next chapter. I just don't know.

Love you all so much <3

“Piece of shit.”

Growling, you tugged out another panel from the silencer’s dash. At this point, about a dozen slats of buttons boxed you into the pilot’s seat, crowding you in the cockpit. All of them looked flawless upon inspection, and this new one was no exception. Wires were attached and the circuits were complete, every switch was grounded. You’d gone over a handful of systems already, trapped in this cockpit for hours. The silencer’s refusal to function made no sense. There had to be something you were missing.

The memory of smoke and flames licked at the perimeter of your mind. Yeah, there was a lot you were missing.

Pain burrowed, opened a well in your chest, and you shook your head, rubbing your tired face. There wasn’t time to think about anything else. Sitting forward, you started reattaching the panels to the console. You needed to focus on this. Even though the answer to where you’d go and what you would do once you were finished remained nebulous. Even though you were now apparently unknown and unloved by almost everyone in the universe, including the one man you’d waited on for months.

You caught a sigh in your chest, exhaling into your palms, shutting out the urge to cry. Crying right now was a waste of time. You still had about fifty systems to check, and you’d only read through about half of Kylo’s post-flight novella. Swallowing, you grabbed your datapad from the seat and flipped to the report, forcing yourself through the urge to skim.

It wasn’t like you weren’t interested. Normally this sort of thing was like a buffet for your freakish little brain. But you kept tasting embers on your tongue. Kept seeing your crew--completely unarmed, helpless fuel outpost workers--drowning in destruction. Kept hearing Hux’s voice: Multiple Resistance fighters… Heat gripped your neck, clogged your throat. Multiple fighters for a tiny station. Multiple fighters against three soft, fleshy bodies.

The First Order was not your creed; just your employer. The machine of war had always been an inconvenience to the prestige of working on elite starfighters. You knew that the loss of three cogs was nothing to that machine. In the past, it’d been nothing to you too. But you’d never eaten meals or laughed with or supported those lost cogs when they’d cried. This loss wasn’t just to war. This loss was horrifically and uniquely yours.

“Stop.” You shook your head, tossing your datapad back on the seat. You’d finish putting the console back together, then you’d figure out what to do next.

Jaw tight, you grabbed another panel, and your grip slipped. The sharp edge sliced your palm where the wood had lanced you earlier.

“Fuck!” You dropped it and clutched your hand, seething while you tried to squeeze away the agony. Everything from your fingers to your wrist throbbed, and your chin quaked, tears burning your sight. “Fuck! Fuck!” Snarling, you kicked the panels at your feet. “Fuck!”

The thin cut felt like a sobbing gash. You tore off your jacket and wrapped the sleeve around your palm, wincing when you tightened it to the wound.

“Stupid fucking panels!” you growled, kicking the panels again. “Stupid fucking ship, stupid fucking Kylo, stupid fucking Resistance!” The final kick dented a panel, popped off a shiny button. “Gods!”

You covered your face in your jacket and screamed until your throat crackled, until your lungs were dry. Head spinning, you drew in a breath and screamed again, stomping the floor until dizziness dropped you into the pilot’s chair. Warmth glowed at your cheeks, leaked down your back. Tremors rippled to your toes as you took in a long, steadying breath, exhaling in reluctant relief.

You considered sitting there forever. But it only took two seconds for you to remember how Kylo also sat in this chair thinking of and dealing with everything that wasn’t you before you grunted and climbed out of the cockpit.

The rest of the hangar seemed wholly unconcerned or otherwise ignorant to your tantrum. Wiping your eyes, you hopped to the ground, wagging off the lingering fury in your limbs. Maybe you just needed a walk. You cleared your throat and kept your hand clutched to your chest, the whispering ache pulsing in rhythm with your heart.

In all the hours you’d been in the cockpit, the Steadfast had continued to orbit Orinda. Xi-class shuttles whirled beyond the hangar entrance--probably staffed with crew collecting reconnaissance from whatever the Resistance left behind from the attack. Your feet carried you to the fuzzy blue edge of the magnetic shield’s barrier, meters from vacant space. A quiet hum resonated from its perimeter through your soles.

You gazed into the galaxy. Orinda was a glimmering grain of sand, adrift in the celestial trenches. A fuel outpost turned graveyard. An acceptable casualty of the Resistance. Another home where you couldn’t return. That whispering ache rumbled to a hiss and cast itself over your skin, raking it over with misery, with exhaustion. Your chin quivered. The only place you could think to sleep was the silencer. Eyes falling to the floor, you turned back to the hangar.

“My quarters.”

You squealed and jumped, clapping your hands to your chest. Feet away stood Kylo Ren.

“Shit!” you said, exhaling in relief. “How the hell do you do that?” When he said nothing, you continued, “Like, sneak up on me like that.”

“You’re not perceptive.”

You frowned. “Okay, well…” He wasn’t wrong. You sighed, shrugged. “Anyway.”

Kylo stepped forward, assessing you in your tank top, scrutinizing the tourniquet you’d made of your jacket. “Your hand.”

“It’s fine,” you said, holding it behind your back. “Your quarters?”

His stare lingered on your exposed shoulders, on your neck. “Stay,” he said. “Until the silencer is repaired.”

“That could be as early as next cycle.”

“Given your skill, yes.”

It was difficult to look in his direction. Every worn nerve screamed for his touch. “And then what?”

“You’ll depart to another station.”

You tried to flush the pain from your voice. “So,” you said, “you want me to stay with you through, like, one cycle, and then leave.” You looked to the ceiling in faux-consideration. “Cool. I think I’ll pass.”

Kylo’s eye twitched. He moved closer, tone icy. “You have nowhere to sleep,” he said. “I…” He paused. His tongue rolled in his mouth. “You mean to tell me you prefer the silencer.”

“Well,” you replied, “I’ve never fucked the silencer. I never told the silencer how I felt about it. The silencer has never treated me like a stranger who just walked off the plains of Lothal.” You tapped your chin. “So, yeah, I prefer the silencer.”

He grit his teeth. “You’re no stranger.”

“Sure could’ve fooled me!” A couple of heads turned in your direction.

“Quiet,” he hissed. “It apparently takes very little for you to be fooled.”

“Excuse me?” you replied. “Run that by me again, Supreme Leader?”

“Now your hearing fails you.”

“This is great.” You offered a false smile. “This conversation is going really well.”

Kylo snarled, shoulders bunching with restraint. “You speak this way and then question why you’re unwelcome,” he replied. “Deaf and foolish.”

“Oh!” A frustrated laugh escaped. “Okay, then. Talk to you later, Your Excellency. I need a nap before I keep trying to fix your dumbass ship.”

Shaking your head, you folded your arms over your chest and stormed past him, anger blurring your vision. Stupid fucking asshole--

You made it three steps before a warm leather glove grabbed your shoulder, and you stalled, goosebumps shooting to your hands. Kylo spun you, your face inches from his, your breath fleeing and forgetting to return. His lips trembled, his jaw tightened, his gaze boring into you before it met the floor, seeking to stare anywhere else. The pressure of his fingers was firm, then floating. And then he swallowed, grip crushing your shoulder, his eyes finding you again.

No one else in the hangar would’ve known, looking at him. But this Kylo Ren was familiar to you.

This Kylo Ren was terrified.

“I don’t…” His voice was a feather in the air. “You are…” He averted his attention, stiffening. “You have a home.”

Your chest swelled. Water stung your eyes. “I do?”

“Yes,” he replied, utterly sincere. “But not here. Not now.”

Hairline fractures crept into your heart.

“Kylo.” Your composure cracked. All of you wanted to melt, to disintegrate into his being and know each word trapped on his tongue. There was a reason you could not find him, that he would not unfold himself to you. “Please. Why do you want me gone so badly?”

His lips parted, as if he were about to speak--and he paused. He drew in a breath through his nose. “Complications,” he replied. “Factors you do not understand.”

You stepped closer, throat tight. His breath brushed your nose. “Tell me, then.”

Kylo huffed, shifting on his feet--and his face froze. His limbs locked, muscles taut. His gaze widened, fixated on something over your shoulder. Air leaked from him, like time was slowing to a close. You blinked, looked behind you. But nothing was there.

Frowning, you cleared your throat. “Kylo?” He didn’t even acknowledge you. “You’re really just going to leave it like that?”

His pupils were pinpricks.

It wasn’t like you were heartless. You knew that he was attempting wasn’t easy. But what you were feeling wasn’t a sail on a skiff either. You didn’t just deserve more. You needed it.

“Okay,” you said, backing out of his hold. “This was nice. But I have a TIE fighter to repair. So.” He didn’t respond. Didn’t even move. “Whatever.”

You turned--Kylo’s focus flicked to you. His mouth dropped, like there were words he wanted to and couldn’t speak. Instead, he remained silent, fury simmering in his gaze while you pivoted away. You didn’t say anything either. You didn’t think you had to.

When you arrived at the silencer, you clambered into the cockpit, like it was a hole you could hide in until he disappeared. Shame, stubbornness, or surrender--you imagined one of these was responsible for why he didn’t pursue you, but you didn’t care. This ship repair would be your parting gift to him, and you could take off, probably spending the rest of your life wondering how you’d managed to fuck up your affair with the galaxy’s most ineligible bachelor.

Loose panels still swarmed the pilot’s chair. You sighed and put on your jacket, settling in and throwing your feet on the dash. Your hand thumped with irritation as you closed your eyes.

Just a couple of hours. That’s all you needed. Then you’d keep working like the foolish little--

Clank.

You yelped, flinching in your seat.

Clank.

Heart fluttering, you scanned the cockpit before realizing the noise came from outside the ship.

Clank.

It was behind you. Someone was messing with the refuel port. Or the solar lines. You couldn’t tell. Grumbling, you scrambled out of the chair and hoisted yourself up the escape. If they were fucking up this stupid ship even further--

Clankclankclank.

“Hey!” You popped your head free. “Will you...”

For a split second, you’d thought Kylo had decided to rip the solar line access open and tear into his own power supply. But then your vision focused. The man crouched over the ship was a different intimidating masked man dressed only in black. Your stomach twisted. It was the one from the Buzzard. The one who’d shoulder-checked you.

“Kuruk.”

His head whipped in your direction, the talons of his predator’s gaze gouging your chest. He pulled his hands free of the solar lines, his gloves greasy with reactant.

“Lieutenant.”

Previously you’d thought absolutely no one but Hux could spit that word with that degree of acidity. But if Hux spat it like acid, then Kuruk hocked it--dragged it up through his throat and sputtered it like necrotic phlegm.

You crawled onto the dorsal plane with the coordinated majesty of a blurrg, trying not to heave and ruin any level of authority you might have tricked him into thinking you maintained. When you’d made it to both feet, you straightened, as if you did this all the time, and moved toward him.

“What are you doing?”

“Repairing a starfighter.”

You snorted. “Really,” you replied. “Tearing out a power supply is repairing?”

Kuruk jerked his arm, wrenching free another line, spewing collector dust into the air. “Closer to repairing than sleeping in the cockpit.”

Heat rushed your spine, swathed your neck. “Yeah, well…” You examined him, watching as he cocked his head to avoid the blinders attached to his helmet. “At least I can see properly when I work on a ship.”

“Magnification’s built into the visor.”

More heat, this time crackling in your cheeks, drying your tongue. “Look,” you said, “this is my job. I don’t need amateurs screwing it up for me.”

He paused, turned his gaze on you again. “Amateurs?”

You shrugged. “In comparison, yeah, probably.”

Kuruk leaned on his heels, wiping his gloves on his jacket. “I don’t think so.”

“Uh, I do.” This man looked like a weapon. Not an engineer. “What experience do you have?”

“It’s called the Night Buzzard,” he replied. “You might be familiar with it.”

You paused, brow raising. “You…” It was impossible to restrain your laughter. But he didn’t move. “You’re kidding. Right? That’s a joke.”

Kuruk’s hands tensed.

“Dude, that ship’s the ugliest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” you replied. “Did you modify it with a boiled chokeroot?”

His head tilted. He rose to stand, so controlled he looked to be fighting gravity. “I can do more work with a boiled chokeroot than you can do with an entire Star Destroyer’s worth of resources,” he drawled. “Lieu. Tenant.”

The hair on your nape stuck straight, your pulse leapt to the ceiling. But the knowledge that Kylo was within thinking distance abated your fear.

“Might wanna get one then.” You grinned. “You’re not making much progress here without it.”

He stared, filthy fingers furling into fists--and then relaxed, the tension sloughing like reactor slime from his frame. Silent, he returned to a squat, rending more lines from their channels. For some reason, a tiny, irreverent part of you was disappointed.

No, that was a lie. You knew why you were disappointed. But this man wasn’t the one you wanted to be taunting into a wild sexual rage. Exhaling, you crossed your arms.

“It’s still my job,” you said.

“And I’ve been told that once it’s done, you’ll be gone.”

“What?” You gawked. “What the fuck? You, too? I didn’t even do anything to you!”

“Debatable.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re mad because your Master didn’t want you to disrespect an officer.”

“No.” Kuruk’s attention snapped to you. “You’re loud.”

Blood drained from your face. “I’m…”

Moments blinked in your memory like a holodrama. Like how you’d spent the entire time aboard the Buzzard thinking about Kylo slamming you against the dashboard and breaking your pussy open. How you’d mentally undressed him, verbally taunted him, physically ached for him. How you’d blazed with hatred for him and stoked it with longing. And how you’d just noted that you were desperate to wind him into a state of frenzied lust so he’d wreck you entirely.

“Oh, fuck.” You glanced at the hangar’s entrance and wondered how quickly you could hurl yourself into the vacuum of space. Speaking of hurling… “Oh, fuck.”

You couldn’t spare Kuruk another glance. With shaking hands, you fumbled your way to the ground, steadying yourself on your weakening knees. There was no way you were going to spend another minute on this ship trying to fix a starfighter while getting thought-eavesdropped by multiple men, one of whom seemed hell-bent on doing your job for you anyway.

All you needed to do was find General Hux and get him to reassign you to another station. You’d figure the rest out later when you had time to process your myriad of losses and crippling rejection. You held your breath the entire trek to the command center, only releasing when the doors opened and you spied Hux at the head of the room, briefing someone on something you didn’t care about.

Wiping your forehead, you trudged over to him. Hux’s gaze darted between you and the other officer, his brow furrowing as you approached.

“A moment,” he said to the man. “Can I help you, Lieutenant?”

Yeah, it definitely sounded worse out of Kuruk’s mouth. “Can I get a new station? I, uh, I need a new station.” The officer peered at you in horror. You coughed, standing at attention. “General. Requesting a new assignment, sir.”

Hux’s lips pursed, his eyes narrowed. “The silencer is already repaired?”

“Uh, no. No, sir, it’s not.” You stared at your shoes. “Still requesting a new assignment. I believe my work here is complete.”

A pause hung in the air. Hux observed you like you were a recently apprehended criminal. He sighed.

“Dismissed, Captain.” He waited for the man to depart before turning to you. “What do you mean, your work here is complete?”

It was hard to find the appropriate words. “I mean. Uh. Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“No.”

You groaned. “Okay.” A long breath, flooding your lungs with air. “Well. My services are no longer required. My presence is redundant. I cannot return to Orinda. I’m requesting another station.” You exhaled. “Sir.”

Hux’s pink face pinched together. “Something happened with Ren.”

Warmth flushed your neck. “Uh, no--”

“Lieutenant,” he said, like the words were thorns on his tongue, “I unfortunately believe your insight and skill may still be of use to the First Order.”

“Sir?”

“The TIE project has been approved. You may be just the person to manage it.”

You balked. “Oh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea--”

“No?” Sharp green eyes pierced you into silence. “I thought you might leap at the opportunity, considering how cruelly the Resistance slaughtered your staff.”

Your heart clenched, your chest speared with pain. Better TIE units wouldn’t save them. But you could at least ensure their loss wouldn’t be in vain. Though you’d never supervised an undertaking of that scale before, the excitement of a challenge glittered in the distance. Glittered, then dimmed under a brooding, Kylo Ren-shaped shadow.

“Well…”

Hux glanced away, gazing through the thick panes of transparisteel, as if offering you any more praise would blind him. “Go to the Supreme Leader. Inform him of my plans.” He offered a slight shrug. “If he disagrees, then so be it. We’ll find you a new station.” The thought was left unfinished--he seemed very confident Kylo would not disagree.

Too bad you disagreed with him. “Yes, sir,” you replied. “I understand. Where might I find the Supreme Leader?”

Hux frowned. “Am I his keeper, Lieutenant?”

A brief, blissful image of your fist connecting with his chin flashed through your mind. You shook it away.

“No,” you said. “No, sir. I’ll find him. Thank you.”

He nodded. “Dismissed.”

Shooting him a glare, you pivoted on your heel, marching out of the command center. All you needed to do was find where Kylo Ren might be by searching the entirety of this huge Star Destroyer. That would be easy.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren fanfiction #kylo ren #defy your authority #fya2 #fanfiction problems #GOLLY-GEE WILLIKERS

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just2bubbly · 3 years

Text

Perfect Now

Masterlist

TLC Ship Week 2021!

*written for tlcshipweek2021- kaider for prompt 'Song Day AU'

@kaiderforever

Summary:

He keeps the crown on her head making sure to not disturb her intricate yet beautiful braid.

"Now you, My Queen are perfectly ready!"

...

Last minute panicked thoughts can make a person desperate for escape, a mildly insecure Cinder looks for comfort in her boyfriend- one who is having a trip down his memory lane.

Ship: Kaider

Words: 2k

Genre: Hurt- Comfort, Trip down a memory lane

Prompt: 'Song Day AU'

Song: Perfect Now by Louis Tomlinson

*Post Winter

A/N: Some mild changes are made in the song lyrics to meet the Cinder's characters.

Bold Letters are Song Lyrics

Italics are memories

Plain words are present

Kai's Perspective:

You say to me your jeans don't fit You don't feel pretty and it's hard to miss

"Kai, I don't think this is a good idea- like I feel we should just stay inside..."

"Cinder, you do seem to realize that you are the one hosting the party?" he asked only to receive a nod for confirmation as she examined herself in the mirror.

"I don't think you can ditch your own party, one which has so many international leaders in it at least."

"Can't you just go and tell them I'm sick or something like that?" she lamented.

Now, this took him by surprise, Cinder had put hours and minutes to make the State Dinner cum Lunar Ball a success and seeing how she wanted to last-minute ditch it was strange.

