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thefandomdirtymind · 7 months

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Shiny offering

OPLA - Vinsmoke Sanji

Sanji Series - NSFW The small favor

A/N IMPORTANT: I am the little weirdo who's like crows and though that a pirate with a crow would be really cool. So, I'm really sorry if you're scare of bird, but I hope you will find the story funny because I have a lot of fun with it and my new obsession for this man.

* English is not my first language, I tried really hard to correct myself but, I hope you will excuse me if some mistakes are still there.

If you enjoy my story please let me know.

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Sanji never had a particular interest in birds. At least not living ones. Once featherless, beheaded and ready to be cooked. He, of course, has a lot of thoughts and recipes about how to prepare them, each idea more delicious than the other.

But, as the Crow expanded his wings and flew above him for the fifth time that day. He started to wonder if the black bird meat would taste more like chicken and then, be better in a rotisserie kind of dish, or would it be surprisingly more delicate, like the duck.

A mystery he would probably never know even if he could. Or if he did, not with this precise bird. Because, even if the blond never had a thought about the feathered animal, he has a lot of interest in you and, as irritating as it is, your crow seems to dislike him as much as Zoro does.

He didn’t attack him directly of course, you would never let this happen.

Yet, if Sanji is too close to you when you're all on the deck or if you share a moment alone with the cook. The damn winged dinosaur never missed a beat stealing his, lite or not, cigarette that was in his hand or between his lips.

The bird has often even tried to take his ring, but, to this day, never succeeded. However his favorite target was his blonde hair. Golden straw that he could pick few at the time between his beck before flying away as quickly as he could.

Everytime, as you tried without success to not laugh. Biting your lips in that charming way he liked so much. You assure him that Deimos didn’t really hate him, he was just a little bit too protective or attracted to the shiny thing on his person. Like humans he needs time to adjust to new people.

“ I understand Madam, but I don’t see stealing Zoro shinny earring neither and that be a show I would love to see “ He once replied, trying to repress the bitterness in his tone, massaging the sore spot on his head where Deimos had took three of his hair.

“Well, Zoro didn’t have hair similar to pretty rays of sunshine, that’s for sure and I honestly don’t know, they seem to already be best buddy that kinda funny “ You said, your gaze fixed on the strange duo that was Zoro and your pet, napping in a hammock between two Tangerine trees.

“ That because they have something in common, they both hate me that’s why”

“ You know, Crows love to collect things who shine and offer them to their partner or their favorite human. Once a crow trusts you, he or his children never forget you, they have a memory that they extend to their children for generations and they will always return to you. It’s amazing”

“ Then Madam it seem that I will be hate for generation “

It has been almost five months now that you were a member of the crew and the relentless animal didn’t stop. Although, Sanji couldn’t forget that conversation that you had about those damn birds offering shining things to the person they affectionate. The way you smiled, the gleam in your eyes as if you were sharing that fun fact like if it was a romantic story. Even if it was an anodin moment, he couldn’t forget how perfect you were. Relax, your arm crossed on the railing of the upper deck in the soft light of the morning.

It wasn’t a secret that the blondie fell for you at the minute that he saw you. He had tried to flirt as much as he could, challenged your taste buds by making you his best dishes and even switched his generic “Madam” for a warmer nickname “ mon coeur”. A sweet name he uses, usually as often as he calls himself the Best Cook of the East blue.

“ Mon coeur, do you want a kind of food in particular for supper ?”

“ Be careful Mon coeur, the tea is hot”

“ You see Mon coeur, one day I will see the All Blue and I will explore it with you ”

But, nothing had seemed to enlighten your comprehension about his intention. Of course, a more direct approach would give him an immediate answer, still, like in his cooking, Sanji liked a more slow and progressive approche.

It was when thinking about his next move that the strange event occurred.

Busy in the kitchen, peeling potatoes for his famous beef stew, the man suddenly heard a metallic noise, like a utensil falling on the floor. As a chef, it wasn't uncommon, but since he was alone in the room and all his instruments were in front of him, it was indeed, really strange. It was only after his gaze had scanned the room that he finally saw it.

Perched on the side of the table, under the open window, the dark bird, a spoon in his beck, was watching the floor where a solitary fork was laying.

“ Oh no sir, this place is my domain you will not ruin it, get out” He exclaimed, not without thinking of how ridiculous he must look, talking at this bird like if he was a rude client of the Baratie.

For answer, Deimos only croak once, jumps between two potatoes just in front of him, turns his onyx head on the side and then, under the blue glare of the men, drops the polished spoon.

The eating tool in itself wasn’t really special, unless the fact that it had been lost two weeks ago, along the fallen fork of course.

“ Oh so now you steal my utensil. My hair and my smoke wasn’t enough ?” Sanji sighs before reaching for the discarded silver instrument.

For answer, the crow slowly approached his head to the metallic object and started to admire his own smaller reflection before taking his fly, exiting the kitchen.

Coming back after less than five minutes later, this time with a shimmering shell and one of Nami small hair clips. Same as the spoon, he gently drops them in front of the blonde man, tilling his head, like he is waiting for something.

Like said before, Sanji never had a soft spot for birds, but he had a fond memory of that conversation with you about the way they express their affection. So, little by little, as he watched one by one the glittery, polish, shimmery stuff your crow just bought him, two realizations struck him. First, the damn feathers dinosaur has finally taken a liking for him and second he finally knew how to show you how dear you are in his eyes.

“ Well, I almost regret now that I imagine you many times in my oven. I admit that you don't seem that bad alive now…thank you” Sanji smiled, putting the stew on the stove, letting it cook and before starting collecting the item for his new plan.

It was only a long time after dinner that he could put his said plan in action. With a little help from his now winged friend.

As the Going Merry was lazily crossing the water, Sanji was still again in the kitchen, preparing diverse elements. To citrus marinade for supper the next day, to dry leaf for future recipes.

Nevertheless, he was ready when the flap of the wing followed by footsteps could be heard near his area.

Deimos was the first to enter the kitchen, taking his now usual place in the left corner of the kitchen island, your bracelet still on his beck. Close by a few steps, you enter at his pursuit, stopping only when you seen the strange show that was the gorgeous chef ,slowly busy pressing a lemon and your large pet, sharing the same space without apparent bickering.

“ Hi Sanji, sorry to barge in there like that. Deimos feels apparently playful today, he stole my bracelet. But look at you both, you finally bound as I can see” You joyfully said, taking a seat in front of the kitchen island.

“ Hello Mon coeur, well as you can see we came to an arrangement if I can call it that. " Sanji replied, pulling an almond from his pocket and giving it to the bird as he rescued your bracelet “ But I’m grateful that he bring you here now, I also had something for you, a special dessert”

Turning his back from you for a minute, missing the long glance you give to his perfect ass in his tailored pants, you smile. You weren't stupid, in fact, you were particularly smart. Even if you didn’t understand why Usopp had taken a habit of joking about the fact that you seem blind to love.

You had noticed the blonde chef the first day on this boat and since then, had developpe what Nami had called a “crush” on him. What’s not love about him ? You like the way he calls you Mon coeur making yours fluster, the way his smile reaches his eyes every time he talks about food and of course the fact that he was always so kind with you. But never you would push those thoughts on him, no, it seems that all his love was for food and as long as you live you will respect that.

The first thing you saw after the blondie had put the bowl in front of you was the beauty of the presentation. Served in a plain white bowl, a delicate pale lilac ice cream was piled, decorated with colorful berries that automatically make your mouth water.

However it wasn’t the berries who’s most caught your eyes. Coating there the side of a raspberry, there in a few pieces the side of the cold cream, there floating lazily like if it were on a river, small gold flakes was highlighting the sweet, giving it the allure of a masterpiece.

“ Homemade lavender ice cream with berries assorted with flakes of edible gold “ Sanji proudly present, your favorite smile on his lips. “ I had the idea when we were talking about crows and their habit of giving their partner or…favorite person…shiny things” He lied. Never would he admit to you that your bird, trying to fancy him, gave him the idea. Never on his chef corpse.

“ Sanji, that’s almost too beautiful to eat. The colors, the sweet smell , the…glittery gold” You admiratively said, your joy suddenly catching up with the realization of what he had just said.

You were his favorite person.

Lifting at the same time your gaze and the spoon, you take a small amount of the ice cream and taste his declaration of love.

Just like him it was amazing. Sweet, refreshing and addictive.

“ So...is that to your liking ? “ He inquired after a small moment, unsure if you taken your time to enjoy the dessert or trying to find a delicate way to put him down.

“ It’s the best thing I ever tasted, here take a bite “ You offer, lifting the silverware at the level of his mouth.

Taking your offering, your gaze lock on each other, you both couldn’t repress your smile as he let slip the head of the spoon out of his mouth.

“ Definitely one of my be…” He couldn’t finish.

His tie caught on your fist, his torso inclined and supported by his strong arms above the kitchen island. Your cold lips had suddenly crashed against his, taking him off guard and at the same time his breath away.

Sanji, still ,quickly catch up. Adjusting his position to support the back of your head with one of his hands. He slightly brushes his tongues against your sugary lips, savoring them like a peculiar delicacy. But, as your tongue met, exploring and dancing against each other in a french ritual. He became more and more greedy of your lips, throwing away his usual self control at the first hearing of your panting breath.

Still trapped in the warm embrace of his lips, enjoying the contrast of his warm tongue against your ice cream cold one, you suddenly heard a groan pronounced by none of you.

“ Great, now the waiter will stop looking like a love sick puppy. But did you really have to expose us to that ?”

Breaking the kiss, you gave a glance at the door where Zoro, his arm crossed on his chest, was rolling his eyes, clearly already done with both of you.

Biting your lips of embarrassment you still couldn’t prevented, neither Sanji at it seem, to smile.

“ Nevermind. Come on black chicken “ He calls your bird, who, now used to it ,goes perch himself on one of his shoulders. Before quitting the doorframe to disappear into the ship “ I have to clean my blade and I know they are not clean enough until you watch your reflection in it. “

Laughing at the incongruous friendship of the Swordsman and your pet. You returned your attention to Sanji, another tea spoon of ice cream in his hand.

“I’m sorry” You apologize, still laughing.

“ No need to be embarrassed Mon coeur “ He smile, regaining as it seem, his composure

“ No, I mean, now I don’t know what I prefer between the dessert or your kisses “

Taken aback, Sanji slowly smiles, deposing a small kiss on your lips.

“ Then why not enjoy them both together…I will gladly supply it every time you ask for it”

Smiling you then proceeded to enjoy the delicious cold dessert and the body warm contrast for the rest of the day and more.

Bonus :

Not that Sanji was ashamed to tell you, no. But, even after a year after the event of the offering silverware et other shiny knick-knacks.

He still had, hide behind a pile of pots, the many items brought to him, along the years, by Deimos. Because, even after all this, he was still the reason why you were finally in his arms at night and yes, he had to admit it, he had kind of come to like it, that damn bird.