"Hey, everything okay?" he questioned, standing behind her.

"Yeah," she said, offering him a short smile, "Just stressed out to back out last minute."

I wish that you could see my point of view As someone staring back at you

Nudging his head in the crook of her neck, he placed his lips at the base of the collar bone, "Don't worry, you would do good!"

"Easy for you to say- I'm panicking on the inside! This is my first time trying to act like royalty. I'm even wearing a pretty dress hosting a big parade of leaders like the Queen of Luna. I just don't want anyone to think I'm the incompetent Queen who has no idea of what ruling a country is- I really don't want to come out as a fool to anyone," she rambled.

"Cinder, look at me," he asked and stared into her eyes, "You will do fantastic and not come out as an ignorant ruler to anyone. I will be there to help you through it remember?"

"I don't think asking you how to use the cutlery at the dinner table is the best thing to do to make an impression," she sassed him.

"Now that depends on the person sitting near you- you won't want Queen Camilla seeing you be unroyal enough to not know how to hold your spoon now would you?" he retorted.

"Well, I'm worried about that too," she admitted, clearly going back to the same topic from which Kai was trying to drive her away.

Sighing he asked, "Is this because of what happened the day before yesterday?"

Reluctantly she nodded her head, her reflection seen in the mirror before them.

"C'mon no one cares even in the slightest if you hugged me before all the masses of people and journalists, I have heard we are quite trending in today's news-"

"Kai, you are not helping!"

"Maybe you could go for a kiss next time," he suggested.

"Ha, as if I would, after what happened?!" she exclaimed.

"Who cares about what Camilla and Andrea think anyways?"

Cinder had made a nice fuss in her own mind trying to regret her decision of bear-hugging Kai before everyone, which on his part he was delighted about. And maybe Queen Camilla and Prime Minister Andrea had been a bit too loud about speaking of Cinder's rash actions.

"Hmm.. yeah. Obviously, I do," she said, clearly not paying attention to her words.

"Did you sleep yesterday?" he asked.

"A little bit," she hesitantly admitted.

"How long?" he demanded.

"A few hours maybe-" he shot her a glare which did its work as she answered,"- two hours."

"Stars above, if not for this ball. I would have put you to bed."

"What's the hurry, Kai?" she asked, making the tips of his ears flush light pink.

"Okay- okay. I think you are fine now that you want to flirt with me!" he affirmed.

She smirked and moved around to face him, setting her hands on his shoulders and laughed, "Scared of me, are you, Emperor?"

He pulled her closer, holding her in a warm embrace and whispered, "Aren't you wickedly evil, Your Majesty?"

He leaned in closer, capturing her lips with his own, tasting the red lipstick she had put. Before they could initiate anything more intimate, there was a knock on the door followed by Iko's voice, "You two should really come out before someone makes the right assumptions about what you are doing in there!"

Now this made both of them flush with embarrassment as they gave flustered looks towards the door anticipating the arrival of Iko inside. She never came saving them both from a lot of discomforts.

"Well, I think we should get going?" he questioned.

"Yeah, I think I need a moment," she replied.

"Then I would-"

She cut off his words, asking," Would you please stay here?"

"Uh- Sure, Cinder," he replied.

"Thank You, Kai." She said looking relieved.

He decided to sit on the armchair till she picked herself up to look like a regal Queen. With silence for his only companion, his mind wandered around, thinking about the person standing a few feet away from him.

One Friday night when we're all out I turn to you and you're looking down And you don't wanna dance I know you love to dance You never stop given half the chance

"He looked at her only to find her avoiding his gaze. Staying back he asked, "Hey, what happened?"

"Uh- nothing!" she lied terribly.

"Cinder are you going to really make me believe that?"

"I don't know but just buy that lie," she pleaded.

"You don't want to get your hands dirty?"

"I don't feel like myself right now."

Surprised he incredulously asked, "You, a mechanic doesn't want to go under a podship and get your hands dirty?"

"No," she muttered.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"You just seem stranger than usual self."

"Trust me, Kai, I don't want to become dirty before my first diplomat meeting as the Queen while another mechanic is already present there," she insisted.

"Fine then.""

Just keep your head up, love, keep your head up Don't hide away, don't ever change

"Kai, do you think I should get a Garan's device too?"

"Well, I don't think you need to have that device. Like irrespective of what people tell you and what you try to convince yourself- you are a Lunar. The Lunar gift is surely fabulous- like don't get me wrong but you can feel someone's bio-electricity, it's sorta a blessing in disguise unless you decide to use it for the wrong purposes- I know you won't do that. Practically, I think it might help in Earth-Lunar political relations if you have the device but it does not really make much of a difference. Winter has it yet stupid leaders think she is manipulating them with her beauty. I think you should not install it- the gift is a part of you. Being Lunar- It is what you are! Don't change it because some angry citizen calls you a Lunar witch. You are what you are and I love you for that!"

"Kai if I would have been there I would have kissed you senseless!"

"Good, I don't deserve anything less after making such a sentimental speech," he said, smirking.

Keep your head up love, keep your head up Don't look away, don't look away 'Cause everybody's looking at you now My, oh, my

That time when she had addressed the issues on cyborgs and Lunar- discrimination on Earth. Her eyes were ablaze with passion as she happens to look determined to make a difference. To change the wrong-doings around her, to change the age-old prejudices in the society- to change the future of both her nation and her kind.

"-I believe that together we can make a difference. I hope the sufferings of people in the society decline and look forward to the situations changing for cyborgs, Lunars and Earthens. I look forward to a world where we can live together harmoniously. I consider that no one is liable for the nature of misery and treatment that my kind has suffered in the past. I trust we can change the world for every one of us- for the better of my kind."

Even when your tears are falling down Still somehow You're perfect now

""I'm so relieved that I can't cry right now."

"Cinder, I told you it would have been fine and I'm sorry... Besides I care- "

"Kai, they happen to call me names. I did not want to look like a sick crybaby before them who cried just because I was called an 'ugly Lunar slash Cyborg','" she fumed.

Seeing how she needed comfort more than ever, he hugged her, drawing circles on her back- trying to loosen the tension in her shoulders.

"Cinder, even if you were ugly crying right now, you would have been the most beautiful person in the world," he reassured, meaning them.

"You are perfect just the way you are!""

You never do but if you asked me to I'd tell the truth lying next to you 'Cause you're the only one When it's said and done You make me feel like being someone good to you

He wondered if he should tell her how beautiful she was. She was the perfect mixture of strength, compassion and determination. She never fetched compliments, never asked Kai how she looked, if she was pretty. That did not stop Kai from showering her with affections that she had been lost on in her early years.

Even at your worst You steal the scene and it's unrehearsed

"Queen Selene Channary Jannali Blackburn was sighted in the outer sector TC-6 helping a young man of 20 named, Mr. Stiton. He tells that he was facing difficulties when Her Majesty encountered him during her tour to sector LM-14. He states that she helped him fix one of the technical difficulties faced while flying a podship. Her Majesty previously had worked as a mechanic in the city of New Beijing. Sources tell she was the best in town."

Kai wondered who these so-called sources were. Somehow Cinder managed to excel at unexpected works- even when she was not trying, she had everyone's attention.

'Every insecurity as a neon sign as bright as day'

"Kai, I really think I should cover my hand! Just pass me the glo-"

"No! You are not wearing the gloves to cover your hand," he denied, making sure to keep the said pair of gloves away from his girlfriend.

"It's so different, not to mention with the hand being gloveless I feel naked, can't you please give me that glove, please," she begged, with a pout.

"Cinder, I said 'No'. There's no way I'm going to let you wear that. Stars- and Iko wanted you to flaunt your leg!" he exclaimed, dragging his girlfriend out.

How could a person as bold and determined and beautiful as Cinder, ever feel insecure?

If you knew what you were to me You would never try to hide away

Cinder, through her own eyes, was an unworthy soul but if she only knew what she meant to Kai- more than just a lover. Within just a year, she was his everything. She was the one- being with her made him whole, made him feel blissful and lively, like all of sudden his life had found its meaning. She was like the water in a desert, the fire in the cold, the chill in the heat. He would convey the depth of his feelings someday- not today. This was a conversation for another day.

I guess some queens don't need a crown And I know why

She looked too good, even powerful without the Lunar crown and Kai finally understood the meaning of, 'Some Queens don't need crowns.'

Still somehow You're perfect now

He keeps the crown on her head making sure to not disturb her intricate yet beautiful braid.

"Now you, My Queen are perfectly ready!"

A/N: Hurt-Comfort Trope or was that too much insecurity!? This I think is the last of my 'insecure' fics.

It was written for 'Song Day AU' using the song 'Perfect Now' by Louis Tomlinson (If you have not listened it by now you better do it right away!) Just Emperor Kai love in his girlfriend Queen Selene- not going to miss a chance to call her perfect now, is he?

I have short-listed too many songs for this prompt and I'm likely going to try to write for all of them.

Be sure to comment and vote.

I do take requests so if you want you can hit me up (I write for Kaider only.)

Taglist: @cinderswrench @gingerale2017 @linhcinder686 @shellyseashell @ladyvesuvia @shelbylmkaider @levanariddle @cindersassasin @kaider-is-my-otp (Tell me if you wanna be added/removed)

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carelessannie · 3 years

Text

lookin for love (in all the wrong places)

chapter five

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

In CA:CW Steve kicks Spider-Man in the chest, awakening a soul deep bond and sending Peter into his first heat, before running away to Wakanda.

The soul bond, omegaverse, Spidershield angsty romance everyone needs.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Peter Parker Chapters: 5/ Chapter word count: 6.5K Fic Rating: E Warnings: mild violence and implied sex trafficking, extreme levels of fluff Read it here on AO3 Title is from this song by Johnny Lee

Steve

The ferry docks in the Åland Islands for a few hours overnight, allowing the two of them to sleep in shifts to be safe. After dinner, they had swept the ship for suspicious persons and bugs, tagging three places around their hallway with ears to keep an eye out for possible threats.

Even with the precautions, Steve feels on edge as they sail in the morning. Neither he nor Natasha get more than a few hours of sleep, and once the sun rises, they decide to spend the rest of the journey on the upper deck. Separating for the duration of the trip, Steve takes the helm while Natasha lounges closer to the stern.

There’s no attack, no threat to be concerned about— so when the ferry docks a few hours later, the two of them are already seated in their car and driving down the off-ramp. Steve takes the wheel first, while Natasha guides him East, following the sun until it sits high in the sky.

They stop at the border to Russia and switch vehicles, easily slipping through as the newly-mated Alpha and Omega couple on their Russian passports.

And if Natasha bats her eyes and gets them a free passage to St. Petersburg, Steve isn’t complaining.

It’s as they’re driving away that Natasha flinches at something one of the border police says under their breath, and Steve raises his eyebrow in question as he steers to merge back onto the highway. If Natasha is showing her reactions, it has to be important.

“They thought…” she pauses, chewing on her lower lip, before starting over, “When they reviewed our documents, they thought you might be my... trophy Alpha.”

“Okay,” Steve says slowly, furrowing his eyebrows, “Is that bad for us?” He doesn’t quite understand what the issue is, or why Natasha might be anxious. The two men— Betas, probably— had given them a suspicious onceover, but otherwise let them travel in peace.

Natasha makes a frustrated noise, “I’m not translating it right. They think you’re my stud— that I brought you in from America or England to… breed.”

Horrified, Steve almost swerves the car off the road. “What— does that happen often?”

“Often enough that they may call it in. It’s not illegal, technically, but if they catch wind of possible trafficking…”

“Oh,” Steve checks the rearview mirror, suddenly all too aware of the surrounding cars and trucks. “What’s our move, Nat? Do you think they’ll actually come after us?”

She shakes her head again, “Best to get to St. Petersburg. We can call Tony from there, and switch out cars. If someone’s on our tail, they’re bound to know where we’re headed anyways. Stark can get us new documents by the time we reach the base.”

“Fine. I assume you know your way around the city?”

“Steve,” Natasha coos, “haven’t I taught you not to ask questions you already know the answer to?”

He shoots her a grin, “Good, then you’re in charge of ditching our ride. I’ll make a few calls.”

“Teamwork makes the dream work,” Natasha murmurs as she reclines in the seat, shifting to give herself a good view of both side mirrors while still seeing clearly out the front windshield. She crosses her feet at the ankle and pulls down the lid of a carefully worn baseball cap. If Steve didn’t know better, he would assume she fell asleep in the passenger seat.

They spend the last two hours of the drive in a tense silence, both of them on high alert. Steve knows from experience that Hydra likes to hide in plain sight— so he scans license plates, calculates distances, and carefully surveys the people in each car, looking for anything out of the ordinary. So far, nothing.

That changes when they enter the city.

Immediately, both of them sit up straighter, scanning the surrounding lanes for a threat.

“Do you—”

“Yes, stay alert,” Natasha hisses. Her hands are digging rapidly through her backpack until they pull out their last international phone. In one swift motion, she destroys it on the dashboard, lowering the window to sprinkle pieces onto the highway, sure to be crushed further by oncoming vehicles.

Steve changes lanes, inching closer to the quickly passing exit ramps. He doesn’t see a suspicious car— no black sedans, no tinted windows— but the feeling of being watched is undeniable.

“Exit here.”

Natasha’s voice is flat, and if Steve wasn’t listening for it, he would have missed the direction. Instead, he steps on the gas and throws the car into the right lane, barely avoiding the traffic cones as he speeds down the single exit ramp.

“Slower,” Natasha is reaching behind him as he merges back into traffic, this time heading West into the heart of the city. “When we get into the city, look for a coffee shop. You’re going to drop me off. Drive around the corner and watch for me— I’ll order you a drink inside and pretend I’m grabbing an item from my car. Instead, you will switch places with me, and sit outdoors drinking what I order. Keep your eyes up, run if you need to. I’ll rendezvous within an hour. Got it?”

“Got it,” Steve confirms, already slowing down as they breach the populated city limits. It isn’t long until he’s pulling up to a small café and Natasha is sauntering down the sidewalk, drawing any nearby attention to herself as he swings the car around back.

Traffic is thick, stifling, and he’s grateful to have the intel portion of this operation. Within five minutes, Natasha is in his rearview mirror, and he steps out of the vehicle to offer her the wheel.

He pulls his own hat lower to shield his face before slipping into the coffee shop, sidestepping immediately and settling into a corner table. There are three other patrons, all scattered throughout the space and engaged in the work in front of them. No threats yet.

“Peter?” a heavily accented voice calls, and Steve has to stop himself from flinching. It’s a common name— he needs to get himself under control. The voice calls out, “Peter?” once more, just as a tall, well-built man strides through the door, walking up the counter and picking up the drink.

The man turns around, “Huh. Didn’t know you were goin’ by Peter these days.”

“Sam,” Steve breathes, meeting his friends’ eyes with a shocked smile. He jumps to his feet and pulls the other man into a hug. It’s shakey— both of them chuckling and holding on tight— but the embrace is warm and feels like home.

“The hell are you doing here?” Steve grabs his arm, steering them both outside and towards the patio. “Not that I’m not grateful to see you, but… how did you find us?”

Sam shoots him a disbelieving look, placing the coffee cup between them before reclining back in his seat, “I got a tip a few days ago— something about Hydra and a base nearby. Stark got me a ride over yesterday and said I could plan on intercepting you here.”

Something in his face turns thoughtful, “You seriously didn’t see Redwing on the way in?”

“Uh,” Steve sorts through the details of their fast paced cut into the city, but can’t remember Sam’s drone being anywhere in sight.

Sam chuckles, “I followed you from the moment you entered the city— c’mon, you can’t tell me you didn’t see him, not with the way you were driving.”

“Dammit, Sam,” Steve curses. “We thought…” and then he laughs, slumping back into the patio chair and scrubbing his face. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

Sam spreads his arms wide, and gives Steve his widest, most charming smile, “Takes one to know one, Cap.”

There’s a beat of silence as Steve sips his drink— it’s perfect, not that he expected anything less from Natasha. Sam looks good, if not a bit tired. The smile on his face is practiced, and Steve knows it’s more for his sake than anything. They’ve never lied to each other, never had the opportunity to, so if Sam is appearing strained and weary, Steve knows he’s supposed to notice.

“Decide not to take a pardon, then?” Steve hedges, watching as Sam raises an eyebrow in amusement.

“No, Steve,” he looks out into traffic, carefully thoughtful, “it’s been a rough few months since Germany, but Sharon and I have been doing some ground work wherever King T’Challa is willing to send us. There’s a lot of shit going down, and— up until now— the only goal I really had was finding you again.”

A rush of guilt hits Steve in the chest, and he winces, “Look, I’m sorry for leaving you—”

“Hey, no— don’t do that,” Sam dismisses him, waving away the apology with one hand, “I knew you had to go to Wakanda, I had other shit that needed to get done.”

“Still, you deserved a better friend than that.”

Sam laughs, but the sound lacks any real joy, “I think we all deserved better than we got.”

There’s not much to say after, and Steve takes a long pull of his drink, trying discreetly to check his watch. Forty minutes until Natasha returns.

And speaking of, “So where did the Widow herself head off to?” Sam asks, checking his own watch. “Thought I’d catch both of you here.”

“Switching out cars. We assumed Hydra was tracking us into the city,” Steve narrows his eyes across the table, and it makes Sam laugh again.

“Damn, well... can’t say I’m sorry. Stark wanted me to keep a low profile until we crossed paths, and…” Sam sits up taller and leans across the table, forcing Steve to meet his eyes, “he mentioned something about keeping you stable.”

“God dammit—”

“Language.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Steve huffs, scrubbing his face with one hand, “why can’t Tony keep shit to himself.”

“Something I shouldn’t know about?”

Sam’s always been good at coaxing answers out of him, and Steve curses the other Alpha mentally for it. Why does he always attract friends who know him better than he knows himself?

“I found my soulmate, Sam.”

Jerking forward, the other Alpha’s eyes grow wide as his hands come down, hard, on the table. “Shit, Steve. When on earth did you have time—”

“I didn’t, Sam. That’s the thing. Fuck—”

He feels rage flow through his body for the first time in ages, and Steve’s hit with a flash of their bonding moment, marred by fear and devastation from his young Omega. He closes his eyes, remembering the residual pain from each heat. Scared and empty and alone.

There’s a hand on his arm, but Steve shakes it off, “Remember the kid Stark brought to Germany? Spider-man?”

“Sure, Bucky and I fought the kid, and he stuck us to the floor.”