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654 notes · View notes

calypsocolada · 8 months

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WINNER WINNER | r. zoro

(click here for part two)

synopsis: a stoic swordsman helps you figure out what your type is. authors note: hi :] i like zoro. no other notes. cw: violence, fluff, small bit of angst, clueless!reader, kissin :*, zoroxreader, small bit of sanjixreader wc: 4.4k

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Zoro’s wooden practice sword swung in an unpredictable arch, you knew you couldn’t avoid it so you turned, letting it smack hard against your shoulder. Pain zaps through your body, the hit more annoying than painful.

“Ow!” You growled, eyes narrowing. Zoro danced around you, you never knew how light-footed he could be, how quick and precise his sword play was. Zoro was a huge man, he was easily two feet taller than you, built like a damn freight train and somehow still quicker than you. Zoro’s mouth quirked up in a smart ass smirk, his brows raising tauntingly.

“I thought you said you were getting better.” He jested, obviously trying to get a rise out of you. You took the bait every damn time. You swing your sword in anger.

“I am!” You yelled, he dodged your assault with ease, playfully hitting your back as you stumbled forwards. You gained your footing and spun back around, swinging again but he just bats it away lazily.

“Come on, killer, swing with purpose not with anger.” He says listlessly, like he’s bored with this.

Of course he was bored, he was probably the best swordsman in the world, you were just some idiot pirates daughter. It had been a few months since escaping your fathers crew and although you were one of your fathers best fighters you fought more close combat style, with knives mostly. Swords were long and heavy, especially the ones Zoro used. It was like he made them out of boulders rather than steel. But right now you were using practice swords because you’re sure that if this was a real fight you’d be dead and buried.

You grip the handle of the sword hard, knuckles turning white. You weren’t used to defeat, it left a sour taste in your mouth. Zoro’s stretched a bit, yawning. The anger always took you over. You were your fathers daughter after all. You pretended to swing the sword again, with clumsy maneuvering and when Zoro went to bat it away you chucked the sword aside, dodging his blade, hitting him square in the stomach with your shoulder. It was meant to take him down but he didn’t budge against you. It was as though you were pushing against a damn tree. You remembered just then how it felt fighting your father, how unmovable he was. You were raising your knee before you could even stop yourself as he knee him square between the legs. A rush of air leaves his lips and the way his body shifts you know you finally caught him off balance. You sweep a leg out from under him and with all the force in your body you shove against him. You both slam against the forest floor, your hips straddling his abs as you jam your forearm down against his neck, successfully pinning him beneath you. He looks up at you with immeasurable annoyance.

“You’re a dirty fighter.” He huffs, groaning in pain. You nod your head, a proud fact you already knew.

“You’ve met my father, right?” You jest. This was something new you were learning. Since joining up with Luffy’s crew there were a few things you had to learn.

They weren’t out to get you.

You were raised by a killer, his crew were a bunch of killers so naturally you grew up always keeping watch of those around you because the moment you slacked out someone would have their hands around your neck just waiting to extinguish your fire.

2. You had to soften up and learn to work as a member of a team.

This one you were still working on. You were alone most of your life, your father never spared you a kind word and sometimes at night you’d lay awake, knowing you were just like him sometimes. You guarded every part of your heart so well that sometimes you could trick yourself into thinking you never had one to begin with. But it beat the day you met Luffy’s crew. They saved you, even when you were good, they knew who and where’d you’d come from and still accepted you for who you were. That meant to you that you had to change. If you wanted to stay a member of this crew you had to let them in. You couldn’t push them away because one bad day would come and they’d stay away. You didn’t think you could survive that. Knowing that there was warmth in this world that you turned cold.

3. Lastly, how to protect someone.

You could protect yourself just fine because you’d been left behind in wakes your entire life. But you wouldn’t do that to them. You’d stay and fight because that’s what they did for you. You weren’t just looking out for yourself anymore, you had people, possibly a family, it’d take the devil himself to pull that from your grip.

“Yeah I met him, he’s an asshole, like you.” Zoro grunts, his pinned hands escaping from your fingers as he turns the tide, swinging you to your back, pressing you into the dirt. You’re not sure where his sword came from but the wooden edge of it was pressed gently against your throat. He beat you. You groaned out a sigh as he cocked his head to the side.

“I had you.” You fume as he purses his lips, he’s heavy against you, it feels like ten men rather than one.

“For a second.”

“That’s all a killer needs.” You dared. He must’ve seen that look in your eyes before because he presses the sword ever closer to your neck, but not hard enough to actually hurt.

“We’re done for today.” He says and suddenly his weight is lifted off you and you feel as though you could finally breathe again. You didn’t know you were holding your breath. Zoro extends a hand to you, narrowing his eyes. “No funny business, I’m hungry.” He warns because for someone who’s only known you for a few months he knows you pretty damn well. Knew that look in your eye, that you would take his hand and end up trying to pin him beneath you again. He knew you hated to lose. You took his hand and did nothing of the sort because you were hungry too. He pulled you to your feet with ease and kept hold of your hand for a second as he spoke. “You’re a good fighter, don’t give up on practicing.” He says and the look in his eye is intense, he meant it. He lets your hand go and bends to grab the practice sword that you tossed aside.

“I don’t see the point in it, I fight better close.”

“You can fight better any way you choose. You master the sword and you give yourself more options.” He says, tossing it to you, you catch it with ease.

“More options?”

“To survive. You want that don’t you?” He asks over his shoulder, walking back towards the camp that the crew had set up near the beach. You never thought of it like that before. You learned how to fight because your father needed someone unassuming to kill. Who’s more unassuming than a young girl? You always fought to kill, to end lives, you never cared much for your own. Who could care for a killer after all? Zoro slowed, tossing a glance over his shoulder at you after you took too long to answer.

“Of course I want that.” But your words sounded hollow. There was still that nagging voice of your fathers. There was only so many times someone you looked up to could call you worthless before you started to believe it. It was ingrained in you. To live but not feel worthy of life. Maybe you did want to live, but that didn’t mean you felt like you deserved to. You’d done wrong your entire life, killed and followed in the footsteps of someone you knew was bad. Didn’t that make you guilty of something?

Zoro’s eyes dissected you, that face you made and the tone of your voice. He was a smart man and for all his faux uninterested stare he read you like a damn book. Like he’d cracked open your mind and read your innermost secrets. It was strange, having someone who you couldn’t fool. Someone who could look at you and call bullshit.

“Do you just want to survive for the sake of others or for yourself?” He asked, slowing to a stop. Crickets chirped around you, wind picking up, swaying the leaves of the trees gently. You stopped too, mindlessly turning the practice sword over in your hands.

“Is that a trick question?” You asked and watched him shake his head. You turn the question over in your head. “Surviving for yourself is quite selfish right?”

“Not necessarily.” He breathes out, walking and plopping down listlessly on a stump, he stretches out his legs. “You charge into things head on, you don’t wait for others to act.”

“That’s a good thing.” You cross your arms defensively. “How else would you catch enemies by surprise?”

“By others I meant your crew. When you charge into things you could end up getting hurt.” He countered, you kick at a raised root and toss your head back a bit dramatically.

“But if I kill the bad guys first you guys have nothing to worry about.”

“We’d still worry about you.”

“Why?” You questioned as though someone worrying about you was way out of the realm of possibility.

“Because you aren’t a martyr, we don’t need you throwing yourself on the knife.” Zoro argues, it’s one of the first times he seems interested in what he’s talking about. Passionate even. “I know what you’re used to. That’s why I wanted to train you.”

“So I can fight with a long blade instead of a short one?” You quipped.

“So you can fight next to me.” He says as though you should’ve known. You look up from the ground over to him. He has this strange look in his eyes, the kind of strange look Sanji gave you sometimes, though Sanji looked at every girl like that. But not Zoro, the man was inexpressive usually.

“Fight next to you?” You echo, as if trying the words out loud would give them a different meaning. Zoro nods his head.

“Wouldn’t it be nice? Not having to wonder who has your back?” He asks. You look at him, something stirring inside you.

“Is that what you want?” You start. “Someone who can keep up with you?”

He nods his head.

“Don’t you?” You ponder it for a moment.

“I guess, yeah.” You say softly. “I feel like I keep up with you just fine.”

“You could be better.” Zoro jests, pushing off the stump he sat on.

“I took you down, big man.” You growl, jogging to catch up with him as the sun starts to set.

“You cheated.”

“I was being… resourceful.” You said and heard Zoro laugh, a warm laugh coming from his chest. You never heard him laugh before, probably in the same way he’d never heard you laugh. You both were somewhat serious types.

“Sure, let’s call it that.” He intones.

Back at the campsite the first person to greet you and Zoro was Sanji. Ever since landing on this island Sanji had been acting somewhat differently to Zoro, almost colder. You had no idea what that was about and honestly you didn’t care, not presently because they always bickered anyways.

“There you guys are!” Sanji all but growls, shooting dagger at Zoro. “We’ve been waiting for you.” He says, giving you a kind smile.

“We didn’t mean to keep you guys, you could’ve eaten.” You say as Sanji shakes his head, guiding you with a gentle hand on your back towards the food.

“Nonsense, it was no trouble.” Sanji croons as you look towards the rest of the crew. Luffy has his hands crossed against his chest tightly, his face scrunched in annoyance.

“It was a little trouble.” Luffy grumbles as Sanji shoots daggers at him. You sit down, Sanji occupying the seat next to you as Zoro plops down in the sand across from you. It's quiet as everyone digs into their food.

“How is it?” Sanji asks, eyes watching you. You’d just filled your mouthful, unable to answer right at that moment.

“It’s a little salty.” Usopp chided as Sanji hurled a dinner roll at him.

“I wasn’t asking you!” Sanji ranted, the roll hitting Usopp square between the eyes. You and Luffy both snort in laughter. You laugh, almost choking on your food which serves to make you two laugh even harder. Sanji turns to you with a worried expression, lightly hitting your back as you're able to swallow your food properly. You bite your lip to keep from laughing as you give Sanji a small smile.

“It tastes good, Sanji, thank you.” You say and Sanji practically melts.

“Usopp’s right,” Zoro starts, a mischievous look in his eyes. “It’s a bit salty.” Sanji’s eyes turn to slits as he grabs another roll, hucking it at Zoro who catches it with ease, grinning before taking a bite out of it.

“I don’t care what you think because my dear Y/n likes it.” Sanji proclaimed, turning to you. “Would you like some more, dear?”

“Sure.” You shrug as he practically stumbles over himself to grab you more. Your eyes meet with Zoro’s, he gives you a wink and you roll your eyes. Zoro liked messing with Sanji and most of the time it was pretty funny. Sanji took a big liking to you and Zoro liked to tease him about it. You weren’t sure what it was that Sanji liked about you but he was always quick to give you anything you asked for. Sanji fills your plate and as the night winds down Luffy, Nami and Usopp take off for bed.

You sit by the fire next to Sanji, your legs pulled to your chest as he leans back, eyes staring at the stars. It’s quiet, just the sound of the fire crackling and the waves of water crashing nearby. Your eyes watch the fire as it slowly lulls you into comfort. Suddenly a blanket is placed over your shoulders as you blink, eyes watering. You turn to see Zoro as he plops down near you. You silently thank him, pulling the covers closer to your chest, shielded from the cold. Something burning hotter was the look you caught sight of from Sanji, he looked as though he was seconds away from challenging Zoro to a duel. But when he noticed you his face morphed into a smile again.

“Is a measly blanket gonna be enough to keep you warm, my dear?” Sanji asks. “I could scoot closer to you?” He offers.

“The blanket’s good.” You answer, unaware of the implications. Zoro snorts beside you, amused at something you weren’t sure of.

“Do you have something to add, Zoro?” Sanji hisses as Zoro, face unphased as he shrugs his shoulders.

“Sanji?” You start.

“Yes, dear?” He asks, voice all soft, way different from the tone he was using a second ago.

“Did Zoro do something to make you angry?” You ask, making Zoro snort again. Sanji shakes his head.

“Nothing more than usual, dear, no need to worry.” He says and you nod your head, satisfied with that answer, eyes sliding back towards the fire. “Could I ask you something?”

“Hmm?” You hum, watching the flames flicker and dance.

“What’s your type?” He asks. Zoro doesn’t snort this time, he fully laughs, gaining an angry stare from Sanji. “Shut your mouth you damn idiot!” Sanji yells across the fire at Zoro. “You’re ruining the moment!”

“My type of what?” You ask cluelessly. Zoro can’t help but laugh even more. You look over at him, confused but he’s laughing so hard his eyes are closed. You look back at Sanji.

“Ignore that damn fool, dear. Your type in a partner.” He explains.

“Type in a partner?” You echo, Zoro slowly quiets down next to you. Sanji nods his head. You purse your lips, thinking. You and Zoro fought pretty well together the few times you had to, it was just mere hours ago that he told you he liked the idea of fighting with you and you had to admit you didn’t mind that also. “I guess Zoro would be my type.” You say, completely unaware of the havoc you just caused. Sanji clamps a hand to his chest dramatically over his heart. You look at Zoro, his cheeks blushing a moment before he begins a fit of laughter all over again. Understanding the miscommunication before you and Sanji do.

“You hear that, Sanji? I’m her type.” Zoro boasts jokingly, throwing an arm around your shoulders, loving the effect it was having on Sanji. Sanji looked like a deflated balloon. Sanji sinks back into the sand as you cock your head, confused. Zoro gives your shoulder a small squeeze as you look back over at him. “He meant romantic partner.” He whispers just to you. Your eyebrows raise, mouthing the word ‘oh’.

“I’m sorry, Sanji, I thought you meant fighting partner.” You corrected and Sanji shot back up, hopefulness on his face again.

“It’s okay, dear, you scared me there.” Sanji sighs wistfully, running a hand through his hair. Zoro’s arm moves away from you as you look back at him.

“Keep it there.” You order softly. “I was getting warm.” Zoro’s brows raise in surprise but he does as you ask, even scooting a bit closer to you. When you look back at Sanji his jaw is practically touching the sand. “What?” You ask innocently, he shuts his mouth instantly, shaking his head.

“N-nothing.” He turns away, kicking sand at the fire. You feel Zoro laugh softly. You had no idea what sort of nonverbal conversation these two were having and honestly you didn’t care to know. You close your eyes, leaning into Zoro’s warmth. Romantic partner. You were thinking about it now because you’d never thought about it before. There was no love where you came from, no positive role models, no romantic tension. That stuff was way out of your realm of understanding.

“How do you know your type?” You ask, turning to look at Sanji. His eyes meet yours, his eyes glancing at Zoro’s arm around your shoulders then back to you.

“That's a hard one to explain.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Is it something you just know?” You ask and Sanji nods his head.

“More or less, yeah,” Suddenly he lets out a big yawn, stretching. “Boy am I beat. Are you tired?” He asks you.

“Not really.” You say and watch as he pouts.

“Maybe you should head off to bed then.” Zoro says. Sanji’s eyes glare his way as he grumbles, pushing up from the sand and dusting himself off.

“Night,” He says sharply, trudging across the sand back towards the ship. You watch him go.

“He is so strange.” You whisper, earning a warm laugh from Zoro.

“You're clueless, you know that.” He remarked with another soft laugh. You turn to look at him.

“Why?” You ask, his eyes slide to yours.

“He likes you, killer, a lot.” Zoro explains. You furrow your brows, you already knew he liked you, he treated you very kindly. “And I know what you're thinking. It’s not that kind of like.”

“What other kind is there?” This garners another laugh. “Stop laughing at me!”

“I’m sorry,” Zoro chuckles, smiling warmly. “He likes you… romantically.” He emphasizes and suddenly everything starts falling into place in your mind. He was always going out of his way for you, giving you extra food, following you around like a lost puppy, practically begging for your attention.

“Hm.” You hum, turning back to look at the fire.

“Hm?” Zoro echoes. “You sound mildly uninterested.”

“Eh, I don’t- I guess I don’t understand.”

“Which part?”

“Why would he like me? That makes no sense.” You say and for a moment Zoro is quiet, you turn to look at him, his cheeks pink, probably from the heat of the fire you guessed.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” He asks. And when you just look at him quizzically he pities you a bit. He inhales, sighing. “You do know you're gorgeous right?” He asks as though you did know that. That was not what you were expecting him to say. You can’t remember the last time someone referred to you in a positive connotation.

“I-- I don’t think so.” You say, your cheeks feel hot under Zoro’s stare, you feel slightly nervous suddenly, but not a bad nervous, you're not really sure how to explain it. It’s completely new to you.

“Well you are. And you're strong, men love strong women.” Zoro goes on, he’s leaning back slightly, his arm still around you as he gazes up at the stars. You bite your lip, your mouth feels dry. Were you getting sick or something?

“Do you?”

“Hell yeah I do, I’m not an idiot.” He says, amused. You nod your head.

“Hm.” You say and he looks at you with that amused expression. “But what does him liking me have to do with you? He looked angry with you all night?” You ask, piecing things together in your mind.

“He’s jealous, killer.” He says.

“Jealous, huh…” You trail off. “Because you're a good partner?” You ask and he scoffs a laugh, shaking his head.

“Sure, let's go with that.” He intones. You lay your head back down on his shoulder, settling against him. You always found your way to Zoro, you two had grown pretty close in the past few weeks. He was a calming presence, one you always seeked out. You liked sitting near him, talking with him and training with him. You liked when he talked and when he looked at you. It was strange, you’d never felt that way before meeting him. Never let your guard down but he just felt like a calming, safe presence to you.

“What’s your type?” You ask and you feel Zoro tense up slightly, you turn slightly to look up at him. “Something wrong?”

“No, nothings wrong.” He says, recovering smoothly. “Are we talking about fighting partners?” He jokes, earning a laugh from you.

“Apparently not.” You answer. Waiting for a reply. Zoro’s arm slightly tightens around you, pulling you just a bit closer as he fixes the cover that had fallen off your shoulder.

“I think I might keep that a mystery.” He answers as you huff out a laugh.

“Keep your secrets then.” You say, letting your eyes drift closed. Sanji’s words float back into your mind, when you asked if liking someone was just something that you knew and he said more or less. It was something you just knew? That was harder to understand for you. “I think I’d like someone who I feel safe with.” You find yourself saying aloud as you try and imagine what that means, you were still kind of getting fighting partner mixed up with a romantic partner because both options you felt you needed someone you could trust.

“That’s a good thing to look out for, killer.” He says softly. You think hard. You felt safe with Zoro, you felt comfortable enough to rest against him. You couldn’t see yourself doing that with Sanji although you trusted him you didn’t want to be that close. Your mind was reeling now. So you liked being close to Zoro? Did that mean anything or nothing at all? You squeezed your eyes shut.

“Romance is confusing.” You find yourself saying. Zoro chuckles, nodding his head.

“Damn straight.” You lift up slightly as he turns to meet your eyes.

“How do you know you know, you know?” You ask as Zoro’s brows raise.

“I don’t know?” He asks as you purse your lips.

“Sanji said your type was just something you knew,” You puzzled.

“Killer, I think you may be overthinking it.” Zoro says.

“What if you think you like someone but you're not completely sure?” You ask as Zoro hums slightly, thinking up an answer for you.

“I guess- I guess you could kiss them.” He offers and you nod your head, leaning forwards to press a quick, searching kiss to Zoro’s lips. For someone so rough around the edges his lips are surprisingly soft against yours, cold from the night time wind. When you pull back Zoro’s eyes are closed, his cheeks as red as cherries. He slowly opens his eyes, he’s stunned to say the least.

“I’ve never kissed someone before.” You say, eyes glancing back down at his lips. You kissed him too quickly to tell if anything came from it. “I’m gonna try again.” You say and he stammers but doesn’t object as you scoot closer and lean to press your lips back against his. You leave them there for a moment. You’d seen people kiss before but trying it now you were completely unsure of the correct way to do it. You feel something bloom but you're pulling away before you can put meaning to it. “I suck at this. You do it.” You say as Zoro finally finds his words.

“You kissed me.” He says shocked and you nod your head.

“It was bad, I don’t know what I’m doing. This is like training with a sword all over again.” You grumble, pouting and crossing your arms.

“You just need a good instructor.” Zoro’s hand slides up from your shoulder to your cheek, moving your face to face him. You have no time to access the way your stomach bottoms out at that before he’s bringing you flush against his lips this time in a delicate embrace. His fingers tangled in your hair, a shock zaps through you at the contact. Zoro knew exactly what he was doing, he was skilled in more ways than fighting it seemed. You burned all over, your breath catching in your throat. Sanji was right, you knew right then. Right as he pulled you impossibly closer and kissed you with fervor and confidence. When he pulled back your lips chased after him slightly as you stopped yourself. You swallowed dryly.

“Was that good for you?” He asks, his voice all breathy and hoarse.

“Uh huh.” You exhale. It's quiet for a beat. “I think,” you start, clearing your throat. “I think maybe you should try again.” You whisper and you don’t have to say anything else because Zoro understands. That and he’s kissing you before you can utter another word.

#one peice x reader #one piece zoro #roronoa zoro #zoro roronoa x reader #zoro roronoa x you #sanji vinsmoke #sanji x reader #one piece #one piece sanji #zoro x reader #zoro roronoa #usopp #monkey d. luffy #opla x y/n #zoro opla x reader #zoro opla

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joelalorian · 3 months

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Lost Cause

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel thinks you shouldn’t waste your time on him. You disagree.

Warnings: Explicit MDNI; Jackson-era Joel; canon-ish but also not; drinking; mentions of cigarettes, drugs, dark thoughts, and death; unprotected p in v; oral (m and f receiving); interesting use of red wine; unspecified age gap; despair and hope.

Inspired by the song Save Me by Jelly Roll. Some of the lyrics have been woven into the story.