“I fought him, too,” Steve sighs, rolling up the sleeve over his left arm to show the bright red and irritated word etched into his skin, “and I kicked him right in the chest.”

Sam doesn’t reach forward to touch. He barely gives it a glance, reaching over to roll up his own sleeve. Steve has to stop himself from growling in sympathy— the writing is black, smudged and illegible.

“Sam…”

With a sad smile, Sam rolls his shirt back in place, “It was years ago— and we bonded in combat. I got a few years with him on active duty, and then I felt when he was shot out of the sky.”

Sam meets his eyes, “Fucked me up good for a few years.”

“I had no idea.”

“I’m better now, sure. Wouldn’t show you if I wasn’t. Just letting you know, whatever you’re going through with this kid— because obviously you’re not with him now— that you’ve gotta value whatever time you get. In our line of business? I’m grateful I got years instead of moments, you know?”

Something clenches in his chest. Steve feels tears prick his eyes. He has to look away, afraid of the suddenly all too real possibility of crying in public. Quickly, he covers it up with a swig of cooling coffee, letting the emotions wash away alongside the bitter, familiar taste.

“I’ve never even met the kid, Sam. All I know is that he’s an Omega, and he has a strong bond with Tony.” Steve sighs, checking his watch again, “We were supposed to be extracted in Oslo, but got the tip instead. I’ll head home to him after we take care of the threat here.”

He can tell Sam disapproves of this choice, but the other Alpha just shakes his head, nodding to draw Steve’s attention back to the street, “Looks like our ride is here,” he chuckles just as a beat up Jeep swerves across traffic, coming to an abrupt stop in front of them.

The window rolls down, and Natasha makes a show of lowering her sunglasses, “Pickin’ up strays, Rogers?”

Both of them stand and approach the car, and Sam smiles as he takes the backseat, “Good to see you too, Romanoff.”

“I hope you brought your uniform,” she muses, swerving back into traffic once both of them are buckled in, “we’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

---

Peter

I think you’d hate my friends, Alpha. I don’t know, maybe not. I think you’d like that they wanna take care of me, even if they’re both little pieces of shit. I bet a visit from Captain America would shut them up. Or… Are you still Captain America, Steve?

Just as Peter finishes the line, the main cafeteria doors slam open. Both of his friends— MJ and Ned— have their arms in the air, gesturing animatedly.

“There you are!”

It’s as if he summoned them. Damn Spidey-senses, never working when he needs them to.

Peter squirms in his seat, “Hey, guys…” he checks his exits, noting quick escape routes. Sure, he’s never actually needed to run from his friends, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. “What’s up?”

Ned scoots into the bench next to him, pressing in close and draping an arm over Peter’s shoulders. MJ takes a seat on Peter’s other side, and both of them give Peter award-winning smiles— terrifying, really. Matching smiles only usually mean one thing.

“Can’t we just hang anymore, Parker?” MJ rolls her eyes, taking a discreet look at the pages in front of Peter on the table.

He quickly closes his notebook, “Sure, sure. I mean, we can hang— we hang all the time,” Peter catches them exchanging a glance, and sighs, “is there something you want? I’m trying to get homework done before practice.”

With a shake to his shoulders, Ned chuckles nervously, “No, no… we’re just looking out— ow!”

Peter looks down. MJ definitely kicked him.

“— I mean, we’re just wondering…”

“You wanna go to a Halloween party, Peter?” MJ cuts in, flicking at Ned’s arm where it’s still draped around his shoulder. Her face is open, fairly honest, and it catches Peter off guard.

“When’s Halloween?” he asks, thankful when Ned pulls his arm back.

The two of them exchange another look, “Uh…” Ned clears his throat, “it’s today, Peter. Today’s Halloween.”

“Oh.” Peter peeks into his folders to check the date on today’s homework, and sure enough, October Thirtyfirst is printed clearly across every page. Huh. He’s usually great at remembering holidays like this. “I wonder why May didn’t say anything…”

“Because,” MJ grabs his backpack, starting to shove notebooks and textbooks back inside, “we asked her to keep it a surprise. And your mom, too. We just didn’t think you were enough of a dumbass to miss the whole holiday.”

“Honestly, Peter, I don’t get how clueless you can be.”

He just nods along, letting the two of them pull him out of the cafeteria and walk towards the carpool lane. Maybe some part of him wanted them to find him today— who knows? Several other, better, hiding spots come to mind, but Peter doesn’t have it in him to protest.

A night off sounds like too much fun.

His mood immediately improves when they step outside. Parked closest to them, dark and intimidating on the curb, is one of Mr. Stark’s cars.

Happy is standing outside, holding the back door open, “Hey, kid. C’mon— haven’t got all day.”

“Oh!” Peter turns to his friends, both of their expressions smug and satisfied, “Please tell me the party’s at the compound? Oh god, I literally have nothing to wear. I have no idea—”

“We’ve got it taken care of,” MJ pushes him from behind, and Ned laughs, motioning for Peter to get in the car first.

“How did you—” Peter slides into the back seat, freezing when he sees who’s waiting for him, “Mama!”

Mr. Stark smiles— wide and genuine— and opens his arms wide. “Hey, kid. Surprise?”

Peter melts into the older Omega’s arms and squirms to get closer, ignoring how his friends laugh and tease him as he does so. Mr. Stark ruffles his hair, and rearranges them as the car starts moving. Ducking under his arm, Peter settles into Mr. Stark’s side and lets his eyes slip shut with the steady movement and noise of chatter in the background.

“You have a good day, Pete?”

He looks up to Mr. Stark and smiles, “It was okay, a lot better now. Did you help plan this?”

“What do you think, bambino? These friends of yours are… passionate.”

The description makes Peter chuckle. He’s fully aware just how passionate his friends can be. They are digging through the amenities stored in hidden compartments, and somehow both end up with a can of soda and several boxes of candy.

Peter ignores them in favor of burying himself into the warmth of Mr. Stark’s scent. There are lazy, calloused fingers in his hair, and he relaxes even more— a pleased purr building effortlessly from his chest.

When they eventually pull up to the compound, Ned and MJ are out in a shot— barreling through the doors and screaming into the empty halls.

Before Peter can leave the car, Mr. Stark grabs his shoulders and turns them to face each other, staring intentionally into his eyes. “If you don’t want to do this, Peter, we don’t have to? I have about fifty people coming over for a costume party, but I can cancel it and we can spend the night just us, if you’d like?”

He takes a moment to actually think it over. His skin is crawling, eyes already heavy with exhaustion. The thought of socializing with more than a few people is turning his stomach, and he looks into Mr. Stark’s eyes with a helpless grimace, “I guess I wouldn’t mind a party…”

“But you’d rather not?” Mr. Stark guesses, giving him a knowing smirk. Peter scrunches up his nose and shakes his head, and gets a chuckle in response, “Alright bambino, let me make a few calls. Why don’t you go inside and coral the animals.”

Peter laughs and leans in to give Mr. Stark a quick peck on the cheek, “Okay, Mama. Don’t work too hard.”

He catches a glimpse of Mr. Stark’s embarrassed flush before hopping out of the car, skipping towards the compound joyfully. Now that the threat of social interaction is out of the way, Peter feels excited about Halloween and the evening ahead of them.

“Ned?” He calls out, “MJ? Where are you guys?”

“Try the Eastern living room, Peter,” Friday’s voice rings out in the hallway, and Peter turns around to race down the corridor in the opposite direction, still calling out their names.

“In here, Pete!” Ned hollers.

When he turns the corner, Peter comes face to face with the classiest Halloween party room he’s ever seen. Every wall is covered in glass decorations, backlit with soft lights in various colors. An entire section of the room has been converted to a wardrobe, and both of his friends are rifling through the options.

Peter gravitates towards them, pushing aside different dresses and masks, “What’s…”

“Look, Pete— I’m you!” MJ has a Spider-man mask pulled down over her face as she laughs, pretending to shoot webs from her wrists, “bet I’d be a kick-ass Spider-man.”

He just shakes his head, “I bet you would, MJ.”

“What about me?”

Both of them turn to look at Ned as he wobbles over, legs and arms shoved haphazardly into the wrong end of a Spider-man onesie. His face is so confident as he stands in the middle of the room, and Peter can’t help the cackle that bursts out of his mouth, bringing tears to his eyes as he keels over in laughter.

“Where did… what did…” he can barely breathe, and looking up again at Ned is just a mistake.

MJ isn’t any better. She tears off the mask and coughs loudly, falling to the floor in a heap, “Ned! Where did you find that?”

“What?” Ned whines, striking a pose that sends them back into a fit of hysterics, “I don’t get how you can fight bad guys in this Peter— I feel too sexy for crime right now.”

“Please!” Peter begs as he wipes away tears, “mercy!”

“What’s all the— oh mother of god,” Mr. Stark’s voice rings out in the room, and it sends all three teenagers back into peels of laughter. He stands at the entrance to the living room with his arms crossed and an indulgent smile stretched across his face, and Peter lets himself roll on the floor and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Peter turns onto his back and lets the tears flow. They drench his cheeks and drip onto the rug, creating small spots on both sides of his head. It feels good— freeing. His next inhale is deep, his mind clears completely, and Peter realizes this is the first time he’s laughed in months. That every time he’s cried in the past few weeks has been full of devastation and sorrow.

Their combined scents slowly fill the room and bind them together as the evening progresses, each of them relaxing further and further into the moment. By the time the sun’s setting, Ms. Potts and Aunt May arrive with delivery, and the small group of them curl up on the couches to watch a Halloween movie.

Mr. Stark and Pepper take the love seat, and— with one last, longing gaze at the small spot in between them— Peter settles into a lump of blankets and pillows on the far end of the longer couch. He keeps a good distance between himself and his friends at the other end, but he can tell that there’s some awkward tension in the room as the movie starts to play.

He tries to ignore it, but Aunt May keeps giving him a look from her seat on a nearby chair.

“What?” he hisses at her, pouting a bit when she smirks.

May points at the loveseat and whispers, “You should sit with them. I know you wanna.”

“Stop!” Peter shakes his head in denial, “I’m not going to—”

“Hey, pup!” Mr. Stark calls from across the room, and Peter flushes. He knows the nickname is aimed at him.

Peter pulls the blankets up around his face, “Yes, Mama?”

There’s a snort from the MJ-Ned-shaped-lump, but it’s ignored. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts exchange a few hushed words before motioning for him to join them, “Come on over, Peter,” Pepper says with a confident smile, “plenty of room to join us.”

He’s up and out of the seat before he even processes moving.

At different points in his life, Peter has imagined how it might feel to curl up, safe and warm, between his parents. Never, in a million years, did he think he would get to experience that.

But the space between Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts feels like home. Scents like home. It’s sweet and warm in a way Aunt May’s Beta scent has never been. Peter has never scented Ms. Potts up close, but he’s not surprised when her scent has him immediately relaxing, melting back into the couch cushions.

The only Alpha he’s ever been close to is MJ, and her scent is terrifying .

Pepper lifts her arm and gives him a small smile, “You comfortable, Peter?”

Words won’t come, his senses are on overload. He feels a hand on his shoulder as Mr. Stark moves him, turning him bodily to lay across their laps with his feet in Pepper’s lap, head on Mr. Stark’s shoulder.

“Just relax, bambino,” Mr. Stark whispers, scratching at the baby hairs behind Peter’s ear, “we’ve got you.”

He lets his eyes close slowly. Both of them are scent-marking him subtly— squeezing his arms and legs, kissing his hair, and laying a blanket over him sometime later. The movie passes by completely unnoticed, and Peter dozes comfortably.

Why can’t every night be like tonight?

As the thrill of the night is fading away, Peter hears Mr. Stark offer his friends a ride back to the city. The two of them are fading as well, and it doesn’t take much convincing to get them out the door and into a waiting car.

May kisses him on the head before she leaves, “Sure you don’t want me to stay, Pete?”

“M’sure,” he murmurs, blinking up at her lazily, “you have work in the morning, right?”

“Yeah, champ. I do. You okay staying the night here, or do you want to head back with me?”

Peter looks back at Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts with a hopeful smile. Both of them laugh, and Mr. Stark waves his hand dismissively, “You know you’re always wanted here, Pete.”

“By both of us,” Pepper adds, squeezing his leg where her hand is resting.

“Alright, alright, I can take a hint,” May chuckles. She leans in for another kiss and Mr. Stark gets up to walk her out, leaving Peter and Pepper together on the couch.

He looks up at her. Everything about Pepper screams an intimidating mix of composure and warmth. Now that Mr. Stark is gone, he can separate their scents— and something about her distinct Alpha scent has him ducking his head, shy and submissive.

There’s a light touch on his arm, “Don’t hide from me, Peter,” her grin is soft and reassuring, “if you feel uncomfortable with me like this, you don’t have to stay— you know that, right?”

Her eyes are kind and not at all judgemental. He believes her doubtlessly.

“We haven’t spent much time together, have we?” Peter asks, hesitantly.

Pepper shakes her head, strawberry hair sweeping gracefully over her shoulder, “No, I don’t think so. Tony does come home smelling of you often, though.”

“Oh!” Peter sniffs his shirt, grimacing, “sorry about that, he helps me…”

“No, don’t worry, Peter,” she places a hand on his shoulder again, “I just meant that I’m familiar with your scent already. Tony even puts some of your items in our nest— I know he wants me to get used to our scents together.”

“Why… why would he do that?”

“Oh, Peter,” Pepper sighs. She shakes her head and leans back against the cushions, “we’re gone on you Peter. We really want to adopt you… at least informally.”

“She’s right.”

Mr. Stark’s voice is loud in the living room as he makes his way back to the couch. With a little bit of maneuvering, Peter is stuck in between them again, and this time he’s resting against Pepper’s chest. Her arms easily settle next to him on the sofa, aware of his space and cautious not to close him in.

“We have a secret plot to adopt and steal you away, kid,” Mr. Stark smirks and kicks his legs up, sipping on a drink as they settle together. “I just needed to get proper approval beforehand, you know?”

Peter hums, and he knows his own scent has gone sweet in satisfaction. The thought of being adopted— having a mom and dad, Alpha and Omega— is overwhelming.

“You promise?” Peter whispers. Part of him is scared of the possible rejection, even though he knows Mr. Stark rarely lies to him.

“Of course, bambino— whatever you want.”

As they cuddle together on the couch, trading hushed stories and sweet laughter, Peter has a thought.

It’s not the most responsible thought he’s ever had. If Mr. Stark digs too deep, he’ll chalk it up to being a teenager, being emotional, being an Omega.

“Mama?” Peter stares up at Mr. Stark with his best puppy-dog expression, and pouts his bottom lip, “Can I ask a favor?”

“I’m suspicious already, but sure— what is it?”

Pepper chuckles behind him, and Peter reaches down to hold her hand for comfort, “Can you get my letters to Steve?”

With a loud cough, Mr. Stark chokes on his drink and sputters. His hands fly up and wave around frantically, possibly looking for something to anchor him. Peter curls further into the shield of Pepper’s body and lets her deal with the aftermath— patting Mr. Stark’s back and criticizing him for being so dramatic.

“In what—“ Mr. Stark starts, coughing hard, “In what universe would that be a good idea, Peter?”

“I... I didn’t...”

“Actually,” Pepper interrupts, interlacing their fingers together, “I think that might be a good idea.”

Mr. Stark looks betrayed, affronted. Peter turns to smile up at her, “Really? You think so?”

“Once your hormones are stable, why not?” Pepper asks, kicking at Mr. Stark when her Omega makes a disappointed face, “It might be helpful for your Alpha to hear from you.”

“Get his head on straight,” Mr. Stark grumbles. His hands are clenched, and he refuses to look at them.

There’s a beat of silence where Peter just stares at Mr. Stark, hoping for an answer. He knows it’s a big favor to ask— but if anyone can get it done, he knows Tony Stark can.

“Fine.”

---

Hi Steven Grant Rogers, God. Would you make me take your name? I really hate that. Maybe I’ll ask you to take my name instead. Mr. Stark said I could send you one letter every month, and that if you respond, I can have that letter back. I hope you respond. Uh... I’m not sure what else to say. My name is Peter and I’m in high school. I know that makes things hard for you, being old as dirt, but I hope when we meet that it won’t be too awkward. I hope you stay safe. I’m finally on suppressants and doing better than I was before. Your words on my arm barely hurt anymore. Okay. That’s all for now. Yours, Peter Benjamin Parker Oh! PS I’ve sent a little sample of what I scent like. Mama said that you would like that.

Tag list (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @purplefreakwolffish @instantsharkskeletonpizza @justslightlycrazy @angelstarker @femmeparker @starkeraddictbaby @starkentrprises @snowstark @sarcastich

#spidershield #lookin for love #lfl #spidershield: lfl #update #fanfic #steve x peter #ao3 fanfic #fluff #found family #no hurt this chapter! yay!#chapter 5 #mcu #rare pair

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ricinbach · 3 years

Text

for the record. | chapter 2 - bravo

it was time you tied the name to the person behind it.

[Day 0, 2011 - 06:50:12, Credenhill, UK]

Modern warfare was a man’s world.

Everyone knew it, everyone acknowledged it. It was as if there was this unvisible barrier surrounding certain aspects of the life, unwritten rules memorized by many soldiers.

No one would speak about it, nor would anyone bother to, but everytime the guns were locked and loaded, fuels of engines were replenished and explosives were strapped - it was one of the many things running rampant in your mind.

Though you had been young compared to the others, having some considerable amount of years of service under your belt had shown you that some truths were indeed hard to swallow. Yet they had to be accepted nonetheless - it was just the way things worked in your line of duty. After all, it had been just one of the many facts of the matter that you were forced to suppres deep down into your subconscious, along with many emotions associated with them.

They taught you how to suck in your much-preserved pride as you crawled in deep gravel and dirt, your skin a mess made out of mud. As you collapsed out of dehydration during the trek in the jungles, only to be pulled back to your feet to face yet another barked order. As you roared in pain when a bullet lodged itself into your flesh, twice as loud as it was pulled out.

They never taught you how not to miss the fallen, the friend and the comrade, or how to forget about those nightmares creeping into your being at night.

It had taken a lot of pondering and controlling your mental before stepping onto that plane and getting flown out to Credenhill. Being placed on the reserve regiment for some time had gotten to you - it felt like an eternity since you had been out in the field, deployed on an assignment. Weeks that had been filled with gathering intelligence and running strategy behind operations would slowly transform themselves into lots of pushups and reloading, that you had absolutely no doubt about.