Word count: 2,594 oneshot

The hits just kept coming. Time after time, year after year, life just beat Joel Miller down. It started when he was young, always taken down a peg by someone who was supposed to love him unconditionally, no matter how hard he tried to build himself up. There was a brief respite when he had Sarah – those fourteen years were the happiest of his life, despite the sudden and unexpected nature of becoming a father so young, until it was all ripped away in the blink of an eye on that one horrific day.

Since then, he’d given up hoping for more. Life had completely shattered his hopes and dreams. He couldn’t even put himself out of his own misery, for fuck’s sake. Life hated him that much it wouldn’t even release its grasp on him. He was so damaged beyond repair, and he could do fuck all about it.

His latest hit was a sucker punch to the gut, though.

Just when he finally opened up his heart again, when he allowed himself to feel something other than misery again, that’s precisely when the hit came.

Ellie – sweet, feral child that she was – wanted nothing to do with him after finding out the truth of what happened to the Fireflies in Salt Lake City.

The fracture in his relationship with Ellie sent him spiraling out of control, resorting to old behaviors and vices – drinking too much at the Tipsy Bison, smoking pilfered cigarettes out back behind the bar, taking pills on the rare occasions he could get his hands on them. The nightmares returned no matter how blasted he got to chase them away and he was often moody from lack of sleep.

Joel still contributed to society in Jackson, but he did it in ways that he could keep to himself. Fixing things around town, building stuff in his workshop, taking the odd patrol shift with his brother. He avoided everyone but Tommy and Maria, and Ellie, if she didn’t flee from the very sight of him.

“Jesus Christ, Joel. What the fuck? Were you trying to get yourself killed? Because it almost worked!” Tommy was worked up, laying into Joel at the tail end of their patrol shift. He didn’t know if his older brother had a death wish or was just too hungover to pay proper attention, but Joel was nearly taken out by a clicker while they cleared their route. A clicker that he normally would have dispatched without much effort or thought. Joel cut it way too close this time.

Joel gazed at his brother with baleful eyes. He had nothing to say for himself. He did have a death wish, but how could he tell Tommy that?

Tommy knew Joel was struggling – his behavior was similar to what it had been after Sarah died, when he became a fraction of the man he had been. “Come on, let’s grab a drink at the Bison,” Tommy sighed. At a loss on how else to help him, Tommy often accompanied Joel to the bar despite already thinking his brother drank too much. At least he could keep an eye on him that way.

They made small talk on the way, Joel’s responses little more that grumbles and grunts. Something needed to give, but what? Tommy didn’t know, but he sent up silent prayers for a miracle to save his brother.

Once they were seated at one end of the bar, Tommy ordered a round. “Joel, brother, what is going on, really? Is it just the thing with Ellie or something more?”

Two sets of deep brown eyes stared at each other for long moments, each waiting for the other to flinch or look away. Joel gave in first, clearing his throat, unable to meet his brother’s eyes as he spoke. “It’s… everythin’, Tommy. It feels like somethin’ inside me is broken, somethin’ that was just starting to repair itself until this thing with Ellie shattered it again.”

Tommy’s heart clenched. Life had done Joel dirty, even before the outbreak, and it seemed like it finally broke him beyond repair. “I know it ain’t been easy, not with… well, everything. Do you… would you ever consider talking to someone about it all? Like a professional, I mean. I know we got someone here who used to be a counselor.”

Brows pinched together, Joel’s stormy eyes glared at the bar top, avoiding Tommy’s searching gaze. “Fuck, no! I don’t want a stranger diggin’ into my psyche or whatever the hell they do, just so they can tell me I have daddy issues or some such shit. And talkin’ ‘bout it don’t help none, either. I’m talking to you and it ain’t doing shit but pissin’ me the hell off!”

“Damn, alright! Don’t gotta get all caveman on me.” Tommy held his hands up with a blatant roll of his eyes. His brother never did like the touchy feely shit and he should have known better than to bring it up. “Maybe you just need a sweet lil’ thing to take your mind off shit.”

That got Joel to laugh for the first time in a long while. “Oh yeah? You think getting my dick wet will solve everythin’?”

Tommy smirked. “Well, not everything. You’ll still be you afterwards. I’d pity whatever poor girl got stuck with you, honestly. But it couldn’t hurt none, right?” It was good to see his brother grin, nose and corners of eyes crinkling with the broadness of it, and they fell into a comfortable silence while people watching. Sudden movement at the entrance caught Tommy’s attention and Joel followed his eyeline.

You walked in with Maria, the pair of you had your heads tilted toward each other giggling madly about something. While Tommy only had eyes for Maria, Joel drank in the sight of you. New to Jackson, you arrived with a small group a few weeks ago and, while you were still settling in, you were eager to meet people and get involved in helping around town. Maria took an instant liking to you, and you spent a lot of time with her, quickly becoming part of the Miller group.

Catching a glimpse of his brother staring at you, Tommy slapped Joel’s back. “Speaking of a sweet lil’ thing. Maybe this is your chance, brother.” Joel scoffed in return. Girls like you don’t go for guys like him, at least not the guy he was now. It was the law of nature or some shit.

“Hey boys,” Maria greeted, taking a seat next to Tommy. With a knowing glint in her eye and an exaggerated wink, she gestured for you to sit next to Joel. You never should have mentioned to her how handsome you found Joel. She was becoming a menace with her not-so-subtle methods of teasing and pushing the two of you closer at every opportunity.

“Hi Joel.” You slipped onto the stool next to him, one hand placed on his shoulder for balance as you did so.

“Hey darlin’. Whatcha drinking?” he grunted, fighting to ignore the burning heat of your touch. When was the last time a woman touched him? It must have been Tess and that was… a long time ago.

“I’ll take a red wine. Cabernet or pinot noir, whichever kind is available, please.”

After relaying your request to the bartender, and with his brother’s attention focused solely on Maria, Joel turned his attention back to you. He was a miserable sod, but you were a beautiful woman – he’d be a fool to ignore the attention you paid him. “How are you settlin’ in?”

“Pretty good. This is some community.” You launched into a few stories about mishaps and people you’ve met so far, drawing a few chuckles from Joel with your interpretation of some of the townsfolk. You had a way about you that drew him out of shell of melancholy.

One drink quickly became two, then three, and before either of you knew it, Maria and Tommy left and the two of you were alone at the bar. The wine buzz left you feeling bold and brave, making a move you would not have normally.

“Do you want to go back to my place for a nightcap?”

“Darlin’,” Joel sighed, brows pinched, at once drifting back under the dark cloud of hopelessness and unable to meet your heated gaze. “You don’t want to waste your time on me. I’m a lost cause.”

“Why don’t you let me decide what and who I waste my time on,” you challenged.

Joel’s eyebrows lifted in surprise at your tenacity. You were a beautiful young woman and for some unfathomable reason you were interested in him. He had absolutely nothing to offer someone like you, except for a one-night stand, at best. He was good at those – they didn’t require deep connections or feelings, two things he was avoiding like the plague. Maybe Tommy was on to something though – sex would take his mind off his miserable existence for a bit.

“Okay then. Let’s get outta here,” he replied, downing the last of the amber liquid in his glass, and leading you out of the bar with a large, warm hand at your lower back.

The journey to your house was cold and quiet and you began to wonder if you’d made a huge error in judgement. You weren’t a one-night stand kind of girl, preferring the comfort and security of relationships instead, but something told you that this would be the only way you’d get to have Joel. There was a darkness about him, a deep residing mass of regret and remorse, and you felt a burning need to fix him, to be his sunshine, even if only for a little bit.

Your hands fumbled with the latch when you finally reached your house. The warmth of Joel’s large hands suddenly overwhelmed your senses as he helped you, and you were flinging yourself at him before the door even closed behind you.

His kisses were anything but tender, all harsh presses of his lips, teeth, and tongue, like he was a man starved. There would be marks left on your tender skin come morning, but you didn’t mind, giving him the same treatment as you sucked at his neck, soothing your tongue over the spots you just sunk your teeth into.

“I have a bottle of wine. Do you want some?” you breathed against his lips, taking a moment to slow the momentum before the pair of you spontaneously combusted.

A smirk crossed Joel’s lips as an idea struck him. “Sure, why not.” He watched you open the bottle and pour two glasses before returning to him. Accepting one of the stemless glasses, he clinked it against yours before taking a sip. The momentum picked right back up after that first taste of the dark liquid.

Fingers frantically working to undo the buttons on Joel’s flannel with one hand, you walked backwards up the stairs to your bedroom, pulling him along with you without a spare thought about the wine spilled on the wood flooring as you went. Patience wearing thin, he tore your clothes from your body with his free hand, leaving you naked and yearning as you continued working on his shirt. Placing his glass of wine on the nightstand, his hands were everywhere, he could not get enough of your smooth, soft skin.

You were the antithesis of him, bright and bubbly where he was dark and brooding, soft where he was hard, adaptable and happy where he was rigid and sad. You were ripe like fresh fruit ready for plucking. You were everything he wish he could still be. Perhaps he could get just a brief taste of happiness being with you, inside you.

Once his jeans and boots were shed, Joel tossed you onto the bed, watching with hungry eyes as your tits bounced with the movement. He was on you in a flash, hands and mouth exploring every inch of your body. Sharp teeth scraped against your puckered nipples, making them impossibly harder, and the sensation shot a bolt of pleasure right down to your core, where the weight of his hardened cock rested, twitching for attention.

Nails scraped down his chest and belly until you reached his cock, slipping your slender hand around the heft of him. He was huge – both long and thick, a combination you’d not experienced before, and your mouth watered with the desire to taste him. If you only had one night together, you wanted to make it a memorable experience.

It took great effort to get Joel to detach his lips from your breasts, the whine that emanated from him as you did so had you downright aching for him.

“What are you doin’, darlin’?” his deep voice rumbled, dark eyes rolling back in his head when you moved down his body and slipped your plush lips around the head of his cock. “Oh, fuck!”

After spending so long living in hell, your mouth felt like heaven as you licked and sucked on his length.

“Wait, doll, I wanna try somethin’.”

Sitting up against the aged headboard, Joel grasped the wine glass and brought it down to rest on his belly. Two thick fingers dipped into the dark red liquid and swirled, coating every bit of surface area from fingertip to second knuckle before he brought his drenched fingers down towards you. His hand hovered over his cock and you both watched as droplets of translucent ruby red liquid dripped onto his hardened flesh.

Your mouth watered as you watched him repeat the process, eager to taste the heady mix of the bitter tang of wine and his salty pre-cum. Ravenous, you slurped at the liquid trails running down the length of his cock before lapping at the bulbous head, leaving no hint of wine behind as you wrapped your lips around him.

Joel was a panting mess when you took him as far as you could, his weeping head hitting the back of your throat. The glass of wine was forgotten, slipping from his hand to stain the hardwood floor next to the bed. That was a tomorrow problem as you focused on devouring his beautiful cock. He was close to the edge within minutes, the sensations too much, and he pushed you off him none too gently, flipping you onto your back like you weighed nothing.