However, spoken in the silent mumble of your lips, you prayed your body did not betray you - operating behind screens and files was lightwork compared to the drills that you suspected Captain Price would put you through. At some point the muscle memory would kick in, that was for sure, yet what concerned you was how long it would take till that eventually came true.

One step at a time, Sergeant.

It indeed was a beautiful day out. The rays of sunshine out in the vast concrete of the base courtyard emanated within the short sleeves, providing some much-needed warmth and comfort. Not much time had been given as you arrived on base - “get yourself to the range right away, soldier,” were the instructions that had followed the moment your feet touched the earth in the forsaken hours of the early morning.

Task Force 141. Now, that was a nice mouthful for classic selection training, considering the fact that you had been shipped out to the common 22nd Regiment training compound, the choice baffling you. Operating behind enemy lines within a covert squad certainly could not work when you were right where the enemy expected you to be - one of the main training bases of the entire Special Air Service. He must have been planning something substantial yet hidden behind plain sight - it had been impossible to get a word out of the renown Captain ever since he had approached you in London - in broad daylight, much to your added surprise in hindsight.

That meant you would just have to wait and see.

As your light steps took you towards the armory, clad in your gear of tactical shirt and pants with all the holsters strapped in place, there was a certain mix of emotions harbored in your heart and resonated within your being. Some confusion due to the lack of direction in your assignment.

And then, even though faint, came in a deeply-lodged sense of peace. How everything seemed to fit just a bit tighter, a little bit better - the perfect little adjustment to the crooked painting on the wall. The atmosphere of the green hangars and tents, the smell of tank engine fuel with the sound of shell casings dropping, one after the other, in soft clinks. The constant rush and the ever-lasting adrenaline.

There was a certain habituality to it, an accustomed year’s ease and some beauty in the routine of it all - and your soul had apparently longed for it for too long.

Welcome to your new home.

“Glad you made it, Sergeant,” a familiar face would greet you as bright lights hit you upon entering the hangar, his hand gesturing towards the guns laid out on the table. Nodding your head with a small smile, you would oblige.

“I trust you know the drill. Report back to me after you’re comfortable with the rifle - Captain Price wants to see you.”

That made your jaw clench in anticipation, or was it more of a bottled worry? Whatever it had been, it certainly did help as your bullets rained down on target after target, getting used to the weight of the rifle within your hands - while some shots had been a bit lacking, it did not take too many attempts for you to get back into the groove. The metallic sounds of fake targets lowering and the explosions helping you remember.

Footsteps behind you as yet another target went down in a screeching rusty sound. It seemed like he had chosen to watch, after all. “Not bad. Might even be a bit better than the FNG,” Gaz would comment on your shooting - which you believed was his attempt at being as nice as possible - as you turned your body to face him, your grip on the weapon in front of you relaxed. That earned him a little cocking of your eyebrow, tilting your head in a newfound curiosity.

“FNG?”

And there came the words, along with a nod.

“Fresh out of Selection. His name is Soap.”

There it was again. That name. Now, you had heard your fair share of silly little nicknames thrown around to soldiers - the kinds that stuck with them forever. This had to make the list of the best you had heard.

What the hell kind of a name is Soap, anyway?

It was like he read your mind, noticing that silent pause coupled with the upwards curl in your lips - returning the smile lightheartedly as he gestured you to follow him outside. “Weird name, eh? Captain was not willing to take it easy on him,” he commented as he walked alongside you to the far hangar, the fresh air hitting you along with the grumbles and low roars of the armor passing by.

“I bet,” you returned, a slight chuckle on your lips. Your tone growing just a tad bit lower, softer and meaningful just before the comfortable silence of your walk was cut off at the entrance of your destination.

“It’s good to see you, Kyle.”

“Likewise,” he acknowledged, giving you the type of understanding nod shared between old comrades alike - gesturing you to enter through the vast metal doors as you took a deep breath in your slightly nervous state due to the unknowns behind that hangar wall.

Orders were barked, audible even right from the entrance as you heard commotion. A replica of an obstacle course was occupying most of the space, the Union Jack and the SAS emblem proudly hanging next to each other on the far end. Shots were being fired, and you could hear the heavy footsteps sprint down the wooden flooring.

On the left side, which quickly became your next focal point, stood your new team - a few soldiers huddled up and clad in blackout tactical gear, watching the monitors to perhaps gauge how well the soldier running the course was doing. And of course there he was - the signature beard was recognizable from miles away as he leaned into the microphone installed, practically yelling to the intercom even though the poor soldier was most likely double-hearing him with the echoes of his tone.

His voice followed after a couple more final gunshots dropped in the distance - "Sprint to the finish!"

As you advanced towards observation with Gaz announcing your presence, you could not help but note the uniforms. Completely blacked out gear, light waxed material. Fit for a night time operation - in and out, close quarter combat. Relatively not too heavy material that would last in water and land. It made you wonder what your next mission would look like already.

“Welcome back into the fight, Sergeant,” the familiar commanding voice spoke, the blue eyes softening ever so slightly upon the sight of you yet never losing professionalism.

“It’s good to be back, Sir,” came your response, standing still and awaiting orders as you took a look around your surroundings once more - the static of the screens helping just a tad to numb your mind as you felt all pairs of eyes in that room were focused in on you.

Nothing you had not handled before, so you stood up even straighter - and put a brave face, jaw clenched.

“We’ll debrief for the mission ahead once the FNG carries himself over,” he instructed all the others, his tone sounding almost tired of dealing with the new guy, as the other soldiers that you could not really recognize behind the dark fabric chuckled. With the grip on your weapon relaxed, you continued to hold it against your chest like you were trained to do, losing yourself in the gentle upheaval of the base behind you. The smell of cordite coming in closer, it was followed by residual panting and boots against concrete.

“Pretty good, Soap. But I’ve seen better.”

As you searched for the body to finally associate the name to, it did not take long for you to spot yet another pair of blues, these ones a bit stormy and icy in the little specks - piercing nonetheless. Tall, you would note, as his built legs took him towards the monitors you stood near. His chest heaved in a mild rhythm, the weapon clad iron tight in his gloved hands - in the split second that you had gazed at him, you would also spot his mohawk, which he surprisingly sported well.

Oh.

What intrigued your curiosity more was that he was staring right at you too - the clenching of his jaw indicated that he was trying not to, for too long. In an attempt to break the uncomfortable nature of the interaction, he would nod in an almost respectful way, though there had been some sort of light reflecting in his irises.

It was Captain Price’s authoritative voice and the clearing of his throat that brought you back to reality, from that interlude which felt like it lasted almost forever. After a soft nod of acknowledgement thrown at the man, your focus was again redirected back to your officer in command, awaiting your next assignment.

“Listen up - the cargo ship mission is a go. Get yourselves sorted out. Wheels up at 0200. Dismissed.”

A plethora of strong echoes of yes, sir rang throughout the space, the tone intensified at the hinted urgency of the mission. Perhaps you should not have been so surprised when Captain Price called out your name, beckoning you to come hither.

“Sergeant, it’s your turn to run the CQB test. See if you can get the squadron record broken, eh?”

Maybe it was your eyes lying to you in the early hours of the morning but you could have sworn you saw Gaz’s smile from the edge of your vision as he headed out from the hangar, with the FNG trailing right beside him, sunlight seeking to outline his broad back to you, adorned by the weapon strapped down. With no other evident choice presented to you other than following orders, you did so - this time, with much more purpose.

Was it the fact that you trusted Price with your life? Or was it how you fought side by side in the trenches with Gaz, as dirt and bullets rained down over you both? Was it the way the squadron welcomed you in without question nor judgement, without having their eyes trail down all over you laced in other intentions?

Was it the brief eye contact you had with yet another new soldier into the squadron that told you, somewhere deep within your subconscious, that everything would be just fine?

This de novo sense of excitement and vigor within you, originating from an unknown source led you towards the ladder with considerable ease - you would not notice the way Soap’s eyes lingered on you just for the briefest of moments, turning back before stepping out of the sliding doors - before Gaz eventually and practically dragged him out by his arm.

And that night, during the only time he got to write in his journal before the looming mission, Sergeant MacTavish would start, while his memory was still fresh, the hard lines and edges of the very, very rough sketch which would end up as his most prized artwork - a drawing of you.

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#yall im gonna have a happy ending to this #he deserves a happy ending #been writing nonstop #lmk what you think!!!!#i love his eyes so kinda focusing on them lmao #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader #cod reader insert #cod modern warfare #val writes #captain price #writing

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tessiete · 3 years

Text

So, my mum sent me a prompt, and I...I wrote it. Still working on those in my inbox, but mum’s come first, ya know?

She picked Spotify #12 (Love You Back, by Metric), and she wanted Luke and Qui-Gon bonding. I tried, mum, but Korkie just shows up all the time.

Love, your daughter.

LIFT UP, AND FALL AWAY

Luke travels to Dantooine by himself.

It’s been weeks since Bespin, weeks since he’d been released from medical supervision aboard the Dreamless Sleep and weeks since he’d left all its well-meaning but overbearing clinicians behind. He knows he should go back to Yoda, or hunt for the bounty hunter who took Han, or help Leia rally the scattered rebel forces back into order, but instead, he makes his escape.

There is little enough to recommend the planet. It is an outer rim world with no industry or economy to speak of. There are no cities, or monuments, the largest settlements boasting hardly more than a few thousand people and recent rumours suggest a small but growing number of them may be Imperial sympathisers which doesn’t bode well for him: The Miracle of Yavin; The First Hope of the Alliance. He can’t imagine anything like that will be met with particular enthusiasm here.

But even beyond political allegiances, it is a distinctly unappealing place being both unremarkable and largely unremarked. It is off of any useful trade route. It has few interplanetary allies, and only one weak judicial body to govern the entirety of its surface. In fact, the best thing Luke can think to say of it is that it is nearly as far away from Tatooine as it is possible for anything to be.

And far from Dagobah, too.

He brings his X-Wing down in the middle of a grassy plain, and leaves Artoo to run diagnostics on the ship. It’s his second (since he’d abandoned the first in Cloud City), and so lacking in all the alterations he’d so carefully programmed and calibrated into his previous fighter. He’s trying not to think of it as a nuisance, but an opportunity. A second chance. A second ship. A second hand - he smirks at this, and adjusts the blaster at his hip. He needs a second blade.

But there is something else that he must do first.

The sun is high as he sets off, only a small ration pack slung across his chest, and the blaster with him. Artoo’s whistling complaints grow fainter as he goes, until they are drowned completely beneath the whispers of swaying grasses. They are all turned brown. It is late in the year, and so they are filled with the gossip of an entire season. They brush against his legs, eager to touch this visitor and pass on rumours of his presence to their brethren, the trees, whose voices are heard in the rustle of leaves, then carried off on the wind in birdsong.

In the distance, he sees a herd of grazing iriaz, but they move off long before he is close enough to comprehend them as anything more than silent shadows, silhouetted against the sky. They leave prints - wide tracks scratched into dusty earth, and little pools where they have kicked up some water to sustain them. Common havoc kites circle lazily overhead, riding the updrafts on stiff, unyielding wings. They too, take no interest in Luke, and soon disappear in search of prey. The drone of some insect rises and falls and vanishes, its source remaining unseen. It seems to Luke that all of Dantooine is of a beautiful, but uncurious nature, content to live and let live without extending either welcome or censure to those who cross its lands.

It is in this manner, unencumbered by anything but the weight of his thoughts, that Luke finds himself only a few hours later passing beneath the boughs of ancient blba trees to arrive on the doorstep of a tidy stone cottage in the middle of the Khoonda plains. The base is a round structure, supporting another smaller yet equally round structure on top, like buckets of sand packed tight and upturned upon each other. Where they meet, there is a ring of wood slats, angled steeply downward as shingles to protect from run off, the door an old fashioned vertical slide that folds over itself as it springs from the floor to hide away in the crossbeam above. He knocks, and when a man with blue eyes, and gold hair threaded silver answers, Luke knows why Ben’s ghost has asked him to come.

“I’m looking for Kryze,” he says.

“That’s me,” the man replies, his brow furrowed. He keeps one hand on the door, and the other braced against the wall within to lend him strength should he need it, but there is no fear in his voice, despite the blaster he’s clearly noted.

“I’ve been sent to find you,” Luke says, and Kryze sighs.

“Well,” he says, shoulders sagging, and his body shifting to grant Luke admittance. “You’d better come inside.”

The space is warm, the amber light of the afternoon filtering through rippled glass windows to dance over cluttered walls, and overfull shelves. There are plants, bursting from their pots like Tusken black powder on fire. Paintings cover every inch of the wall not taken up with windows or furniture, and canvases lie stacked atop one another in various crevices and corners where space has run out. Books - proper old volumes printed on flimsi, and in some cases actual paper, stand front to back to front in orderly lines high in their cramped cases, regimented troops of education and exploration. Lower down are curiously bent sticks, twisted knots of dry grass, beetle wings, the shed scales of a rosy drayk, leaves of various size and colour, and a small river stone, smooth and black and streaked with red.

“Various treasures,” Kryze explains, as Luke is lost in his perusal. “You can touch them, if you like. Shall I put a kettle on?”

He wipes his hands upon an old rag, leaving streaks of blue and green, tossing it down beside a murky pitcher of water, and several brushes, and it is then that Luke realises he has caught him in the middle of something personal and profound.

“I don’t mean to bother you,” he says. “If you’re busy, I can wait. Or come back. Or -”

“Nonsense,” says Kryze, smiling. The expression is familiar, and Luke smiles back, feeling some common thread strum between them. “I ought to start on lastmeal anyway. We’re having muja dai-ungo for pudding. A favourite, you see, and yet I am the sole chef in this endeavour, since the other beasts which live here are prone to eating the jelly and leaving none for the glaze.”

It is some joke which Luke is not entirely certain of, so he smiles politely but doesn’t laugh as Kryze draws him into the cramped cookroom at the side. Water is set to boil on an ancient hot top, and Kryze sweeps aside a variety of holopads and half-finished string weaves to make space on the countertop. He pulls down two ceramplast cups, chipped and cracked, and smirks ruefully at his guest.

“A hazard of my unfortunate circumstances, you see. They say no plan survives contact with the enemy, and I take it to mean nothing at all survives contact with children. Everything here is somewhat the worse for wear, I’m afraid.” But there is nothing except long-suffering amusement in his voice, as though his pretensions of civility are an easy and happy price to pay for the benefit of such injury.

A shriek, followed by a chorus of laughter tumbles in from outside, and Kryze opens the window for a better view. Luke, overly alert to danger and almost surprised by joy, cannot help but duck his head to look, too.

A woman in long skirts races across the yard, followed by a girl brandishing a stick who looks only a few years younger than Luke, though she feels lightyears away.

“Wait!” calls another voice, high and pleading. As the first two cavort out of sight, a third girl appears, only to stop at the call, and turn back as the fourth, and final member of the party staggers into view. A boy, no older than seven or so, sets himself down upon the ground, crossing his arms in displeasure as the girl walks back to soothe him. “They run too fast,” Luke hears him lament. “And I have lost the poesy you made me.”

Kryze lets out a breath of laughter, assured there is no danger except perhaps to his son’s vanity, and returns to his pot, measuring out leaves and water with equal care. Luke watches the girl give her brother a hug, and coax him off in pursuit of the others.

“My eldest, Jinn,” Kryze explains. “She’s a wild thing, like her mother. And Mav, too, but with a softer heart. Corim is the youngest, and most civilised of the bunch. Thank the stars, or I’m afraid I’d be terribly overrun out here. Do you take anything in your tea?”

“Um, no,” Luke says, thinking of the heavy spices of Tatooine brews.

But the drink placed before him is a thin and watery kind of thing, of a pale pink colour. He can see the ceramplast through the liquid, and raises it to his lips skeptically.

Kryze watches him with that same kind amusement he seems to regard everything.

“It is a local variety of my own invention,” he explains. “Made from dried diabolix berries. Just the dried ones, mind you. The ones off the bush are deadly.”

Luke freezes, the rim of the cup pressed to his lips, the mild sweetness of sun still on his tongue, and Kryze laughs. He’s come here for a purpose, but has instead found himself trapped with a kind of domesticated eccentric.

He sets his tea down as politely as he can, while Kryze doesn’t hesitate to drink deeply from his own cup.

“I don’t want to be rude,” he says. “But I actually came here to deliver a message. From Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

At this, Kryze finally stills, his eyes meeting Luke’s with an apprehensive solemnity. “Of course,” he says. “What news?”

“He’s dead.”

The cup settles upon its saucer with only a faint chime of protest.

“Ah,” says Kryze.

In the following silence, guilt sweeps in, and soon Luke finds himself scrambling for the frayed edges of comfort and sympathy.

“It was fast,” he says. “And he knew what he was doing. He saved my life, and my friends. Vader - do you know anything that’s going on in the galaxy right now?”

That quiet, aching smirk curls upwards once more.

“Of course,” says Kryze. “Why else would I be way out here?”

“I’m sorry,” Luke says.

Kryze stands to clear the table of their tea.

“You say you’ve left your ship a few hours west? It is much too late for you to return to it now. Stay. Eat with us. Have a good night’s rest. Tomorrow, I should like to show you something.”

It is impossible for Luke to refuse this hospitality, not after he’s made such a mess of his own reason for coming here. He owes Kryze this much, at least.

“Of course,” he says. “If it isn’t any problem.”

“No problem at all,” Kryze insists. “There is an orchard down the path. If you follow the screams and laughter you should find it all right. The girls will collect you in time for latemeal.”

Thus dismissed, Luke removes his pack, but keeps his blaster close, heading for the door. At the threshold, he is overcome by a need to know for certain, and he turns back for one last look at the mysterious Kryze.

“Can I just ask,” he begins. “How did you know him? Obi-Wan, I mean. Why did he send me here to talk to you?”

His back to the door, Luke almost misses the reply carried back on the ghost of laughter.

“Oh, that,” says Kryze. “Well, after all, I am his son.”

The sun of Dantooine is much too reserved to intrude, and so it is to the clatter of dishware, and eager voices that Luke wakes the next morning. He stretches, and moves from his room to the sonics across the hall he thinks without attracting notice, but he is met, upon his exit, with the startled aspect of the youngest Kryze listening at the door.

Corim’s jaw snaps shut, and he frowns before declaring quite firmly that, “I wasn’t spying. I was only checking to see if you hadn’t died in the night you slept in so late.”

Luke grins. “Not dead yet, I don’t think.”

“Well, if you don’t hurry, there shan’t be any flatcakes left, no matter what Bebu says.”

“I’ll be there in a sec,” Luke assures him, and he stalks away entirely unconvinced.

Despite this threat, the table in the main room is still heaped with food when Luke emerges, fresher and more relaxed than he’s been in ages. The Kryzes are already packed tight around the table, but Mav and Jinn happily bunch over to make room for Luke between them. Mav, especially, goes out of her way to fill his glass, and pile his plate with the last of the muja preserves left over from the night before.

“Hey, that was my share,” complains Jinn, her mouth full. “You’ve already had seconds today.”

Mav blushes, and ducks her head, but her retort is vehement for all that her embarrassment is public. “We have a guest,” she says. “And your face is so full of cake you wouldn’t even taste the jelly anyway!”

“I didn’t get seconds!” Corim chimes in.

“Mother!” Jinn demands, taking her appeal to a higher court.

“Jinn, relax,” says Wyla, supremely unbothered, sipping her kaf and reading off her holopad. “Mav, be nice. Corim, I have a treat for you later.”

“S’not fair,” Jinn grumbles into her plate, but Wyla reaches over to pat her hand sympathetically.

“If you’re looking for the worst villain to blame, then examine your father’s plate. He’s more than enough jelly on that cake to last us to next harvest.”

At this, Kryze looks up to shoot his daughter a smug grin, before shoveling a heavily laden portion of flatcake into his mouth. Jelly, piled too high to survive the journey, tumbles from his fork to splatter against the flat of his plate as emphasis of his unjust indulgence.

“Delicious,” he declares. Jinn rolls her eyes, while Luke smuggles in a bite of his own portion.

It is tasty, both sweet and tart and satisfyingly thick. The meal continues through several more hotly negotiated contracts, and concludes with Wyla and Mav packing up the old speeder with the spoils of their orchard, and Jinn agreeing to mind Corim, much to her delight and his wary dismay. Kryze, it is announced, has business to attend to with Luke, and he does not expect their return before nightfall.

“Bring your rucksack,” he says, as they prepare to leave. “It is a long walk, and I shall want for snacks on the way.”

They set off with the sun on their faces, passing once more beneath the blba trees, the little cottage growing more and more distant as they make their way forth on the plains. Luke trusts that Kryze has some set destination in mind, but after the first hour he privately wonders if his guide has been distracted, and has brought them to wander in admiration of the land.

“That there is an extremely rare simbyloona butterfly,” he says, gesturing with a long wooden staff at the erratic path of the insect. “You ever been to Konkiv? Or Sriluur?”

“No,” says Luke.

“They have butterflies there,” explains Kryze. “What about Endor’s forest moon?”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, if you ever go, keep an eye out,” he says, pushing on.

The world seems much more alive with Kryze today. Longhoppers leap from the grass as he wades through, warbling tiktiks swoop over head to catch them. One of unique boldness lands upon the top of Kryze’s staff when he stops to show Luke the little dirt mounds of puppi mice beneath their feet. He smiles, and extends a finger to the bird which cocks its head from side to side before giving in to temptation and hopping upon Kryze’s outstretched hand.

“Hello, there,” he sings, soft and low. “Aren’t you a brave thing?”

He holds the bird forth so that Luke may have a closer look at the colourful plumage before lifting it higher to the sky to release it.

“Off you go, then,” he says. “Beautiful animal, isn’t it? Usually quite shy though. You must bring good luck.”

Luke watches the course of the bird, and hardly knows he’s replied until he’s already said, “Your father said there was no such thing.”

“Did he?” Kryze beams. “Well, he always had such odd notions.”

“Unlike you?” Luke asks. It’s not that he’s insulted by the man’s amusement at a dead man, but it does seem somewhat hypocritical in light of the bird, and the paintings, and the tea.

But Kryze takes no offense, only quirking an eyebrow to say, “Where do you think I got it from?”

For all his evident curiosity this challenge seems to be exactly the sort of query Kryze was waiting for, and he begins to tell Luke all manner of things about himself as they move ever on towards the horizon.

“My mother was the Duchess of Mandalore,” he says. “A pacifist, though you’d never know it by the way the galaxy remembers us. And for a year she was under the protection of my father. They fell in love, as tragically and impossibly as any young person could wish, and when they parted my father left confident in his ignorance, and my mother was left with me. It’s difficult to say who came out ahead in that.”

“I thought the Jedi couldn’t love,” says Luke.

“And whoever told you that nonsense?” asks Kryze. “You told me my father died saving you, and he cannot have done that for anything less than the purest love.”

Luke says nothing to this, only twists a knot of grass off in his hand and releases it to the wind. They walk in strained silence until it becomes comfortable again, and Luke exhales in resignation.

“I only just met my father,” he says. “He tried to kill me.”

Kryze looks at him, then stops to look at him harder.

“Oh, I see it now,” he says. “You’re a Skywalker. I might have guessed it, but I’m afraid I’m rather out of practice these days.”

“Are you a Jedi, too?”

“No, no,” he scoffs. “Nothing so serious as all that. But I know enough to be able to tell the blaze of a Skywalker from the general inferno of starfire. I know enough to be recognised in turn.”

“Is that why you’re out here? Hiding from the Empire?”

Kryze grimaces at this, and turns back to the path ahead. A shadow looms, rising out of the ground, and he turns their course to that.

“What makes you think I’m hiding?” he asks. Then, before Luke can parse the riddle in this, he continues. “I used to be in the Alliance,” he says. “Wyla, too. We ran intelligence rings, and sabotage missions. We fought. Even had more than a few close calls with the Empire. But at some point, around the time that Wyla found out about Jinn, we decided that was it. We’d done our part. And when the Rebellion left their base here, we stayed behind.”

“The Empire still exists,” says Luke.

“And it will not be my hand which stops it,” counters Kryze. Then, as the shadow takes the form of a ruined temple sprung from the earth itself, he speaks again. “My parents both died for peace. I think that I owe it to them to live for it. Here we go.”

Vines cling to ancient stone, while tangles of brush climb up and over crumbled walls and gaping cracks in the side of the old building. The trees grow thickly here, still green and lush despite the lateness of the year.

“A wellspring,” explains Kryze, without Luke’s having to ask.

He guides him past hollowed out chambers pierced only by shafts of dazzling sunlight breaking through fractured ceilings, and bouncing off shallow, invisible puddles within. Animals chirrup in the brush, and birds nest in all the little nooks and crannies of decaying architecture. Though it is long abandoned, there is still something light and sacred about the space. The air is fresher here.

“This is a Jedi place,” breathes Luke.

“It was,” agrees Kryze. “Long before the Empire. Come along. There’s something else.”

Beneath a fall of greenery and fallen rocks lies an opening.

“What is it?” asks Luke.

“Caves,” says Kryze. Luke looks at him, still uncertain. “I have noticed that you carry no lightsaber,” he explains.

Luke flexes the fingers of his false hand, feeling the pistons and levers firing in time with his desire, but different from the muscles and sinew of his flesh. It cannot be observed by casual inspection, but somehow Kryze seems to know.

“I lost it,” says Luke.

“Then you shall have to build another.” He gestures again to the cave mouth, and Luke braces himself to go in. He shifts the blaster on his hip, checking the settings. “You won’t need that in there,” says Kyze. “There’s nothing inside but old ghosts.”

He is halfway to moving when he hesitates, and leans back. With his eyes fixed on Kryze’s, Luke unstraps the holster from his side, and hands it and his blaster into the hands of Ben Kenobi’s son. He goes into the caves alone.

It is dark inside, and there is a chill and the sound of water dripping into water somewhere far away. Luke steps carefully. Though the ground is rocky and uneven, his steps are certain and he does not falter. After several minutes of silent exploration, with no strange whispers or startling movement, the fear he entered with begins to fall away, leaving Luke’s mind open to the growing threat of boredom. There is nothing here. He sighs, and turns to leave only to discover the way out has grown just as dark as the path going farther in. He has no torch, no light, and no sabre to guide his path, but his irritation blazes bright enough to guide him and he sets off the way he came.

When he has walked more than twice the distance he came, and then gone back to walk the distance again, he decides there is little he can do but sit and hope that Kryze will come for him. Surely, he hasn’t brought him here to starve after feeding him so thoroughly only hours ago. And for all that Luke feels helpless in the inky pits of the caves, Kryze had not lied when he said his blaster would be of no use. There is no one here but Luke.

He sets himself down against a stone, the seat of his pants made uncomfortably damp by the floor, and quite to his own surprise, drifts off.

When he wakes, there is light.

All around him are outcroppings of crystals in various shapes and colours. Some shine more brightly than the others, and some glow so fervently it is as though they sing. He reaches out to touch one, and the rest all clamour in harmony to meet him.

Every thought of escape is eclipsed by the beauty in the caves, and Luke trails his fingers over each crystal that calls out, following their voices deeper and deeper into the caves. Until, in the deepest chamber, on the shores of a vast underground lake, he is met by something which glows brighter than all the crystals combined.

For a moment, he is compelled to shield his eyes, as the flare bursts forth in effulgent magnificence before dying down to live within the confines of an unrecognisable form.

It is a man with long hair, a kind smile, and wearing the robes of a Jedi.

“Hello, little one,” it calls out, and Luke raises his hand in reply. “I was wondering when I might have the chance to meet you.”

“Do I know you?” asks Luke, stepping closer.

The ghost chuckles. “Not as such,” he replies. “But I know you. You are the student of my student, after all. I am Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“You were Master Obi-Wan’s master!”

“And Master Yoda’s, too,” brags the ghost, enjoying the awe of Luke’s epiphany, but this is a boast too far, and Luke’s face falls into lines of skepticism.

“That can’t be true,” he says. “Master Yoda is much too old to have been taught by you.”

“Ah, and must education end with the cessation of breath? Cannot knowledge outlast us? Cannot learning outlive us?”

“Can it?” asks Luke.

“We are more than what we do in life, my boy,” says Qui-Gon. He sits upon one of the larger stones which border the edge of the lake, leaving space beside him for Luke. “And there is much to be learned by death, for those brave enough to seek it.”

Luke frowns, and moves to join him, trying to puzzle out the ghost’s philosophy.

“Are you suggesting -” he looks to the Jedi for confirmation, not convinced of his conclusion. “You’re not saying that we should just give in, are you? That we should just accept death when we could stop it?”

“Not at all,” says Qui-Gon, and Luke relaxes upon the stone. “It’s good that you fight. It’s important you fight. Don’t rush to death in the vain hope that it will bring you easy satisfaction. Life and death - they are balanced. They are equal. And there is much value to be found in both.”

“Is that why Ben let go?” Luke asks.

“Obi-Wan was wise to concede his life,” says Qui-Gon. “But that does not make his loss any more bearable for you. Or for me. And though I am glad to be with him once again, I will always wish he’d had more time with you.”

There is a smear of clay grown dry upon his knee, and he brushes it off with one hand.

“Me, too,” he says to the ghost.

“But that is Obi-Wan’s lesson for you,” says Qui-Gon, his voice ringing clear across the lake. “He knows what it means to let go, but I -” he says. “I am here to show you how to hold on.”

And in the crystalline light of the caves, and the glittering warmth of the ghost, Luke learns of his lineage, and his family, and all the ways in which he is never alone. Qui-Gon speaks of the past. He tells him of a little boy who struggled and overcame, and a little boy who struggled and fell, and how neither of them loved the other any less. He tells the story of an ancient Order, and a girl queen; of a duchess, and a knight; of children lost to their parents, and parents lost to themselves. He tells of blood, and consequences, and desire, and regret, and joy, and sorrow, and how it all lives on in memory, and in stories, and in relics, and in paintings, and in river stones, and in muja dai-ungo, and in him.

“There is nothing lost,” says Qui-Gon. “So long as you choose to remember it. Neither life, nor love, nor people. Hold on. And don’t let go.”

And as he fades away into darkness, the song of a single crystal cries out, drawing Luke up, and up, and out of the black of the caves into the evening sun.

At the mouth of the hollow, standing with the light in his hair, and Ben Kenobi in his eyes, stands Kiorkicek Kryze. In his hands, a sabre, the kyber inside calling out.

And when Luke touches the hilt, he knows that this one is his.

“I thought it might be you,” says Kryze, smiling. He shifts Luke’s bag high against his shoulder and turns to the setting sun. “Come on,” he says. “They’ll be waiting for us.”

And when he finally returns to his ship, and Artoo, and programmes a course for home, Luke leaves Dantooine by himself, but he is not alone.

#my fic #prompt fill #spotify prompt fill #korkie kryze #korkie kenobi #qui-gon jinn #luke skywalker

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isis-astarte-diana · 4 years

Text

With Teeth (Part 1)

Part 1 ‖ Part 2 ‖ Part 3 ‖ Part 4

Summary: “I know that you’d never actually hurt me, but... would it be bad if I wanted to pretend?” You and Missy play a new game.

Warnings: NSFW. Dark!Missy. MIHOW. Non!con warning for a fully negotiated consensual non!con roleplay.

Word Count: 1376

NB: This is just the preamble! The second part is underway and it’s gonna be something, lads. It’s gonna be something.

You race down the dim hallway, your bare feet stinging from the unforgiving metal floor. Each step rings hollow and echoes along the walls. Beneath you, around you, the ship hums and hisses. It sounds excited.

Lit up in violet and blue, the corridor is a maze of shadows. Your own is unnaturally tall, whip-thin, stretching off into the darkness in front of you.

When your hand brushes against a doorframe you grasp the handle and twist. It doesn’t budge.

It’s locked. Just like the last one. Just like the next one will be. They’re all locked.

You don’t know why you thought the TARDIS would be on your side.

Pressing a hand over your panting mouth, you flatten yourself against the wall and listen. Blood rushes in your ears. As your pulse slowly drops, you hear her boots on the ground. The sound is faint, but growing closer.

Her voice, when she speaks, makes you whimper behind your palm.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are...”

+++++

“Are you alright?”

With the pads of her thumbs, Missy wipes the tears from beneath your eyes. She watches you carefully. Her head cocks to the side as she takes in the damage and you laugh, breathless and watery, nuzzling into her palms.

“I’m fine. I’m better than fine, I’m- fuck, I-” chuckling in a vaguely hysterical way, you wrap your arms around her and pull her close. “I’m something, anyway.”

“You’re certainly that.” She combs a hand through your hair and tucks your face against her neck. You burrow into her, greedily breathing her in. Naked in her arms like this, sweaty and sore and humming with sensation, you feel like the centre of the universe. “Not too sore?”

“Not too sore,” you agree, pressing a damp kiss to the curve of her neck. “Just sore enough.”

“Good girl.” The tears slowly dry up, the tremors in your aching body eased by her embrace and her gentle hands. She sweeps her palms across the most painful spots, tirelessly soothing each bite, each welt. “I know it was a lot, today.”

“It was,” you admit, wincing when she touches a particularly tender mark on your back. “But I loved it, and I think-” nuzzling deeper into her, you murmur, “I think I might like to try even more, some time.”

+++++

Your head whips left and right, trying to gauge the options in front of you; onwards into darkness, or back the way you came. All the while, her heels tap tap tap on the metal floor.

The layout this deep in the TARDIS is a mystery to you. It’s impossible to tell how close she is. She could be at the end of this stretch of corridor. She could be half a mile away.

“You can run, but you can’t hide!”

She sings it with obvious relish.

You know you can’t stay here. Decision made, you hurry forwards - you think it’s forwards. Everything looks the same down here.

Fingers trailing along the wall, you try to keep your footsteps quiet but it’s hopeless. They’re deafening. Disorientated by the noise, the dark, the unhurried and inescapable approach of her somewhere beyond your line of sight, you fight to keep your wits about you.

At the end of the corridor your hand falls into emptiness. You almost fall with it.

+++++

“Would you, now?” There’s a faint teasing lilt to her voice. She brushes her lips against your shoulder. “And what might that look like?”

“I don’t know,” you lie, unconvincingly. Missy pulls back, just enough to look in your eyes. When she sees the embarrassment there she softens and nudges your chin up with her hand.

“Tell me.” Her mouth quirks at the corners, encouraging and mild. “What’s gotten you looking so shy, hmm?”

“I shouldn’t.” Your gaze flits restlessly over her face. In this afterglow you feel bold, but not quite bold enough.

“Oh, but you must.” She draws her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes bright with unbridled excitement. It makes your heart flutter. “You can’t keep such delicious secrets from me.”

“I’m worried,” you admit, the words cracking in your mouth. “That you’ll be disgusted with me.”

Her smile widens and she speaks with the gentlest reprimand. “You ridiculous creature.” Beneath your chin her fingers crook and curl against your jaw. “Do you really think you could scare me off?”

“Well, no, but-”

“Ah, ah, none of that.” With a soft kiss to the tip of your nose, she prompts, “trust me, dearest. You couldn’t horrify me if you tried.”

“I do trust you, Missy.” You duck your head but she doesn’t let you hide, following your movements with a tender sort of curiosity plain on her face. “That’s just it. I know that you wouldn’t- you’d never actually hurt me, not in a way I didn’t want you to, but-”

Unable to face the words, you close your eyes and ask in a hoarse whisper.

“Would it be bad if I wanted to pretend?”

+++++

The path branches off four ways.

Each fork looks identical; low lights embedded in cold, smooth walls, highlighting locked door after locked door. What are these rooms? You’ve never been this far from the console room before.

You’re out of your depth.

At random, you pick the right turn and take it, bare feet flying behind you, palm flush to the wall.

“If you tell me where you are,” she calls casually, and you almost trip at how much closer she sounds now, “I might not hurt you too badly when I catch you. And I will catch you, my dear.”

When you reach another junction you throw a quick glance over your shoulder - nothing there, no sanctuary from the unforgiving darkness but the dim and flare of the lights - and turn right.

Right is good.

You keep running.

+++++

For a brief moment of silence you worry that you’ve made a mistake; and then she chuckles.

“Oh, poppet.” When you look at her again she’s grinning, and that mischievous glint is back in her eyes. “You want to play cat and mouse with me?”

Her words make you prickle with delight. You smile shyly. “Is that alright?”

“It’s very brave of you.” She traces your bottom lip with her thumb and you press a kiss to it. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“You don’t scare me, Missy.” When she raises an expectant eyebrow, you laugh. “You don’t. I just- I know that you could, if you wanted to.”