“My turn, darlin’,” Joel murmured, nestling his face between your legs. He’d been told that his current lifestyle was bad for his health, that all the drinking and smoking was hopeless. They weren’t wrong, but it felt like that was all he needed, the only thing that set him free from his sorrows. Now that he’d tasted you, he knew that was utter bullshit. You could so easily set him free if he got to have you, taste you every day. You were enough to change a man like him.

“Joel,” you mewled his name between long moans as his tongue teased at your clit, thick fingers exploring your folds before dipping inside you. He drew an orgasm from you effortlessly and you clawed at his back as the blinding flash of pleasure washed over you. “I need you inside me. Now. Please.”

He could refuse you nothing, shifting to hover over you. “Save me from myself,” he murmured against your lips as he sheathed himself inside your tight warmth. “You’re the only one who can.”

“Always,” you replied breathlessly, rocking your hips against his. Your mouths met in a kiss full of promise.

#joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x female reader #joel x reader #fanfic #pedro pascal #tlou #fanfiction #pedrostories

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giuliadesu · 6 months

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𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 | bang chan

kpop | giuliadesu

fem!reader ⍛ fluff, hurt/comfort; mentions of stress, anxiety ⍛ 4.4k w

red lights by bang chan & hyunjin

chan was tired. the rehearsals for the comeback, the stress from the company, the deadlines for the songs creeping up on him… it was just too much, and he was not sure for how long he would (and could) be able to handle all of this before snapping.

it was late, well past the time they should have been done with dance practices. looking at the sweaty yet delighted faces of his friends, he almost felt bad: happiness and joy should be flowing through his veins, not annoyance and fatigue. despite the thought, he couldn’t help the feelings cruising through his mind. at that point, he wasn’t even paying attention to what the other guys were saying. chan was constantly lost in his own thoughts and he stopped in his tracks only when they passed by one the practice rooms.

it was supposed to be empty, considering the late hour, yet there was music coming out of it — music he knew all too well because he wrote it.

that was enough to catch his attention, considering his group was the last one to leave the area of the building dedicated to the practice rooms, and all the other dancers that trained with them went home already. chan let his teammates know he’d stop by his studio and that he’d see them tomorrow, then curiously leaned against the glass door that was left ajar.

and what he saw completely captivated him.

red pointe shoes were delicately gliding against the floor, ever so elegant and gentle; strong yet thin legs moved flawlessly, creating a cadenza of life that permeated the room; toned arms accompanied the movement of the body, swimming through air as if it was the only thing they were meant to do.

but when his gaze finally lingered over your face, chan became even more surprised: he knew you. two hours ago you were dancing with them as if there was no tomorrow, giving your all as you always did during practices and rehearsals alike. how could you have so much strength left in you? all the dancers were extremely tired, and rightfully so! the amount of effort they put into training before shows and shootings was no lighter nor different.

yet, right in front of his amazed gaze, you were dancing without a care in the world. your spatial awareness allowed you to move around with your pretty eyes closed, a choreography known by heart and probably practiced thousands of times before.

and in that precise instant, chan knew what was missing from him: what started as the dream of a lifetime, and the once-in-a-lifetime possibility to make a career out of it, now turned into a mindless routine; deadlines piling up, muscles aching for a break — the freedom he longed for seemed so far away.

on a slightly happier note, he couldn’t help but notice how beautiful and breathtaking you looked, while you gently graced the floor with the elegance of your steps. and seeing you perform your magic on a song he wrote and that was so special and peculiar, made his heart skip a beat.

when the music ended, you collapsed onto yourself as the final step in that intricate pattern of movements, so foreign to the usual style he got accustomed to seeing you dance in. it was only in that moment that he allowed himself to reveal his presence. moving into the room, he clapped his hands, a bright smile spreading along his features.

“wow, hey, that was absolutely beautiful.”

the surprised gasp that left your mouth made him smile even more.

“chan! what are you doing here? you should be resting, today was rough.”

ah, you were always so sweet to them. he liked to think of you as a close friend, especially after all the years spent working together, starting before their debut through all their shows, comebacks and shootings; those choreographies wouldn’t exist without you and your team, after all.

“hey, the same applies to you as well, young lady — it’s not like you worked any less hard.”

the gentle banter went on for a little while, and in the meantime you collected your things and switched your pointe shoes for the baggy pants you usually wore to practice. you were surprised to realize that chan was waiting for you, despite the tiredness evident on his features.

since he seemed to have a soft spot for you, it was not uncommon for his friends to ask for your help with coaxing him into healthier and less stressful habits and, even if today was not the case, your mind was already set on trying to convince him to go back to his apartment instead of his studio at the dorms.

he once told you that he bought a very small apartment with an equally tiny balcony that overlooked the han river and, coincidentally, you lived in the same area, just one street over — clearly, this played in your favor when trying to convince him to leave the jype building for the night.

“ramen by the river?”

one hour later, you were sitting on the banks by the han river, a cup of instant ramen warming your hands. it was not a strange occurrence: more often than not, when either of you needed someone to talk and vent to outside of working hours, this is where it would happen. considering that it was well past one in the morning, both of you decided to simply forego wearing your masks.

the concrete bench was cold from where chan was sitting cross-legged in front of you, yet it was a very grounding sensation — especially if compared to the heat inside the dancing rooms.

“red lights, uh?”

the blush on your cheeks became evident, and he was careful enough to hide his smirk with the ramen cup.

“sorry, i should’ve asked you if it was okay for me to create a choreography on that… and i shouldn’t have been practicing it at the studio.”

you were fumbling with your hands while trying to keep them hidden in your lap, ramen forgotten by your side along with the konbini wooden chopsticks. brows furrowed, chan gently grabbed your hands — they were so small and cold when in his own palms! his eyes searched for yours while rubbing soothing circles with his thumb over the soft expanse of your skin.

“are you kidding? that was the coolest thing i’ve ever seen!”

his eyes turned into shining crescent moons, dimples on full display as his lips turned into a joyous smile. the fact that you didn’t retract your hands made him feel better about his actions. for once in his life, he decided to follow the quickened beating of his heart, instead of the cold rationality provided by his brain.

he wanted to experience freedom again, and wanted to do that with you. coming to that conclusion felt surreal, yet so right all at the same time.

with that reckless resolution engraved in his mind, he decided to shoot his shot, while walking you home from your little nocturnal escapade. he bundled you up in his black hoodie, as you forgot yours at the studio, and couldn’t help but notice how you literally melted in the soft fabric.

“so…”

chan’s voice was soft, vowel dragged out more than necessary. when the entrance of your apartment building came into view, he knew it was time. he shoved his hands in the pockets of the black joggers he picked for practice, turning to face you and giving you his full attention.

“would you mind if i danced with you? while you do that breathtaking choreography?”

“what?!”

“you just looked so carefree and beautiful! i’ve never seen someone create something so unique over that song. i want to experience that freedom with you — if you’re okay with that, of course.”

you were absolutely at a loss for words. the bang chan, the man you had the fattest crush on ever since you first met him seven years ago — he gave you his hoodie, called you beautiful and said he wanted to dance with you.

your eyes fell on his right hand. from its place in the pocket, it had now moved over his abdomen; you knew he was nervous, it was some sort of unconscious behavior. just, this time he didn’t need to be, not around you.

with the sweetest smile across your features, you took his hand in your smaller ones, barely emerging from the sleeves of the hoodie.

rising to the tip of your toes, you placed the softest kiss over his cheek, resting your lips on the skin near his mouth for a bit longer compared to what would have been considered appropriate for friends. a gentle whisper was murmured a mere breath apart from him, gazes locking into one another as if that was their sole scope.

“i would love to dance with you, chris.”

chan was smitten. he was absolutely, undeniably, incredibly, atrociously whipped for you.

it was not much of a surprise: he fell for you the second you entered jype together as trainees - him as an idol, you as a dancer. but back then you were both too young, and too focused on trying to make a career out of your dreams to have time to focus on something like romance and love.

then, when he debuted, he quickly became overwhelmed by all the responsibilities he had towards his members and stays. he knew you deserved better, someone who could be with you all the time; that didn’t stop him from composing love songs with you in mind. after all, he spent almost every day with you and your team, so it was not like his feelings ever had a chance of wavering. seeing you grow and dance and becoming the most beautiful version of yourself was enough for him.

or so he thought.

after witnessing you dance on red lights, something just clicked: maybe he was tired, maybe he realised he couldn’t keep writing love songs about you without freely expressing his feelings, maybe he just wanted to know if he had a chance with you.

in the months following that night, chan tried his best to be closer to you, and not only when you had your nightly rendezvous in the studio, no — you had a key to his apartment and he had one to yours. his pantry started filling with your favourite foods and snacks, his wardrobe sported some of your comfy clothes and a basket in his bathroom held your skincare routine and your shower products. he almost cried when he once spent the night at your apartment after a rough day and realised you had done the same for him.

he loved watching you dancing as he played the piano for you. seeing you nap on the couch in his studio after practice, tucked in in one of his hoodies. hearing you ramble as you ate a midnight snack on his balcony, always with a smile on his face as he caressed your calves resting on his lap. knowing he had you in his life and never taking that for granted.

chan felt his heart grow a size too big when he started noticing how much you loved his closest friends: on days when practice ran for longer hours, you would always have a tupperware of peeled peaches with a pinch of sugar for him and felix, and a chicken breast sandwich for changbin. when han was going trough dark days, you’d be next to him, silently yet acting as a grounding presence for the boy. hyunjin and minho knew they could always go to you to talk or have a practice buddy if they wanted to rehearse their choreographies a bit more; seungmin and jeongin tried to rope you in on their schemes and pranks, especially when they were at chan’s expenses.

but, selfishly, what he loved the most was noticing how some of his habits rubbed off on you. sometimes you’d peek into his studio, tapping lightly on his shoulder; by the time he had turned around, he would be met by your arms spread wide and your gentle voice asking “big hug?” with a sweet smile on your face. his lips would automatically turn upside down, dimples on full display for you, as his arms wrapped around you. or when you would close your eyes with a smile when eating something you liked.

chan wasn’t sure how to exactly tackle the topic, so for now he just basked in the comfort you gifted him, never expecting anything in return.

you hated seeing chris crying. it didn’t matter if he was on tour on the other side of the world, or just a street over — whenever you spotted his eyes becoming red, your heart would shrink in pain.

it had been a long day. winter finally arrived, bringing cold days and a foggy weather. chan sent you a message to tell you that he had a meeting with the company and then he would go boxing a bit, so you didn’t have to wait for him at the studio; before going, he didn’t forget to peck your forehead, as he always did.

you couldn’t help but worry a little, when he had to go and have those meetings. something in his behaviour would change, as if he expected to be scolded for something or to have even more limitations forced upon himself — although he would accept them without complaints, so long his friends could keep reaching for their dream. the uneasy feeling you had wouldn’t leave you, so you opted to send him a simple message of a black heart, a gentle reminder you were with him every step of the way.

a couple of hours later, the clock of your phone showed it was almost midnight. chris still hadn’t answered you, and the guys told you that they hadn’t seen him ever since he went for the meeting; even their manager was in the dark of what was happening.

the weather looked like it would start pouring rain any second now, and you didn’t know if you wanted to go the the company and check if by any chance he was still in the studio, or if maybe you should give him a call just to be sure he was alright.

as you were about to leave the comfort of your couch, you felt your phone vibrate with a new notification. it was from chan. “i’ll be over in 10, is that okay?”

it didn’t matter how many times it had happened before, having chris silently crying on your chest was something that destroyed you. he was completely soaked, the downpour caught up to him as he was on his way to your apartment. sitting on the edge of your bathtub, he had his strong arms around your waist, pulling you even closer in between his legs; you gently threaded your fingers through his damp hair, pressing soft kisses to the crown of his head — trying in any way to alleviate the pain he was feeling. an eerie silence settled in the room, occasionally broken by his soft sniffles muffled by your (his, if you were to be completely honest) hoodie. after minutes that felt like hours, you moved a little to cup his face between your hands. red, swollen eyes looked at you, tears carving a path over the inhuman amount of foundation they forced him to wear.

“let’s remove your makeup, okay?”

with gentle movements you pressed the cotton pad over his honeyed skin, finally removing all those layers of powder and foundation that covered it. you were even softer around the eyes, considering they were already red from crying. then you lifted his face, bending down a little to place the lightest of kisses at the corner of his lips.

“take a warm shower, i’ll put your spare clothes in the dryer and get started on some hot chocolate.”

at that he hugged you even tighter, before allowing you to leave the room. a couple of minutes later, the sound of dripping water filled the apartment.

regardless of the circumstances, there was always something special in having chris laying on top of you with his head in the crook of your neck. hair still damp, he let his hands sneak under your hoodie, so to rest on your soft skin. his breath was tickling your skin, and you pulled him even closer to you when you felt he was ready to speak.

“chan’s room is no more.”

a soft whisper against your pulse.

“apparently i’m not doing enough of what they want, so they’re taking stays away from me… i don’t know what to do anymore.”

that was not what you were expecting. you were furious to say the least, but anger wouldn’t solve anything. your fingers found their rightful place in his hair, gently massaging his scalp. what could you say to make him feel better? you wanted him to smile again, to see him happy.

“it’s not your fault, chris. i know it hurts, but stays are always with you! they’re not gonna let something that is out of your control hinder the love and admiration they hold for you.”

he finally moved his head from his comfort spot, hovering over you. the duvet slipped from his shoulders, revealing the large tank top he used to sleep when at your place. his eyes never left yours, and he just nuzzled into your palms when you cupped his cheeks once again.

“damn, what would i do without you?”

stroking his cheekbones, you just gave him a small yet genuine smile.

“even if the world is coming down, i won’t let you drown. even if you start to lose your hold, i won’t let you go.”

the night was spent cuddling, with chan that finally gathered enough courage to tell you everything that was troubling him. you listened, providing gentle words of comfort and soft kisses over his collarbones. you understood his anguish and the pain he felt when the company decided to take away from him one of the activities he cherished the most; it was a way to keep a connection with the people that made their dream possible, to <make sure they knew they weren’t just numbers on a youtube video or sales for a chart.

rain kept falling well into the wee hours of the morning, a perfect backdrop for the vulnerable side the wonderful man in front of you decided to showcase. his dark hair kept covering his eyes, and you would promptly move them, not wanting to miss those beautiful eyes for even one second.

that night, under the covers of your small bed, something clicked. the thin line separating friendship and love started to fade — and maybe, just maybe, it would allow you both to stop at a red light and reflect on your feelings.

green. going to bed at 5 am after pulling an all-nighter to work on the new album.

red. waking up with you on the couch next to him, cuddled into his side, the night spent doing a studio ghibli marathon.

green. producing, training, practicing — repeat.

red. a dinner in a cozy, family-run restaurant with both teams; everyone was cheerful, and chris was right next to you, feeding you bits from his plate.

green. vocal training, more training, more rehearsals, makeup tests.

red. your tiny hands massaging his sore shoulders after he took a shower, almost falling asleep on your thighs at the pleasant sensation.

green. comeback photos, packing outfits for the upcoming tour, interview after interview, appointment after appointment.

red. dancing with you in the studio, then eating a cup of ramen by the han river — where it all began.

green. loading the van for the trip to the airport, doing last minute checks; you giving felix a small piece of paper, with the promise of handing it to chan on the last day of tour, when the closing piece of the concert will be playing.

red. the last night before leaving for a three-months-long tour, in his studio; singing youtiful together, over an old mock track that had only chan’s vocals on it; looking into each other’s eyes, time stopping.

the last thing chris wanted to do on the last concert of the tour was crying.

yet there he was, sitting on the floor, youtiful playing in the background, stays singing together. they were not singing, as they had prepared a surprise video to thank all the people who allowed them to reach for their dreams.

it always felt surreal, playing in seoul. after all, it was were everything started, where they met one another, where they found a new family and gave a new meaning to the word brotherhood. and this was not only related to the eight of them, oh no: their managers, your dance team that created all of their choreographies, the staff they saw every day — that counted as family as well, helping and supporting them after all these years.

chan had many reasons for breaking down on stage: the road leading to this comeback and this tour had been bumpy to say the least; they renewed their contracts with jype, and for once the leader in him decided to come out during the talks, bargaining for better conditions and an incredible amount of freedom, from production of their albums to shootings and what they were allowed to say in interviews. he couldn’t believe he did it, and the confirmation arrived just minutes before they were supposed to go on stage, providing them with a new rush of adrenaline and a new significance to this last concert.

then felix came to him, just as the first notes of youtiful started echoing in the arena; he gave him a hug, and gave him the little piece of paper he had safeguarded for the last three months.

“if you are reading this, it means little sunshine succeeded in keeping it safe from prying eyes — yay! youtiful is playing just about now, and you’re probably sitting on the stage, a bit out of the way; i bet your eyes are red and you’re fighting back the tears. let them fall, let them ruin your makeup and show your emotions. even if you’re the leader, you’re allowed to be vulnerable, just like you did that night in my arms. i always loved the differences between stage-chan and normal-chan, although i love both versions of you equally; you are fierce yet vulnerable, flirty yet shy, a perfectionist afraid of mistakes. you’re a beautiful contradiction, you know that? i’m so proud of you. i haven’t seen you in three months (we really need to tackle your very unhealthy work habits — we could’ve facetimed a couple of times!), but i know you’ve been giving it your all, as you always do. take a second to look around you: the kids are either crying or hugging one another, and the stays behind you are singing with smiles on their faces. does it really seem like you disappointed someone? i love you, chris, more than what would be considered appropriate for friends; and every time you perform and show yourself i am reminded why i fell for the cute australian guy that joined jype almost ten years ago. feel proud of that little demon inside of you! be the person you were writing about in youtiful, be the little star that can both shine and blink. okay, this is supposed to be just a little note, but all i’ve written is true! big hug — i’m proud of you and i love you ❤︎”

smiling through tears, a new wave of excitement overcame him. he needed to see you, hug you, kiss you.

an hour later he was in the lobby of jype, waiting for you to pick up the phone, pacing back and forth. one ring, two rings — at the third your voice finally echoed through the speakers.

“chris! sorry, i couldn’t find my phone.”

“i cannot breathe without you being right by my side, i’ll die. so can you please come over closer? hold me tight, right now?”

he knew he was being daring, he knew you might say no or hang up the call; and the amount of time you were taking to answer him was giving him a panic attack. yet, when you finally replied, he could feel the smile in your voice.

“wait for me.”

when he reached home, he just had the time to leave his backpack by the couch before he heard someone timidly knocking on the door. his brain went on autopilot: he swung it open, pulled you into his arms and hugged you as if his life depended on it. three months without hugging you, without hearing your giggles, without sharing his life with you.

“i’m sorry it took me so long to realise it, i’m sorry you had to wait, i’m so sorry-”

his rambling was interrupted by you cupping is cheeks, standing on the tip of your toes, and placing a soft kiss over his lips. then, a whisper against those fluffy clouds.

“it’s okay. if it meant loving you, i would’ve waited until the end of time.”

chan felt like he could cry again. a tsunami of emotions washed over him, and in the spur of the moment he picked you up and spun around, beaming at the sound of your laugh. then he collapsed over his black couch, the one where you spent so many nights cuddling together, your weight over his.

“i love you.”

a peck on your lips.

“i love you so much.”

another peck.

“thank you for dancing into my life with the gentleness of your steps, thank you for being there for me when i was at my worst, thank you for loving me.”

one more kiss and a tighter hug sealed that magic moment. giggles filled the room, as chris felt like a child who was receiving his favourite candy, discovering the amazing sensation of being loved; the soft touch of your fingers through his longer hair acquired a new meaning, you nuzzling into his neck became his favorite thing, holding your hand with fingers intertwined was suddenly his new lockscreen.

red lights became his favourite song, the epitome of his happiness, ready to tackle a new season with you by his side as soon as the red light turned green.

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paragonrobits · 9 days

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it occurs to me that the World of Darkness could qualify as a setting which you could argue has rebuttals to 'vampires should always be sexy and sexiness is their defining trait' sort of baked into it

the first part of it being that many vampires are not sexy. This does not include the likes of the Nosferatu or Gangrel, who generally look inhuman and not really in a sexy way (at least by the standard); sure some Nossies might merely have a repulsive aura, and some Gangrel might keep enough of a lid on it that they aren't mistaken for Garou in need of a decent bath, but they're not generally alluring.

now, they CAN be, but that's not the point of it; that one aspect of the setting means that vampires are heavily encouraged to depersonalize humans to an extreme just as a matter of survival and psychological well-being.

Vampires kill people. It's what they do. its what they are. They don't have to, but that kind of restraint is hard. It hurts. It's so much easier to just... let go, to drink your fill until you find your fangs meeting in the throat of a dead man, or woman, or child. Maybe they were a friend of yours, or even family.

It bothers you the first time.

Until you do it again, and again.

This is, in part, one thing that Humanity loss can depict; vampires killing people to survive, and while it is possible for them to retain their humanity and be more humane than any human could possibly be, its extremely difficult to maintain it, and so emotionally exhausting, and so painful that many might not find it worth the bother.

So they make small compromises here, and there. A serial killer who needs to be taken out anyway; some guy who beats his family. People no one will care if they die, and even cheer their passing.

And in terms of this setting, these compromises aren't that big a deal. But things escalate. Small compromises can, and for most vampires will, lead to bigger ones.

You need to feed the Beast. Because here's the funny thing about vampirism and sexuality in older editions; vampires don't like sex as a general rule. They can't like it. Any drive they might have had for sexual desire, or attraction, generally dies with their human lives. They might pretend otherwise, or try to retain the abiltiy to remember when they genuinely desired other people, and try so hard not to pretend that the first thing they think of when they see humans is 'MEAT'. Walking talking meat, only existing to convey blood.