“And you want me to.” It’s not a question, but you nod anyway. “What do I do with my unwilling prey once I’ve caught her?”

Something about the look on her face makes your breath catch. “Anything you like.”

+++++

You keep running right up until you see the dead end in front of you.

It’s a few yards away, just another stretch of blank wall, a single violet light glowing from it like one staring eye.

Muffling a frustrated cry on your knuckles, you lean heavily against the wall and try to catch your breath again. Your legs ache from running. The soles of your feet are burning. Your heartbeat drowns out the tap tap tap behind you so that when you hear her chuckle, close at your back, the shock makes you yelp and whirl around to face her.

Missy stands in the dark just ahead of you.

She’s nothing but shadow, a black shape picked out in blue and purple, formless but for eyes and teeth glistening wetly in the low light. You stumble backwards, barely keeping your footing, and she smiles wider. Her voice is poisoned honey.

“Oh, poppet. You have been naughty.”

+++++

“Now, how could I ever refuse an offer like that?” An echo of her earlier tenderness comes back, just for a moment. “You’ll still be able to stop me if it’s too much. Just say the word.”

“I know. I just want to- I don’t know, it’s like with rollercoasters. You know that you’re safe, but you still scream. Does that make any sense?”

“It makes perfect sense.” The tip of her thumb presses just inside your mouth, tracing the sharp edges of your incisors. “Did nobody ever tell you, poppet? Fear is just excitement with teeth.”

#nsfwork #mine #missy x reader #the master x reader #gomez!master x reader #OOPS where did this come from?#dub!con warning #non!con warning

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unholyhelbig · 3 years

Text

Evergreen | Chapter One

Summary: Beca Mitchell is a reporter that travels across the east coast. When scarlet fever begins to overtake much of the world, she’s forced to cover a story in one of the largest, newest, hospitals. She is soon captivated by the head nurse and then stolen by something more.[The Prequel to "What's Forever?"]

Ship: Beca Mitchell/ Chloe Beale

Read the series here

Beca Mitchell spotted Evergreen Sanatorium through the large oak trees before anything else. It could very well be due to the fact that it stuck out in the rolling green hills of Virginia like a sore thumb. It was the only building for a matter of miles and quite the building it was; with its dark brick exterior and iron gates keeping everyone from climbing in- or for that matter, out.

She couldn’t help the way her breath caught. She had pushed herself forward in the little town car and felt her sweaty palms slip against the cracked leather seats. The man driving frowned in the rearview mirror, but she pretended not to notice, just like she pretended not to notice the stench of whisky on his breath and the crumbs in his uncombed mustache.

He had been leaning heavily against his taxi cab, a Chevy that may have been new at some point, but was a dingy maroon now. It was a sorry attempt to imitate the checkers she had left behind in Chicago hours before. He had taken four bites to the bitter core of his apple and dragged his sleeve against his lips before tossing it aside when he saw her approach.

“Ye heading to Evergreen, are ya?” He had a thick welsh accent.

She nodded as he popped the trunk and she wondered how he had ended up on the East Coast. Virginia was no place for fools or a place to settle down. It was part of the reason her editor had sent her here in the first place. She was expendable, and so was this story. It was nothing but a puff piece on one of the newest Hospitals in the state; the first of its kind. It was bent on solving the rising threat of Consumption. Something more than stifled.

The real reporting was for the men.

But Beca Mitchell considered herself something of a real reporter, so she jumped at the chance to board a flight. The scent of nature and manure was overwhelming, and so was the apple that her driver had discarded. But she was glad to be here, peering up at the large building. It made her fingers tingle, and her toes even more.

“This place is huge.”

“Better be, it houses half of Waverly’s population. Tiny little town. It’s been hit just as hard as the rest of the world by this illness. You ain’t feeling sick, are ye?”

She eyed him and pushed herself back into her seat. “Nauseous from your driving, that’s all.”

He laughed at that and she smiled. He wasn’t too bad, a little brash. She wanted to learn more of him and how he had ended up here, surrounded by this much grass instead of the dank streets of Europe. But they had pulled up to the large iron gates before she could fish for what she really wanted to know.

The trees that surrounded the property were in full flame. Beca could smell the pungent dirt in the air as she cranked the window down and welcomed the way Jack Frost bit at her cheeks. It mixed toxically with the embossed leather of her driver. He mumbled something under his breath and tightened his coat. The gates pulled themselves open effortlessly because they had been expecting the pair.

Evergreen Sanitarium was larger than it had been when they started up the drive, and that, she expected. The main building was comprised of three parts, one that stretched into the slate sky and two others that moved to the side. It was carved from brick and stone and a large metal plaque was welded into the face. Evergreen Hospital & Research Facility It read EST. 1910.

There was a large fountain and a circle that stopped the drive. The gravel crunched under their tires, but she focused on the two angels with slightly green water dribbling down their chins into an even greener pool.

“You need help with yer bags, ma’am?”

“No, I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

Her words had a bit of a sarcastic bite to them, but she truly meant them. There was an ungodly chill in the air and no two people should suffer the elements when it was only one stop. She fished out a hefty tip from her coat pocket and dropped it in his callused palm before parting ways.

She hadn’t expected a welcome wagon, not in the slightest, but the property looked abandoned entirely. Beca adjusted her bag over her shoulder and watched as the town car that had brought her up here turned into nothing but a speck.

She takes a few steps towards the fountain, listening to the trickle of the water as she fought off the scent of gasoline. The pool wasn’t emerald, not entirely. There was a layer of copper coins at the bottom that reflected the grass. She let the tips of her fingers brush against the surface, sending ripples as the cold shot up her arm.

“Folks try anything to ease their minds.”

Beca startled, pulling her touch away entirely as she turned towards the voice. She hadn’t heard the doors open, nor the footsteps in the gravel. She blamed the plain white nurses' shoes that that woman wore over her own lack of perception.

She recognized the voice from over the telephone almost instantly. Director Emma Woodward was older than she had imagined, in her Mid-Forties. She had embraced the grey that sprinkled her hair, pined up in extravagant curls. She wore a form-fitting baby-blue dress with a neatly folded collar. The neckline dropped down enough to expose a pale white chest. She wore a simple gold cross to cut against the color. It was modest and professional, and she didn’t seem to acknowledge the chill in the air.

“It must be frightening for them, leaving people here.” Beca shifted her bag and extended a hand “Rebecca Mitchell, Chicago Gazette, it’s nice to meet you in person.”

Emma smiled and it was a stunning sight. She had crinkles at the corners of her eyes and her nails were neatly painted. Beca found them too neat for a nurse, but she supposed becoming a director, as a female in the early 1900’s, was cause enough to treat for a manicure. She took her hand firmly.

“Emma Woodward, the pleasure is all ours. I must admit, Miss Mitchell, we found it quite odd that a paper of your magnitude wanted to do a story on a place such as ours.”

Beca found heat blooming against her cheeks. It wasn’t their idea, it was entirely hers. It took hours of flirting and a couple of glasses of fine bourbon for their editor to agree to any type of story she had to offer that wasn’t about kitchen appliances or the proper way to tend to a man in his time of need.

She had done more than enough to persuade him, and when he finally did agree, it was in hopes to see her crash and burn. He had gotten a pleasant night out of it, and she had earned a chance (however slim) to run with it. Even if it was in a practical asylum at the height of a deadly illness.

“Yes, well, we’re very progressive.”

Emma nodded with that kind grin of hers and lead Beca up the stairs and into the main hall of the Hospital. An instant edge of heat wormed under her clothes and made her shiver. The scent of antiseptic burned her lungs in a quick moment.

The floor had an ugly checkered design of yellow and green, both colors faded and worn. There was a large oak staircase that leads to different wards, she assumed, and a few sofas with old editions of magazines on metal tables. Emma didn’t’ skip a beat as she started to ascend the steps.

“We have a couple of floors here, Miss Mitchell. The top one is strictly for research, then we move down to trauma level three. It’s where the patients that are furthest along stay, those who have signed off for study and treatment. Then we have our second to last floor. The right-wing is for mild cases while the left is for our staff's comfort. That’s where you’ll be staying.”

“And the ground floor?” Beca asked.

“That’s for those lucky enough to see themselves out.”

“Does that happen often, then?”

“Not as often as we would like, I’m afraid. Consumption is entirely new to all of us, and we’re still learning the ins and outs of its effects.”

Beca nodded even though she knew Emma didn’t notice. Her shoulder was aching by the time they ascended to the first landing. Instead of turning in the direction of the ward, they made their way down a crudely lit hallway with large metal doors blocking the main way.

Once through, the sticky heat of Evergreen seemed to thicken once more. The lights dimmed and the floors switched to linoleum instead of wood. Beca liked the way her shoes were muffled, and the paintings of flowers tacked to the yellow wallpaper.

“Evergreen used to be a schoolhouse.” Emma spouted off absently “After Thomas Evergreen’s daughters graduated and married on their own accords he sold it to a developer that made this place into a hotel. The basement flooded and then”

She stopped in front of a small door that had a little glass window cut out of it, she seemed to take a moment to catch her breath. “Well, he didn’t’ want to fix it so the city awarded it to us and we’ve done our best to make it easier on our staff. It’s simple to have them stay in here, but if we get too many patients I’m afraid we’ll have to relocate them as well.”

The door creaked open, and Beca could tell instantly that it was once used as storage. There was a small cot in the corner layered with multiple sheets to cushion the springs. There was something of a school desk with a few candles and a lighter by their side. It too smelled of antiseptic, a small window leading to a fire escape that she hadn’t noticed on the way in.

“It’s not much, I’m afraid.”

“It’s perfect,” Beca said.

Truthfully, it was bigger than her little apartment in Chicago and warmer too. She figured that the rest of the staff didn’t’ get much time to rest, to begin with. She was thankful to see an effort at making the tiny space livable.

“well,” Emma clapped her hands together “I’m sure you’re exhausted. We served dinner at Seven sharp, but don’t worry, if you sleep through it, breakfast is early enough. You’ve got free reign of this place, Rebecca Mitchell. You can shadow whenever and whomever you want for your story as long as you don’t get in the way. And stay out of the basement, there’s still a good bit of water damage down there, and I don’t want to see you in a bed on the other side of the hospital.”

Beca put two fingers over her chest “Scouts honor, Ma’am.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” She beamed that signature smile once more, the kind one of a maternal figure. “Now, I recommend steering clear of our nurses, at least for a bit. They’re wary of allowing the outside press into this environment. The orderlies will be more than happy to answer any pressing questions you have.”

“That sounds like quite the challenge, Miss Woodward.”

The woman scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest “Nurse Beale is challenging. So is her staff. Sleep tight.”

The director gave one last fleeting wave before swinging the door shut and leaving Beca to her own devices. The early Virginia sky was a sharp purple and reflected dust coating the window onto the cot. She flopped down onto it, letting out a thick sigh. She was going to get her story- even if it meant digging further than she had ever done before.

#beca mitchell #chloe beale #Bechloe #AU: Vampires #Pitch Perfect #pitch perfect fanfiction

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awhitehead17 · 3 years

Text

Universal Signs

Chapter 16 / Previous Chapter

A/N: Warnings!!! This chapter contains talk of torture and a mild torture scene involving a knife and the use of being shocked. I wanted to mention it as a warning before hand, though it's not described in massive amounts of details but it is there.

Also on AO3

Enjoy! :D

How much blood does one have to loose before they die? Tim’s not entirely sure but he's thinks he’s going to find out soon enough. Then again how would he know how much he's lost if he dies of blood loss? Because then he would be dead and not able to calculate how much he’s missing….

What the fuck is wrong with him?

His mind is in scrambles as he sits on the cold stone floor of a small, enclosed cell watching his newest wound sluggishly bleed. He stares as the red liquid pours over his pale skin, leaving a trail behind as it drips onto the floor.

It hurts, he knows that much. There’s a dull throbbing sensation coming from the wound which is a constant reminder of how fresh it is, no more than an hour or maybe two at most.

The newest wound is a deepish slice across his thigh. The Demon’s Head had “accidently” put a little bit too much pressure with the knife he had been ghosting over his skin as he interrogated Tim about his escape and those he had been with since.

It’s not the worst Tim has had to face, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Besides the wound in his leg, the rest of his body is aching. The most recent ‘session’ with Ra’s had him hung from the ceiling by his wrists as the alien circled around him, asking questions, demanding answers, poking and prodding him with different tools in attempts to make him talk.

Being stripped down to nothing but his underwear hadn’t helped but Tim can overlook that compared to everything else that had been happening.

When the prodding and poking hadn’t achieved what the Demon’s Head wanted, he moved to a more physical approach. There had been some slapping, one or two punches and rough manhandling but once again it’s nothing that Tim hadn’t experienced before.

That had been a light session and seeming to be bored of it, Ra’s had his guards throw Tim back into his usual cell and bolted the door once it shut. Tim slumped on the ground, leaning against the wall and hasn’t moved since.

His wound continues to bleed and Tim watches it with morbid curiosity. He knows there’s more to come. Ra’s won’t leave it at just a slice and a few bruises. Tim’s got a vague idea on what he could be expecting in future sessions but he really rather not think about it. Maybe he would bleed out from this wound before that could happen?

Probably not.

An unknown amount of time passes by as Tim sits there. The achiness only grows as he sits on the hard floor but he doesn’t do anything to try and ease the pressure off of his body. His mind drifts in and out, sometimes giving him confusing and completely random thoughts and other times being completely devoid of anything at all.

How were the others? Are they dead or have they somehow managed to survive the attack by the League? How are his family back home? How long has it been since he had been kidnapped and stuck in outer space? Does time work differently in space, perhaps he could have only been away for a couple weeks, or oppositely could he be away for years?

His mind must have given into exhaustion because the next thing Tim knows is that he’s jerking awake, smacking his head against the wall as he does, and finds the cell door opening. As he clears the fogginess from his mind, there’s an exchange of words from outside before a figure is stepping into his cell and the door shuts behind them.

Tim’s instantly alert. He watches as the figure steps further into the cell, allowing him to fully see them for a first time. He's surprised to find a woman standing opposite him, or at least someone who resembles a human female (he’s still completely clueless and in shock when learning about the existence of different species’ and aliens in the universe).

She’s petite with curves, has pale skin, is bold and has sharp facial features. She stands there watching him for a moment, studying everything about him just as Tim does in return. While he’s nearly naked, she’s fully clothed in what is the League of Assassins black uniform. After a moment he notices that she’s carrying a small case in her hand and Tim feels himself tense up at what that could mean.

The woman strides forwards silently and Tim could only watch her warily, he flinches when she comes to a stop at his side and then proceeds to sit on the floor next to his wounded leg. Feeling apprehensive, Tim tries to shuffle away from her, creating a space between them. “What are you-”

His question is cut off when she simply reaches out and grabs his leg to effortlessly drag the limb back towards her and holds it down with an arm while the other rifles through the case she had brought with her. Tim yelps at the touch and protests against the action. “Hey! What the hell? Let me go!”

He reaches over to push her arm off his leg but she bats his hands away and sends him a hard look. Not having much energy to really put up a fight, Tim slumps against the wall in defeat and settles for glaring at her.

To his surprise all she does is clean his wound before bandaging it up afterwards. Other than the occasional hiss of pain from Tim when she puts too much pressure on the cut or when the antiseptic (at least that what he thinks it is) is applied, the two of them are silent throughout the ordeal. Anytime Tim would try to move away, she would slap him, send him a glare before continuing with the administrations.

Once she was done, she packs up her stuff, stands up and heads towards the door, banging on it twice. When it opens up, she slips out of the room and then the door is being slammed shut and bolted. Tim blinks at the sudden disappearance, it’s like she never had been there at all.

What the hell was that about? That's never happened before. He also has never seen that particular assassin before either. What’s Ra’s playing at this time?

Tim once again gets lost in his thoughts and loses track of time, not that he had ever been following it to begin with. For a second time he's jerked awake when the door to his cell opens up and he blinks away blurriness from his vision as three tall assassins dressed in black enter the room. One of them stops at the door while the other two storm forward only stopping when they get to him.

His body is still sore and achy, so when they bend down and grab his arms to force him to his feet, Tim is too weak to fight their restraining holds. All he could do is stumble along with them as they march him out of the cell and down the corridor of the ship towards a room Tim is becoming very familiar with.

The room is empty when they enter and Tim notices how this time there’s a table in the middle of the room rather than a chair or even ropes hanging from the ceiling.

The assassins force him over to the table and Tim does his best to resist their movements. They pay him no mind as one lets go of him so the other could simply pick him up and slam him down onto the hard surface.

The table underneath Tim’s bare skin is metal and cold. It makes him flinch though he doesn’t pay it too much attention because as soon as he's on there the assassins are grabbing his arms and legs and forcing them down against the flat surface, pinning them in place as they tie leather restraints around each limb.

They tie both wrists down along with his ankles, stretching his body out along the cold surface. They strap one restraint across his hips, torso and even his forehead. Once they’re done, Tim is left completely immobile. No matter how hard he struggles, he couldn’t move an inch.

Once they were satisfied he wasn’t going anywhere they leave the room. Tim’s eyes widen and he thrashes again. So he’s being left here, strapped down to a table just to be left all alone? The worst thing is that he can’t even turn his head to survey his surroundings, all he could see is the plain ceiling above him.

Tim didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse but his time alone was short. As the door to the room opens Tim listens intently as an unknown figure enters. He tracks their quiet steps as they walk around the room, then as they stop on the other side for a moment before continuing towards him on the table. He finally gets a look at the owner of the steps when they stop right beside the table and lean over into his eyeline.

Ra’s Al Ghul.

Tim didn’t know if he wanted to shake with fear or roll his eyes in annoyance. It’s certainly is an odd feeling, feeling both scared and exasperated at the same time. In the end he avoids eye contact and stares off centre at the plain ceiling.

“Timothy.” Ra’s says in greeting, his tone is sharp and emotionless. “Have you thought anymore about our previous conversation, what you may be willing to tell me now?”

Tim grits his teeth in anger and stops himself from retorting back. He despises that he now can understand what the Demon’s Head is saying. The universal translator at first was a blessing but now it seems like it’s a curse.

As for what he's implying, then no, Tim hasn’t thought any more about it. Ra’s wants to know more about the others, the team that had picked him up from the planet he crashed on after escaping. He wants to know what their motivations were, why did they help him, what was in it for the leaders they work for. Tim refused to tell him anything, not that there was actually anything to tell to begin with.

Apparently, “there aren’t any alternative motivations involved”, isn’t a satisfying enough answer.