So much effort, having to deal with them. Pretending to be something you're not.

And a lot of vampires build an identity of playing at it. Toreadors like to imagine themselves gliding gracefully through the ages at the top of human society, for instance, but its often shallow, and certainly hard to maintain. The personal connection is hard, and generally not something they can maintain for long by the laws of vampire society; someone who notices that the beautiful and elegant patron of the arts has looked young for over 50 years is someone who's going to put something together, and one day he disappears too. The Masquerade is kept in place by human death.

Vampires might LOOK sexy, they might be good at manipulating those feelings, and some can even be genuine about it. The question, though, is how long does that last? Probably not long, for most. It's just too hard, too exhausting to keep up for long.

Even the act of feeding is pleasurable, but not precisely sexual. It's euphoric for both (most of the time), but you are FEEDING on someone. Draining them to satisfy your own monstrous needs. You might get them addicted to the sensation, and you get addicted to them, and then one day-

You can't stop yourself in time. You feed until there's nothing left, and your friend, or lover, or something else important to you, is just so much dead meat on the floor.

How long before you stop caring?

Vampires call humans kine, or cattle, for a reason.

In the world of darkness, a vampire's defining trait is not sexiness. They can BE sexy, if they so choose. But in earlier editions they were outright incapable of having sexual desire (though they could be good at faking it), and more than anything else what they are are monsters. They're corpses hungering for the blood of the living, and they know it.

They're not like the Garou, irrational and alien forces of nature though the werewolves seem to the vampires; the Garou know what they are, and they exist for a purpose and function vital to the world. Vampires just kill people. Mages are enlightened, in their own way; changelings are functionally everything vampires WISH they were, or like to pretend they are; patrons to inspire humans, surviving off the creativity and energy of humans without (barring some of the practices of the Unseelie Court) hurting them in any way. And the other denizens have their own things going on, that make vampires look more obviously monstrous.

For vampires, maintaining an interest in sexuality is more often than not pretending to be something they're not, and can never be again.

#vampires #world of darkness #queued

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cheesus-doodles · 2 years

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What if reader somehow turned tiny? (Like the size of their hand) would mitsuyu make her little doll clothes? Would they tease her while she’s yelling at them in her high squeaky voice? Just assumed she mysteriously turned tiny

i'm back! sorry for the wait my fam, life's been a bit tougher than usual these few days with some nonsensical irl family drama - will be trying my best to answer some more asks this week! :)

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If you suddenly turned tiny, I think the first thing all the Toman boys would do is start to panic about your disappearance - imagine if it happened under the watch of just one of the boys, for example during your one-on-one time with Kazutora. Happens in a blink of an eye, this baby boy turns away to look at something, when he turns back, you vanished into thin air. Of course, of all the boys that this could happen to, it happens to the one that is the most prone to overreaction and meltdowns, and thats what precisely happens.

You really were hidden among your pile of clothes trying to figure out where you were and what just happened, but unknown to you, Kazutora is now in the midst of a breakdown and had already left the little cafe that you two had been at, running to find someone to help and at the same time trying to tell a extremely confused Baji and Draken on speaker that you had vanished into thin air through his sobbing and sniffling. Didn't even think to check where you had previously been seated like what Mikey did instantly upon his arrival - if not, he would have noticed the pile of clothes (with you still hidden inside).

Mitsuya absolutely would be delighted to be able to make tiny clothes for you - he probably already makes doll-sized clothes for his sister's dolls, and that's he definitely brings one suitable set along for you the moment he gets the call from Draken (will never tell you or anyone else, but Mitsuya's mind immediately jumped to you having nothing to wear and being naked around boys). And lucky for you, because you had to quickly dodge behind some cloth when your Toman friends finally found among what once were your clothes. Beats them back from trying to get you to come out so that you could have some privacy to put on some clothes - a very curious Mikey had to be pinned down by both Baji and Draken once they understood.

Everyone's pretty stumped as to what happened, and you can be sure for the first few days, the boys would have to relearn how carefully you would have to be handled. Kazutora nearly crushes and drowns you on the same day with how hard you were smushed against his cheek as he tried to stammer out an apology amidst his crying for leaving you alone, if not for Pah noticing your struggling and rescuing you from your predicament, letting you sit on his palm where they could easily see you.

Much to the dismay of the other five, much of your time would be initially spent with Mitsuya since this boy would be the one in charge of making new sets of clothes for you, though the rest start barging in to watch after a while like it was a mini fashion show. Mitsuya would use a mannequin the same size as you to make the clothes so that he wouldn't have to, you know, see you naked or touch you to fit the clothes. Would pass it to you from behind a tiny makeshift changing booth where you can try the clothes on and then he can see where to adjust it. All the boys have a certain style of clothes they like to see on you in particular, and they definitely will try to bully or bribe Mitsuya into making those types of clothes for you.

Needless to say, you were instantly banned from attending school while you were the size of their thumb, since its was just way too dangerous and risky for you. Would have one of their gang members go and collect your homework and intimidate your classmates (killing two birds with one stone). If you did insist on attending class anyway, your Toman friends would (very reluctantly) take turns to trudge to school and sit in their classes so that you can listen in from the safety of their propped-up books.

Different boys like giving you a ride in different ways. Sitting on their shoulders is a bit too dangerous for you in their opinion (given that they don't know whether you'll be able to hold on well enough to their clothes), and they rather not find out whether your delicate, tiny self would survive the fall from such a height. Kazutora and Mikey would like to keep you in view at all times just to make sure you are okay, but barring being able to let you ride on their palm the whole day, both these boys would be okay with letting you ride in their hair instead, since they would be able to feel you tug to know you hadn't fallen off. Mitsuya and Draken would much prefer their pockets, given you had a very minimal chance of falling out even if they got into a fight, plus you could easily hide yourself as needed. Pah and Baji would switch between whatever style they feel like on that day.

All the boys would lightly tease you about your squeaky voice (except Kazutora, he starts and then immediately backtracks because his heart is too soft when it comes to you), Mikey, Mitsuya and Draken in particular, given you have to raise your voice quite a bit for them to be able to hear you, but only until you start pouting. At least the same ice cream cone they buy you is now a hundred times bigger, though none of them would allow you to go diving or swimming in the cream, or even finish it yourself, your Toman friends happy to "help" eat finish what you can't.

None of the boys quite mind that you shrunk to be quite honest, since you were still you and it is so much easier for them to keep you safe, given they can just tuck you away into their pockets at the first sign of danger. But what they really mind was their serious lack of cuddles and that you can't cook for them at your current size - the absolute travesties. At least for cooking you could give various boys instructions and guide them along from the kitchen counter or from the tops of their heads, but cuddles? Banned indefinitely on a 4-2 vote, with only Kazutora and Mikey vehemently protesting their right to cuddle. You aren't even allowed to be on the pillow while they sleep (given how violent some of the boys are when they aren't actively being cuddled), instead being given a tiny doll bed set on the side table.

No doubt each of the Toman boys would keep trying to smuggle you away from each other in their pockets and bags, but ultimately, the boys do keep an extra eye out of you with your tiny size. Think you look especially cute and vulnerable, they would go out of their way to pluck small flowers for you and buy you miniature things, despite you insisting in that squeaky voice that you were fine and didn't need anything else.

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moondirti · 2 years

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← chapter four

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Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader Rating: Explicit Word Count: 7.4k Summary: You learn there's more to your current planet of residence than what meets the eye. Warnings: aphrodisiacs (sex pollen), mentions of masturbation, language, dirty thoughts, discussions of consent, groping, pining, anxiety Notes: I love being evil and doing evil things. Seriously though, this chapter was a beast to write so I hope you enjoy it! For your reference, Ede is a planet of my creation. It does not exist in the Star Wars canon. If anyone knows of anything similar to it, please let me know!

There’s something wrong with Ede, and only Din seems to notice.

Perhaps, with all the frogs and strange lizards the kid ingests, he’s built an immunity to all things peculiar. Or, maybe, it’s a subset of his species to be naturally resistant to planet-borne illnesses. Din really can’t make sense of the logistics in it, but his child is just as bouncy and vibrant as ever - and as endearing as those characteristics are normally, they’re damn well exhausting given his current state.

You. Din knows why you’re fine. Hard as you try to be regimented with those daily E-bacta shots, you’re not free of the substance’s ungovernable effects. Your wrist is almost fully healed now, yet you still haven’t made any changes to the dosage. Because not only do they keep you healthy, they leave you rejuvenated, pumped up for the gruelling training sessions Din throws at you. You’ve been able to get back up and fight after every bruise, every loss. And while you have yet to win, Din is extremely fucking impressed with how you manage to outsmart him every single time. Clever girl. He occasionally considers going easier on you too, to let you beat him; but he recognises, for as long as you’re primed the way you are, you need to be pushed to your limits.

Honestly, with just how well the E-bacta seems to be working on you, he’s contemplated snagging a shot. But no, supplies are limited; he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. You need them more than he does.

Yeah. The helmet takes the brunt of it, anyway. He can handle the way the fog clouds his senses, if only for a little longer. It isn’t as if it instils thoughts in him he hasn’t had already. Din doesn’t need an aphrodisiac planet to think about spreading you underneath him, to crave the taste of your cunt; the sight of you does enough to him alone. But stars, does it make it infinitely harder to keep to his restrain.

He’s a Mandalorian, as disciplined as they come. A lesser man would have caved by now, he’s sure. Be that as it may, the smallest things have been setting him off. A glimpse of your shoulder. The shape of your legs. He was sure he’d gone mad when your smile was enough to spur him as he fucked his fist late one night. It’s been a while since his last lay, sure. That isn’t the issue - it’s never been as bad as this, not since he was a teenager and saw a woman’s breasts for the first time.

Yours trump those, though, easily.

It had all come to a head that day in the forest. When you ran and triggered something absolutely primal within him, something that lit every suppressed urge with the scorn of a thousand suns. Over his course as a bounty hunter, Din has long since stopped relishing in the thrill of a chase. Adrenaline means nothing to him, a hindrance at the best of times - to keep a clearer head, he operates with apathy. It helps with precision, and the reputation that trails along. But when it was you he had to catch…

The instant his heart skipped a beat, Din knew he was in danger.

And when he had you pinned to the ground soon after, he crossed a line without second thought. What’s worse, he didn’t regret it. He doesn’t. He only wishes he’d gone further, that he’d seen more of you.

‘T-That is not fair.’

No, it hadn’t been. Even if they were to get off this planet, what he’d done has permanently ruined you for him. The feel of your flesh. Your supple softness. Din, with the memory of your breast seared into his palm, is a ticking time bomb. It’s only a matter of time before he implodes - and with the lack of control he’s had over his mind lately, he can’t have you around for that. You’d hate him.

“Hey,” Your shoe nudges his leg, dragging him back to reality. “You okay?”

No. “Yes.”

Din isn’t a bad liar - the modulator flattens the inconsistencies in his tone, his helmet conceals any tells. Yet still, somehow, you remain unconvinced. A brow arches quizzically, your eyes narrowing in suspicion. Firelight illuminates the planes of your face, fluttering sparks almost as bright as you. Clever, clever girl.