When Tim stays silent Ra’s looks down at him and narrows his eyes. Tim takes in a deep breath and prepares himself for whatever is about to come. His heart is pounding inside his chest and he could feel his body trembling against the table he’s strapped to.

Ra’s disappears from his sight, Tim figures he's gone to the other side to the room to get something. The panic and anxiety inside him only grows at the thought of what he’s about to be forced to endure. What does Ra’s want from him?

“If you really wanted those answers you would have taken the others in as prisoners rather than kill them off.” Tim states, fighting to keep his voice steady as he speaks. “You know there’s no point in asking me, I don’t know the real reasons why they helped other than just because they wanted to.”

There's a moment of silence as Ra’s either thinks about Tim’s words, debates his own answer, or simply because he’s ignoring Tim altogether.

“Y’know, just because I can understand you now, nothing still makes sense.” Tim continues talking. He doesn’t know why he’s sprouting out nonsense, his nerves seem to have removed his filter.

“Is that so?” Ra’s questions him, coming back into his sight. Tim hears him place something on the table down by his thigh. He goes to have a look at it but the strap across his forehead stops him from so.

Instead he replies to Ra’s, letting his mouth run without a thought. “Yup. You still haven’t told me why you kidnapped me of all people. All I’ve heard is that “I’m interesting”, “I’m different”. But why is that? There are over 7 billion people on Earth and you choose little ole me. Why?”

He stares at Ra’s, expecting an answer. Tim doesn’t know where this brave streak is coming from but he genuinely wants the answer. Why him? What had he done to deserve all of this torment and treatment?

Ra’s face hardens as he glares at Tim. His thin lips press into a thin line and his eyes narrow in anger. Clearly he isn’t impressed with Tim questioning him, especially in such a blunt way.

After a few beats Ra’s looks away down towards his hip and Tim sees his hand reach over to grab something, when it comes back into his eyeline Tim finds Ra’s now holding a metal rod. It’s curved at the end, is long and thin and at the other end there’s a wire sprouting from it leading to somewhere out of his sight.

Tim feels his stomach drop at the sight, dread now pooling inside of him at what this could be. Maybe bluntly speaking up wasn’t such a good idea after all.

The Demon’s Head looks between Tim, the metal rod and whatever is by his thigh. “You want to know why Timothy? What makes you stand out from the rest of them?” Tim’s unsure if Ra’s actually wants him to answer or if it’s a rhetorical question. In the end it doesn’t matter too much because Ra’s continues in a matter of seconds.

“Well, let me tell you this…”

The rod suddenly makes a crackling sound and lights up and Tim only has time to register those things before a sharp jolt is coursing through his body. Tim yelps at the suddenness of it. His body goes rigid and strains against the straps holding him down. It only lasts a couple seconds but Tim is left heavily breathing by the end of it.

Electrocution. Or something similar to it at least, maybe being shocked is the more appropriate term. Fan-freaking-tastic.

After the initial shock, it takes a moment to realise that Ra’s is once again talking.

“You’re different because you have potential Timothy.” He says causally, as if he wasn’t practically torturing Tim as he talks. He starts wondering around the table Tim is strapped too and Tim tries to keep his eyes on him the best he can. Especially of that rod he’s holding.

“I’ve been watching you for some time.”

Before Tim could respond to that the rod crackles again and Tim clenches his teeth as his body seizes on the table. He trashes to try and get away from it but the straps hold him down firmly. Once the rod is taken away it takes a moment before his body is slumping down against the table again. His heart is hammering inside his ribcage and Tim’s mind is in shatters, unable to think about too many things at once.

He should be better than this but all of the events of the day is seriously catching up with his mind and body, playing into the exhaustion he's now feeling. Getting shocked certainly isn’t helping.

“You differ from your competitors Timothy, despite being young for your kind, you show huge potential, you think differently, taking risks which will result in the best outcome. You’re on your way of becoming one of the most powerful influences on your planet. It’s unfortunate that your brilliant mind is trapped inside this pathetic species.”

This time, when the rod is pressed into his skin, a whimper escapes his lips as his body spasms on the table. His back arches up off the table straining against the restraint across his hip, his hands clench into fists and his legs jerk. Tim’s left panting when the rod is pulled away from his torso.

“But… why me?” Tim pants out trying to control his rapid breathing as well as get his thoughts together at the same time. “There are more powerful people than me, smarter too… older… wiser… it doesn’t make sense…”

“It’s not always about the present Timothy. More like what you’ll be able to achieve in the future Humans are a vile, underdeveloped species, not worth anything if you ask me but nonetheless I decided to invest, play a move no one would see coming. Thinking outside the box, as you humans would say.” Ra’s rattles off as his eyes wonder over Tim’s body. He's moved down by his feet now, almost having done a total three-sixty.

“You intrigued me in many ways Timothy.”

For a fourth time the metal rod is being jabbed into his skin, this time against his calf, and the shock travels right up through him. A pained scream escapes his lips as he thrashes against the torment. If his legs hadn’t been strapped down he would have kicked Ra’s in that stupid head of his by now. His body jerks and spasms as his muscles painfully contract with the forced tension.

He doesn’t know how long this particular shock goes on for but it feels like forever. It goes on long enough that he thinks he's about to pass out from the pain when it finally stops. His body doesn’t immediately get the message as his muscles stay tight for several long moments until he's slumping down on the table, heavily breathing, uncontrollably shaking and feeling more than exhausted.

As he composes himself, the Demon’s Head moves out of his eyeline until he comes back holding a different device in his hand. A knife. The same wickedly sharp knife he happened to have used earlier. Tim barely registers it as he lets his head roll to the side in resignation.

Compared to last time, Ra’s doesn’t hold back, he drags the knife along Tim’s body, letting it ghost over his sensitive skin, before actually digging it in to make the skin spilt. Tim hisses and clenches his eyes shut.

Unlike last time, Ra’s doesn’t stop at one slice. He repeats the motion over different areas on Tim’s body. It’s like he's playing a game. Ghosting it over one area only to cut somewhere completely different with no warnings. It’s also like he's finding what areas make Tim react more than others.

In an unknown amount of time later, Tim is now sporting slices over his arms, shoulders and torso.

“You know Timothy, I do not need to explain my reasons of why I chose you. Just know that I have and know I plan on making it a good investment. Even if it means beating that stubbornness out of you.” Ra’s tells him in that casual tone once again as he rounds the table Tim is still strapped to.

“You happen to be proving how humans are somewhat a capable species despite your lack of development and skill set.”

Tim lets out a pained yell as Ra’s drags the knife across his torso. It glides smoothly across his skin, splitting it apart and forcing blood to seep through it. It stings like hell. That seems to be the final one because the Demon’s Head places the knife down by his hip and stands in Tim’s eyeline. For a moment he doesn’t say anything, his cold eyes rake over Tim’s abused body, taking in every little groove, muscle and blood covered skin before he’s looking at Tim’s face.

All Tim could do was blink tiredly at him. His energy is low and he’s having trouble staying awake. His body is sore, feels super sensitive and heavy, like he wouldn’t be able to move a limb no matter how hard he tried to.

“This is just the start Timothy. Later on you’ll endure the real punishment and truly be shown why you shouldn’t disobey my orders and what happens when you embarrass my empire.”

Tim swallows thickly. He isn’t surprised to find out worse pain is yet to come, but it doesn’t make it easier to accept. He doesn’t know how much more he could take.

Tim must black out because with his next blink he finds himself upright and being held between a couple guards as he’s dragged back through the corridors of the ship. After another blink he finds himself colliding with the ground after being thrown into what is now his cell.

He lies in a heap on the ground for a while until he's able to get the will power to pull himself up and drag his weak body over to the wall.

More time passes and Tim’s next conscious thought comes when something pokes him. Frowning, Tim opens his eyes only to jerk in surprise, letting out a pained hiss with the action, when he finds a person next to him treating his wounds.

It’s the same woman who treated his wounds last time. Tim tiredly looks down at his body to find a majority of it bandaged up. He continues to frown, how long had she been at it before he realised?

He yelps when she presses down on a cut on his arm and tries to jerk his limb out of her hold but she simply slaps him and holds on tightly before continuing with her administrations. Too tired to object further, Tim lets her do what she needs to. If this is the only time he's going to get treated nicely while trapped here then he’ll take it.

His mind once again drifts off, he's only brought back when a sharp stinging sensation erupts from his leg. He hisses and glares at her. Tim would have thought his pain tolerance would be higher than this, then again he’s exhausted and just feels overwhelmed with everything that’s happened recently that it’s probably effecting him in more ways than one.

“I heard that humans were weak but you are really being pathetic.” A dry voice deadpans. Tim blinks as he comprehends the words, realising after a moment it was the women treating his wounds who spoke them.

Tim gasps mockingly. “She speaks!” He gasps for real when she unnecessarily presses against his wound firmly in retaliation. Tim clenches his teeth. “Rude.”

They fall back into silence as she finishes off cleaning the rest of his cuts and as she bandages the worst of them. When she’s finished she pulls back and regards him for a moment before standing up and crossing her arms over her chest.

Tim mindlessly watches her back. The silence between them stretches and not once does her gaze stray away from him. In the end Tim gives up, the tension in the atmosphere is almost suffocating and being as tired as he was, he irritably snaps. “What? Am I supposed to say thank you or something? I can’t imagine you’re here voluntarily.”

She gives him a pointed looked, one which is a mixture of amusement and surprise, as if she hadn’t expected the sass from him, especially in his current state. “I suppose not.” She states in the end, keeping a steady gaze on him. “I happened to be thinking that this is in fact a rather unfortunate circumstance, on your end of course.”

Tim snorts, wincing soon after as his body shifts uncomfortably. “Because I totally chose to be here in this situation. Beaten, bruised and bloody with no idea what’s about to come my way in the future.”

“Your purpose of being here was originally something else.”

Her words get Tim’s attention immediately and his eyes snap to her. “What?”

She shrugs like it’s a bunch of nonsense. “I don’t know what it is, I don’t really care, but yeah boss man had you taken for a different reason. You weren’t supposed to be a slave initially, I think the Demon’s Head got rather enamoured of you and decided to keep you for himself.”

Tim’s mind takes a moment to catch up with what she’s telling him. Ra’s had told him earlier that Tim intrigued him in some ways but hearing it again was rattling. Also finding out that he was originally taken for other reasons is also worrying. If he wasn't supposed be a slave to be paraded around and tortured, then what else is there to be? What else was he needed, wanted, for?

Tim takes a shaky breath and tries to compose himself. It’s been a long, long, mentally draining and exhausting day. He wishes he could just curl up on his bed, wrapped up in his blanket on the softest of bed sheets and sink into his fluffy pillow. However, as life has proven, we can’t always get what we want. Instead he’s stuck in a cell, nearly naked, being tortured and stuck in out of space.

He looks back up at the assassin who dressed his wounds. “Was there anything else or are you going to keep badgering me until my next torture session?”

“Am I what?” She scrunches up her face in confusion. “My work here is done, you’ll see me again when the Demon’s Head allows it.”

Then just like that she turns away from him, heads for the door and bangs on it twice. After a short pause it opens up and she steps out of the cell, the door slams shut with a loud thud and Tim once again finds himself alone in the cold cell.

He blinks at the recently vacated spot, trying to wrap his head around the recent events. The longer this day goes on for the stranger it’s gets. Maybe he's now hallucinating? Having passed into insanity territory? Whatever it is, it’s not like Tim could fight it, he’s exhausted and quite honestly past the point of caring.

Time drifts as Tim sits there alone in his cell. His body having long gone numb and his mind having gone away with the fairies some time ago. He still doesn’t fall asleep though, just finding it difficult to keep his eyes shut without jolting awake from panic a few moments later.

He’s brought out of his daze when the door opens again. Tim’s surprised to find that it’s the same female as before and this time she’s carrying a white bag in her hand. Tim watches as she steps into the cell, his eyes widen when she chucks the bag down by his feet.

“The boss says you’re allowed these items. He also passed a message along saying he’ll go back to treating you better once your punishment is over, once you have paid the price for making us look foolish.”

Then as quick as she came, she left. Tim only breathes as he looks curiously at the bag. It takes a huge amount of effort but he's able to push his body upwards and is able to stretch his hand out to grab the thing. Once it’s in his grasp he falls back with a grunt and takes a moment to breathe before looking through the contents of the bag.

To his surprise and even delight, he finds the bag has a set of plain dark clothing, something that resembles crackers and a water bottle. The clothing is a plain dark grey t-shirt and black sweat pants. Tim struggles putting the clothing on, his abused body protesting at the movement but he has to admit he immediately feels better being covered up.

Once that’s sorted he pays attention to the water and the crackers. The bottle is sealed so Tim opens it up and takes cautious sips, as much as he would like to down the whole thing he doesn’t know when he’ll next be getting another one. Eventually he turns to the crackers and opens the packet, finding them to be plain and begins to nibble on one.

Time passes once again and all Tim does is take his time with the water and makes his way through several crackers. He has no idea what’s in store for him next and he's terrified to find out but he knows he needs to be resilient and not give in. Perhaps like last time he can try to escape again, or maybe the others somehow survived the attack and would come to rescue him.

He doesn’t know what to plan or expect but he knows he needs to keep fighting every step of the way.

#universal signs #Tim Drake #Ra's al Ghul #injured tim #torture #implied torture #fanfiction #humans are space orcs #Young Justice #hurt tim #exhaustion #Poor Tim #he's just having such a wonderful time...

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sithsecrets · 4 years

Text

Empress ⁂ Part 2

Engaged by her father to Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, a princess navigates the dynamics of her new marriage while discovering her own power as a member of the Order.

----

5.4k words

Mentions: sex, swearing

----

You wake up early the next morning, alone in a cold bed. Sitting up almost in a stupor, you hold your head in your hands, still floored by the fact that this is your life now. You’re married to the Supreme Leader of the First Order, and you sleep in his bed now. You’re an empress now apparently, for fuck’s sake. How did all of this happen?

Even though you’re still overwhelmed and a little shaken from the day before, you force yourself to get out of bed, force yourself to get dressed. Your life may be out of control, but you still have to push on.

Once again, you don one of the dresses that the Order made for you, happy to see that it, too, is made of warm, thick fabrics. Two nights on the ship has made you realize that its halls and rooms are absolutely frigid, and that layering and dressing appropriately is a must. Satisfied with your appearance, you stand in your room and peer around, wondering what to do next. No one’s told you what you can and can’t do in general, let alone specifics like where to take your meals and who to ask for things.

Walking into the living area, you consider stepping out into the hall to find another droid like the one that helped you last night. He had been helpful enough showing you to your room, and you were sure that that wasn’t the only function of machines of their kind. But then you spot a datapad stashed on a side table, and you go to it, thinking that it might be helpful in some way.

Mercifully, it is. The thing is simple enough to use, and in no time, you’ve ordered breakfast for yourself. No options were given to you, but at this point, you’re just relieved that you aren’t doomed to wander the ship until someone finds you dying of starvation off in a corner somewhere. You hadn’t eaten much the day before because of your nerves, but you’re ravenously hungry now.

Within ten minutes, a droid much like the one that showed you to your quarters comes rolling into the room, a tray of hot food in hand. You thank the machine immediately, relieved to see your meal. There’s a small table and chairs off to one side in the living room, and you drop down there, already cutting into your eggs.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Empress?” the droid asks you expectantly, peering at you with its light-up eyes.

Out of habit, you almost dismiss the machine, but then think better of it.

“Yes,” you say slowly, trying to approach the subject carefully and with tact. “Do you… what do you know about what I’m allowed to do on the ship?”

“You can do anything,” the droid replies simply, almost as if this should have been obvious. You turn to look at him, very sure that the machine doesn’t mean what he’s said. Not even on your home planet did you have absolute power and freedom— there had always been rules and conditions.

“What do you mean by that?” you ask, still eating steadily despite your shock.

“Well,” the droid begins, contemplative, “you are the Empress of the First Order now. You outrank everyone except the Supreme Leader himself, and he hasn’t given any orders regarding how you should behave or where you can go on the ship, at least not to anyone or any droid that I know.” The droid pauses for a moment, seemingly still processing. “As of now, it would seem that you can do whatever you want, so long as the Supreme Leader doesn’t stop you or say that you can’t perform a particular action or task.”

Mostly finished eating now, you can’t help but feel a little stupid. Of course you have freedom on this ship. You do outrank all of these people, save for Kylo Ren, and you should have recognized that. It’s not like you plan to galivant around doing absolutely anything that you want, but you’re certainly allowed to go out and entertain yourself for the day.

Or maybe you did know all of that. Maybe it was just nice to hear someone else say it.

“Are there any other questions I can answer for you, Empress? I am quite knowledgeable about the ship.” The droid is still positioned near the table, still waiting to help you, so you ask all of the things that you can think to ask.

Where else can you eat? If you want or need new clothes, where do you get them from? How do you order things that you need? You ask the droid those questions along with many more, and he answers all of them dutifully. When the conversation’s finished, you feel like a weight’s been lifted off of you. Knowing a little more about how to do things in your new home is comforting, and it feels good to be able to rely on the droids for information.

“Thank you so much,” you tell the droid, completely earnest, and he simply moves to roll out of the room.

“You’re very welcome, Empress,” is all that the machine says before he leaves, the blast door sliding shut gently behind him.

You find yourself alone again, but you’re not so anxious and upset this time. Taking a deep breath, you slide on a pair of shoes (also new, and strangely well fitted) and step out into the hall, looking left and right for a marker of any kind. That’s the last thing you need to do: forget where your own quarters are. But there are none. All the doors look the same, and the hallway has no signage or adornments. Anxious once again, you almost duck back into your room and swear off going out altogether, but you force yourself to start walking somewhere, anywhere. It’s going to be a long day if you spend it cooped up in your room with nothing to do and no one to talk to.

----

By midday, you’ve managed to wander into more common areas of the ship. You find the bridge at one point, and there, you meet a redheaded general by the name of Hux. His face is twisted in a mild sneer as he addresses you, but he gets down on one knee to show deference to you anyway. That was common wherever you went on the ship, the kneeling, and it discomforted you immensely. You of course were a princess on your planet, and you were accustomed to being regarded with respect, but not so formally as this. At home, bowing and kneeling were reserved for ceremony and special appearances; on the day-day-day, you were used to servants and nobles alike addressing you with casual familiarity and kindness. You felt disruptive and embarrassed, but you didn’t have the heart to tell such large groups of people to stop regarding you this way.

You skipped out on a midday meal even though you were hungry, not feeling comfortable enough with everyone yet to grab some food from the simple canteen you stumbled upon during your solo exploration of the ship. Besides, you were kind of having fun poking around everywhere.

By evening, though, the luster of spelunking through the ship has worn off. You’re tired, and very hungry, and you can tell that the ship is shifting into what must be a sort of evening mode. Everywhere you go, there are less people milling about, and you catch snatches of conversation regarding dinner plans here and there as you walk.

But it seems that you’ve made a mistake somewhere along the way, because you find yourself hopelessly lost about five minutes after you decide to come back the way you came. You suddenly feel eons away from any familiar path or major common area, and as your anxiety spikes, all of the hallways begin to look the same. You pad aimlessly down corridor after corridor, looking this way and that way at every intersection to see if you can find a familiar marking, a droid, a person— anything or anyone to help you— but to no avail. The only helpful thing you can see is a red border that’s painted along the walls of the hallways you’ve just turned down; but not even it is all that comforting, seeing that you don’t know what it indicates.

Mercifully, not long after you start following the path of this one and only lifeline, a woman walks your way. She has on a plain red uniform that matches the color of the stripe on the wall, and she’s busy looking over something on the datapad in her hands. Utterly relieved, you take longer, quicker strides, trying to meet her halfway so you can finally get some directions back to a place that you recognize.

“Excuse me,” you say kindly, and the woman about drops the datapad in fright, starting violently at the sight of you. You’re nearly in front of her now, close enough to catch the sleeve of her shirt when she goes to drop to her knees in front of you. And maybe it’s because there’s no witnesses to hear you or see you do it, but you huff tiredly and say, “Please don’t do that, it’s so strange.”

Obviously worried she’s offended you, the skittish little thing nods vigorously and stands up straight again. “I apologize, Empress,” she blurts, clutching her datapad to her chest. You sigh heavily, miffed that your very presence is enough to make people nervous just because of who your husband is. That’s something you’d ascertained throughout your travels today as well: everyone is fucking terrified of Kylo Ren.

The woman tells you that you’re near the medbay (that’s what all of the red was about), and then she gives you directions back to the bridge. Exhausted, you start hiking back, hoping against hope that you won’t get lost again. And thankfully you don’t, because you’re back in the common areas of the ship within no time, though everyone still drops to their knees in your wake as if you’ll kill them where they stand if they don’t.

You begin to celebrate in your mind, proud of yourself for making your way back without a hitch. But then you realize that you don’t know how to get back to your own quarters from here, and your good mood deflates almost instantly. It’s so depressing, you think, to live somewhere and not even know how to find your own fucking bedroom.

Contemplating good places to cry alone, you begin to walk off into a random corridor, thinking with a morbid sort of humor that it might be best if you just got lost and died on the ship somewhere.

“Empress,” chorus two electronically filtered voices behind you, and you turn, eyes landing on a pair of stormtroopers. Their blasters are holstered and of course, they’re both on one knee before you, heads bowed in reverence.

“What is it?” you ask, not in the mood for more ass-kissing at this point. You had your fill when you met a group of high-ranking officers earlier in the day, and you don’t have time for these two if they’re trying to climb the ladder as well.

“The Supreme Leader requests your presence in your shared quarters, Empress,” offers one of the troopers, and a feeling of mild surprise hits you. But hey, they said your quarters, so you’re satisfied.

“Take me there,” you command, and they do.

(You force yourself to mindful of the path they lead you down the whole way to your rooms.)

The Supreme Leader is waiting for you when you arrive, just as you suspected he would be.

Kylo’s seated the little dining table in the living room, and he jumps up almost immediately after you come through the blast door. You breeze in, trying to be pleasant, trying to not let your hunger and exhaustion get the best of your attitude. In truth, you’re still a little unsure of yourself after the events of last night, and a more childish part of you is slightly angry that Kylo never so much as offered to show you around the ship. Sure, he didn’t tell you to go wandering off like you did, but he didn’t exactly help you out, either.

Still, though, you need to try with him. Making him dislike you would be a fatal mistake.

“Hello,” your husband says, seemingly still subdued and mildly unnerved like he was last night.

“Hello,” you reply, making sure to smile at him. “You called for me?”

Kylo seems to remember himself in that moment. “Oh, yes, I did,” he begins, glancing behind him at the dinner table. “I… I thought we could take our evening meal together.”

You hadn’t been expecting that.

“What?” And you hate yourself for blurting that out, but your hunger is clouding your brain.

“If you don’t want to eat together, I understand. I can eat on the bridge instead.” Kylo moves to walk past you as he talks, and you catch his arm gently.

“No, no,” you say quickly, horrified with yourself at this point. And to think you had thought yourself a decent diplomat on your home planet… “I’m just hungry, I’m sorry. I wandered around the ship all day, and I got lost, and…” You trail off, shy under the intensity of Kylo’s gaze— even if he is still acting like you could detonate any second.

You still have your hand on his arm, something you realize just a second later than you probably should have. Withdrawing it, you break your husband’s stare and sit down.

----

The food is delicious, and you eat with vigor. Yourself and Kylo spend most of the meal making short, uncomfortable eyes contact, offering a comment here and there. You compliment the meal, Kylo says that he’s glad you like it. Past that though, almost nothing of substance is said, and again, you find yourself wondering if the great Supreme Leader of the First Order has ever been alone with a woman. Or anyone he wasn’t bossing around, for that matter.

“I walked around the ship today,” you say, even though you already mentioned it earlier. The awkward tension in the air is too much, and you figure innocuous conversation is the best way to go about breaking it.

“Where did you go?” Kylo asks, looking at you like he’s yearning to connect just as much as you are, or at the very least, be cordial.

That makes you feel slightly relieved about the state of things.

“Everywhere, really.” You toy with a pile of some sort of vegetable on your plate, the one thing you really didn’t care for. “I got lost, though. This ship is massive, almost too big.”

“You could have had someone escort you,” Kylo says simply. Flushing with embarrassment, you curse yourself for not thinking of that. Why hadn’t you thought of that?

“I don’t know why I didn’t,” is all you offer in reply, still toying with the last little bit of your food. Without thinking, you say something quietly under your breath, almost to yourself. “I don’t know anything about what I can do here, really.”

Catching yourself, you look up at Kylo for a reaction. He looks apologetic, eyes fixed on his plate before they come up to meet yours. “I probably should have told you.”

You want to tell him that he’s absolutely right, because he is. He should have told you so much, should have explained more about your place here, but he didn’t.

Mind reader, mind reader you remember, forcing yourself to focus, to play the game. Be sweet, be appealing, be pleasant.

“Someone told me I can do anything I want, but I don’t know if that’s true. I think some of the officers may not like the idea of having to listen to me.” You laugh lightly, trying to play the whole thing off as a joke. But Kylo isn’t laughing, isn’t even smiling—two things you haven’t seen him do in the few days you’ve known him, if you think about it. His demeanor has shifted completely, and the look on his face is suddenly hard and convicted.

“You’re my wife,” he states, and for the first time, you see something akin to the version of the Supreme Leader that everyone says so much about. “You can do whatever you want, whenever you want because your title as Empress is an extension of my power as the Supreme Leader. If someone tries to stop you from doing something you want to do, no matter how highly they rank, I will take care of them swiftly.”

Watching a man who was acting like he was mildly afraid of you five seconds ago speak this way is startling to say the least, but you can’t help but feel a little giddy at the thought of being uninhibited on this ship. While you had power on your home planet, so much of your life was controlled. You had to talk to the right people, dress a certain way, do things to please your parents— here, apparently all you have to do is keep your husband on your side. The notion of that is refreshing.

Having dealt with serious, no-nonsense types before during your diplomatic relations, you feel infinitely more comfortable with this version of Kylo Ren. And besides that, you’re still desperate for information about your place here. If he has to be righteous and vaguely angry to talk to you about that, so be it.

“Okay,” you say, moving subjects quickly, “but what can I… what can I ask for? What can I have?”

Kylo answers you immediately, completely serious, regarding you with a look in his eyes at you can’t place. “Anything you want. The First Order controls nearly the entire galaxy. If you want anything from anywhere, all you have to do is ask.”

Gone now is your drive to have this man view you as a sweet little woman. This is a cutthroat drawing out of terms, plain and simple— except this time, you’re dealing with a man who possesses actual power, not some small-time nobleman who thinks that he does. That almost makes it more exciting, if you’re being honest.

“And what if I wanted something from a place that was not yet under the control of the Order yet, hm? What would happen then?”

You’re pushing, and Kylo knows what you’re doing, you can see it in his eyes. For a hot minute, you think that maybe you’ve gone too far, overstepped yourself. But then something in his face shifts, and you know then that the two of you are truly operating on the same level now.

“Then I would conquer that place and have whatever you wanted brought to you with haste.”

A thrill shoots through you at the sound of that, but you know better than to be satisfied. As exciting as all of this newfound power is, as much as it turns you on to hear a man speak about you this way, you know good and well that relationships are a two-way street. Four days ago, Kylo Ren chose you to be his wife, and not because he was lusting over you like an idiot— last night made that much clear. You have a purpose on this ship, and you need to know what that purpose is.

“Why? We’ve been married for less than a day. What do I have to offer you that would make you want to treat me so well?”

Your question hangs heavy in the air for a moment, and you watch as Kylo bites the inside of his cheek, pauses, thinks about his answer.

“You’re a gifted diplomat, and I am not,” he states, almost like it took a lot for him to admit that. “People either fear me too much to take the risks that I need them to take, or they think I’m a child and refuse to respect me altogether. I need someone like you to help me keep things in check as the Order expands.”

“I’m from a planet the size of a speck of dust,” you retort, narrowing your eyes a little. Yes, you had been complimented on your negotiation skills over the years, but Kylo Ren is a fool if he thinks that you’ve ever done business with anyone of real substance.

When Kylo locks eyes with you again, “You’re the right fit, I’m sure of it.” He pauses, cuts his eyes to the side. “The Force told me so.”

That answer intrigues you, makes you sit back in your chair and give Kylo a once-over. You know, of course, that your husband has been trained by both Jedi and Sith masters. You know that he can invade the minds of others, that he can throw people around like ragdolls without touching them. You see the lightsaber at his side, you understand the significance of him even having one in his possession. If anyone else had told you some mumbo jumbo about just knowing it, you would laugh in their face. Gut instinct in an emergency situation is one thing, but you appreciate the art of thinking things through when you have the time. And while you know that Kylo Ren has some impulse control issues of his own, you also know that he hasn’t gotten this far by being a moron. So fine, the Force chose you— you can live with that.

“You want me to help make nice with people. Shaking hands, kissing babies, and all of that?” You can tell by the way Kylo’s eyes narrow in mild confusion that what you’ve just said must be common phrasing on your home planet alone. “Never mind. So that’s all you need from me— my diplomatic prowess?”

“And your loyalty.”

You can tell Kylo’s serious about that one, it’s something in his tone. And you can do that, you think, you can do loyalty. All Kylo’s really done is take you away from your home, and while you were upset about that in the beginning, you can see now that maybe that was for the best. It seems that you have potential in the Order, potential as the Supreme Leader’s wife. Potential as the empress.

You have one question left, but you bite your tongue. It’s not worth ruining the mood for, and you think you already know the answer anyway. So, you save it away in your mind and allow yourself to relax, looking over this new husband of yours. He becomes shy again under your gaze, looking at his hands and glancing up at you nervously, but you don’t mind it. That line about being able to do whatever you want still rings in your head, and you begin to think that this marriage may have been a good match after all.

----

Kylo leaves a little while after the two of you finish eating, says that he has to brief the Knights of Ren about an upcoming mission before the morning comes. You let him go easily, happy to have some time to yourself, some time to think about everything that your husband said.

Pacing, you consider your new role as chief diplomat for Kylo Ren. He must want you to be a kind of barrier, you think, someone to shield people from his more abrasive nature. You’ve seen how he can be here and there, heard snatches of him barking orders at the people who work under him. During your travels around the ship today, you overheard more than one person speaking about how Kylo was wound tight, prone to flying into a rage at the simplest inconveniences. Keeping your husband calm and level-headed during any sort of negotiations will be your main objective, that much is clear to you now.

Still, even though you’re happy to know why you’re here, you can’t help but wonder about the timing off all of this. It was your understanding that the Supreme Leader requested that the two of you be married with haste, and you can’t help but feel there’s a reason for that. In hindsight, it may have been a good question to ask Kylo while you had him fired up and open to you, but no matter. You’ve always had a knack for coaxing men into making themselves vulnerable with you, and it’s a skill that’s served you well. Kylo Ren may be the Supreme Leader of the First Order, but he’s also just a man— you’ll draw him to you eventually, you’re sure of it.

Overall, you’re just relieved that you managed to have a breakthrough with your husband. Sure, his moment of openness was short-lived, but you got him to speak to you, to really speak to you, not just sit there and say something polite. This bodes well for things moving forward, for you and Kylo’s relationship as a whole. And as much as you hate to admit it, it was a turn-on to hear Kylo speak about you the way that he did. The power, the willingness to serve you— you feel intoxicated by all of it, drunk off the idea of actually being able to live the way you want to live without anyone telling you no. Your parents can’t control you anymore, the nobleman you used to deal with aren’t here to scrutinize your every move, and you already feel freer because of that.

It’s strange, but in just a couple of short days, you’re beginning to see how unfulfilling your life at home had been. When you first boarded this ship, you thought you were being transported away from any chance at a happy life, but that’s just not the case. You thought getting married would weigh you down, but in reality, it’s set you free.

Of course, though, there’s only been words spoken so far. Kylo hasn’t actually done anything to support the idea that you’re free to do what you like here, and you haven’t exactly pushed any boundaries yet. But still, it’s a nice sentiment to hear. Still, you can’t help but feel Kylo that meant it, really meant it. It was something about the look in eyes, the set of his jaw— he’s put you in power, and he’s fine with you acting like it.

Eventually, you decide that it’s time to mentally table all of this thinking until tomorrow. You try to unwind, lazing about in the bathtub for a while as you wait for your husband to return. The warmth of the water relaxes you, and you let your eyes flutter shut, tired from everything that’s happened today. It’s mental exhaustion more than anything, but the way the heat soothes your muscles is still nice.

You dress for bed in another one of your new nightgowns, deciding that you might like some more clothes as you put it on. The ones the Order made for you before your arrival are lovely, but you think that you might like some prettier things to sleep in now that you’re married. Kylo isn’t exactly jumping all over you, and you certainly don’t intend to throw yourself at him, but you know good and well that this marriage must be consummated eventually.

(And besides all of that, who doesn’t like to feel pretty in their night things?)

Kylo comes back to your quarters not long after you get out of the bath, and when he sees you, it’s almost as if he’s surprised you look the way you do. You’re dressed of course, wet hair plaited down your back to keep it neat.

You don’t see anything special about your appearance, but your husband must, because he’s quite flushed as he announces that he’s going to shower before he comes to bed. You watch him walk into the ‘fresher, almost laughing to yourself a little. Gone are your worries of upsetting him; now all you can do is marvel at how one man can be so confident (and in Kylo’s case, frightening) in one aspect of his life, and yet so awkward in another.

It’s strange how comfortable you feel with Kylo now that you know your place in the Order, in his life. Of course, you don’t want to offend your husband or make him think that you’re an impulsive child, but you no longer feel like you have to walk on eggshells around him. He respects you, that much he said himself, and you have a suspicion that he may admire you for other reasons as well. Still, though, you’re going to play it safe, for your sake and for his.

Kylo emerges from the ‘fresher dressed in a plain shirt and pants, clothes that look far more comfortable than what you normally see him in. You’re sure he went to bed in something like this last night, it was just too dark for you to see. He looks good—clean, soft in the way that everyone is when they’ve just bathed.

You’re already in bed when your husband comes out, and you watch him idly as he moves about the room, straightening some things up and dimming the lights without turning them off completely. He’s a neat person, you observe, and you decide that you like that about him.

When he gets under the covers, Kylo faces you, quiet as the two of you look at each other in the dim light. All of this feels so different from the awkward tension of last night. The two of you aren’t exactly comfortable now, Kylo especially, but you can’t help but feel that you’re making progress.

“What do you do during the day?” you ask softly. It’s not that late, and you genuinely want to know. Not once did you see your husband on the ship today, and you think you covered pretty good ground.

“It depends,” Kylo answers with a shrug, and he acts as if it’s strange to talk about himself. “Some days I go out on excursions to planets that need to be searched, others I stay here and handle the day-to-day operations. I usually meet with the generals and commanders a few times a week to receive updates about the Order’s progress in various parts of the galaxy.”

You nod, thinking that talking would feel more natural if the two of you were closer. Still, you stay on your side of the too-big bed. “What did you do today?”

Kylo proceeds to tell you about how he visited a smaller planet that’s in the Order’s possession. When he got back, he met with his commanders and generals, and then he spent some time training. And then, of course, he briefed the Knights after the two of you ate.

“We’re getting ready to receive some liaisons from Valdera next week,” Kylo explains, and you nod to show that you’re listening. “I’m… I’m going to need your help with that.”

And that’s it— that’s why Kylo insisted that the two of you be wed so quickly.

Valdera is a decently sized, mineral rich planet not far from your old home. Its parliament members are notoriously arrogant, and you had the “pleasure” of meeting some of their diplomats last year. You held your own and got the job done, but you wanted to tear your hair out in the process. The notion of tangling with them again makes you want to huff in annoyance, but at the same time, you know full well that you can take whatever those assholes want to give you and the Order.

“I’ll need to review their customs and the organizational structure of their leadership. I’ll also need a comprehensive report on who’s coming, what they do, and any other pertinent information about them that could help me get them to cooperate.” You tell Kylo all of this with a slight commanding edge to your voice, and he simply nods, saying that you’ll have what you requested by the next afternoon.

“I’ve dealt with Valderan imbeciles before,” you say, rolling your eyes as you settle yourself more comfortably in bed. “They all think they’re tough until you dare them to rise to the occasion. I’ll work something out and then let you know what I think is best.”

“All right,” is all that Kylo says, and you can’t tell if he’s impressed or a little affronted by you taking charge easily. But after he says thank you, you settle on impressed over offended.

“You’re welcome,” you tell your husband. “Goodnight.”

And with that, you roll over and fall asleep.

#kylo ren #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren x reader #star wars #star wars imagine #my writing

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