“Sad ‘cause I won?” Your smile is devil-sent, devious. The things he’d do to you.

He exhales. “Sure, if you call throwing pebbles at me winning.”

Taking a large bite of the fruit you picked, you talk through a mouthful. Din hardly registers it. “Tactical problems require tactical solutions.” Your lips are plump, highlighted with a thin sheen of juice as you chew. He wonders if they’d look that way surrounding him.

“I’m a tactical problem?” He pitches in after a while, upon watching the way you settle into the awkward silence.

“A real menace.” You giggle in response, brushing a hand over the hovering pram near you with agonising tenderness. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Hm,” Din hums absentmindedly. Tendrils of fog lace his ankles and wind up his legs. It’s almost… sentient, in the matter it encompasses him, like it’s privy to the wicked fantasies he has of you. Maybe it is - that would explain why you and the kid are so unaffected; maybe Ede can only influence those already too far gone.

The thought is nothing revolutionary - he knows. Din knows he’s awful for feeling this way. It goes against everything the Mandalorians have ever taught him; a betrayal of his creed to lust after someone so unsuspecting. Unwilling. The guilt that eats him alive is justified - welcomed to a certain degree, a reminder not to betray the trust you have in him to remain strictly professional. He was the one that invited you to live with him, for Kriff’s sake; the least he can do is think of you with the decency you deserve.

“Y’know, the flower this fruit comes from can be used to make an extremely deadly poison. Synox, I think it’s called.” You say, eyeing the rose-coloured morsel with vapid interest. Din hums. He recognises it. “I saw it on my walk earlier… ‘Course it’s edible in this form.”

“Couldn’t have guessed.” The wry comment pulls another laugh from you. Something foreign settles in Din’s chest. “I didn’t know medical academies taught so much about poison.”

“If they did, I couldn’t tell you. I wasn’t the best student.” And though you shake your head with all the vulnerability of an honest woman, the Mandalorian doesn’t believe you. It’s difficult to imagine a world in which you aren’t the smartest person in the room. “An old friend mentioned it once, is’all.”

“An old friend,” It’s not quite a question any more than it is an open-ended interrogation, founded in concern over the vacant tone that’s wormed its way into your voice. He isn’t blind; he sees the subtle hesitation in your admittance, the recoil of your shoulders at a memory he isn’t informed on. Disappointment latches on to him at the sway this one individual has on you. For all the likeliness that it isn’t a former lover, he knows it very well could be. Discomfort swells in him at the prospect; he tells himself it’s the fog.

Your gaze flutters to him. You’re smiling again - it feels forced. “Shocked to find I have other friends, Mando? I’m not that insufferable.”

Other friends. Other friends. Was he… one of them too?

The fruit is nothing but its core now, a fat seed with rough edges. You poke a hole in it with the wooden dagger you use for sparring practice, then bury the pit in overturned dirt. Din watches you, tracing the curve of your hip when you bend, the dainty motions of your fingers while you work. His cock throbs from behind the confines of his pants, semi-hard already and leaking steadily, preparing him solely for the embrace of his own hand later. A stone lodges itself in his throat - uncomfortable, much like the rest of him - and he thinks of ploughing into your tight cunt instead. You’d soak the front of him, moaning his name in between choked gasps and whimpers. Fuck, he can almost hear it, the way your skin would clap as he pistons his hips against the softness of your thighs, his nose buried between your tits, fucking you open.

His Doc. His clever girl. He’d ruin you.

“Mando?”

He needs to get out of here.

When he stands, his armour clunks clumsily at the speed with which he moves. You’re still on your knees, about face level with his crotch, and he thanks the Maker that you worriedly peer up at him instead of surveying the evidence of his arousal. You look so good like this, he could just grab your hair and–

“Need to run a perimeter check. Watch the kid.” The excuse is half-assed; unbelievable because, in the two week’s they’ve been on Ede, there have been no signs of life larger than the occasional bug or amphibian. You don’t question it, though, just frowning solemnly at him. In his mind, that’s infinitely worse.

But he can’t stick around. Not when you look so fucking divine; all glass, smooth edges, burning over the hot coals of his desire. Not with the way your brows furrow slightly, neck stretched and elongated as your head tips back to drink him in. You’re lovely, gentle, and you’re always there - always so perfect at supporting him. Blood rushes from his head, he can feel his heartbeat at his brow; he wants you. And the fog filters through his helmet, wafting up his nose, dimming his reasoning. It tells him to do it, lift your face to his and devour you completely, to suck in your precious moans when he stuffs his cock into you. But no, no. He can’t.

Not when he risks hurting you.

With a stiff nod, Din marches off.

The chronometer ticks metrically, consistent in its sole function. To you, in your anxious state, its rhythm gains speed with every minute you wait. Dawn emerges on the horizon, and you haven’t slept, trapped in silence with the debilitating tangent conceived three hours ago.

The Mandalorian has been gone for the better part of the night, and there has yet to be any sign of his return.

Initially, with the way he stormed off, you figured you’d leave him to his own devices, at least until he came down from whatever temperament he was in. It isn’t your first rodeo, after all; Mando is moody on his best days, withdrawn and reticent with what he feels. You like to think that your relationship has progressed past that point, but with the unaddressed tension between you nowadays, you aren’t too sure. That’s fine, though. Really. He’s kept you around for long enough that you’re close to confident he won’t leave you stranded on the next planet. The ease your group has settled into is more than enough reassurance that he doesn’t despise you – so when Mando left you by the fire, you’d shrugged off his bullshit lie and carried on with your night.

During the first hour, you massaged the taut muscles in your back and practised your kicks. As Mando had you on strict orders not to target tree trunks (“You’ll disfigure your leg.”), you fashioned a dummy using a duffel bag, old rags, rope and duct tape. You’d started with the roundhouse, likely because of the impression it made when your bounty hunter had seized and repositioned your ‘lazy’ stance while teaching you. His words rang clear in your head: load your weight onto your back leg, step around forty-five degrees towards your target, swing your upper body for momentum, lift, pivot your hip and kick. Progress was slow - you were kind of glad Mando wasn’t around to see. Your first few tries on the makeshift dummy had hurt, the impact reverberating up your tibia and throwing you back on your ass, but then you realised your mistake in using your foot. Your shin is sturdier, supported by denser bones. When you had adjusted accordingly, your kicks had more sway, despite hurting just as bad. Soaked in sweat, you’d considered it a victory all the same, thrilled to tell Mando the news.

At the second hour, you began with your nightly routine. The system was one you’ve adapted for everyone’s convenience; after tucking the child into his hammock, you’d be the first to shower. Mando always preferred to wait until you were asleep anyway, as to avoid the risk of you walking in. And, despite his absence, you stuck to the familiarity. It wasn’t a prolonged ordeal - the water on Nevarro was scalding by cause of the lava plains, so you’re accustomed to quick washes. In no later than ten minutes, you padded out in a plain shirt and compression pants. There wasn’t much else to do afterwards - on any other day, you would’ve gone to bed - but something told you to wait until the Mandalorian came back. To occupy yourself in the meantime, you had laid out your remaining supplies to take inventory. There was a disturbing lack of E-bacta (that couldn’t have been you, could it?) as well as gauze, so you made a list of items that needed replenishing. The mindless chore gave you ample time to overthink, and it was then that the doubt crept up on you. ‘Do perimeter checks usually take two hours?’

All throughout hour three, you spiralled into a well of crushing concern. While re-organising the chaotic wire work along the Crest, you wondered what could be taking Mando so long. Had you said something to upset him? Maker, you hadn’t even pondered that possibility; you had just let him go with little care or issue. The thought made you sick. If he was upset, then it’d be on you. Worse - if he was hurt, it’s on account of your negligence. Fuck, what was wrong with you, have you not grown? You’d made a promise to yourself that you wouldn’t let loose again, not after what had happened last time. And for all your efforts to distract yourself, your father’s palish, blue-tinged face haunted you; there as you fixed the hatch, singed into the back of your eyelids while you polished the floor. You were a sitting duck, dizzy and only half-mindful of just how little you were doing.

Now, it’s a bit off of three hours since the Mandalorian’s absence. You’re covered in a parka, clutching your way-too-bulky blaster with one trembling hand and surveying your chrono on the other. The ramp is open in front of you, a morning chill drifting through to take up residence in the hull. You’re unsure if the way your nose stings is due to the cold or the threatening onslaught of tears you’re keeping at bay.

“Two minutes, Mando. You have two minutes to come back or I swear to the mighty sister above I’ll find and kill you myself.” The waver in your whisper betrays the hysteria surging within you. You can admit it to yourself here, in this chasm of dread, alone with only the chirp of far off birds and background drone of the Crest - you’re fucking worried for him.

Time passes. Your resolve weakens. The crack of a twig catches your rapt attention; nothing becomes of it. You squeeze your eyes shut, and draw in a long breath.

Then, you move.

You follow the trail of sunken footprints in mud. They aren’t hard to miss; the hunter wears heavy duty combat boots and weighs double the average man - courtesy of his beskar; even rain couldn’t easily corrode the path he’d made. What’s more, any low hanging branches or leaves have been wacked out of place, broken off at their arms somewhat violently - if you’re to go by their splintered ends. It occurs to you that, based on the evident wreckage, the Mandalorian must have been frustrated upon leaving camp. You fidget nervously to expel the guilt that returns at the thought.

The forest is dark, the light from the rising sun barely filtering through its thick canopy. Chewing your lip, you try to orient yourself amidst the panic. The fog is always thicker in the morning, coming well above eye-level and shortening your sightline significantly. You stumble over fallen logs, slip on mossy rocks. At some point, you start to notice the faint floral aroma present in the air. Has that smell always been here?

Great, you’re losing it. Gulping, you breathe through the tears brimming along your waterline. ‘Relax,’ you tell yourself, ‘have a little faith’. Mando has lived this long without you hanging over his shoulder, he’s more than capable of warding off any dangers that come his way. Still, that reckless urge is back, the one you’d battled with when the pirates had attacked - the need to protect him. You want him to know it; he doesn’t have to rely on himself anymore, you’re here for him now. Trekking through an uncharted, abandoned forest with a blaster you’ve never been taught to use, wandering into a fight you wouldn’t be able to win. Should you even be expecting one? No, you’re looking for your lost companion, that’s all. That’s it. Mando is fine; you are too. Your palms are damp with perspiration, and the beginnings of a migraine pounds at your temple, but you’re okay.

Some protector you are.

The continuous buzz of the Crest’s machinery has faded by now, and the once distinct footprints are a confused mess, disorderly with the way they impede on one another, turning in circles. It’s completely unlike Mando - too tumultuous to be a trail he made in sound mind - but it is, you’re sure of it, you hadn’t lost sight of the prints for more than a second. Shivering, you squat to gain a closer look. It’s only then you pick up on the foreign articles that litter the area, like tiny little balls with thorns all along their surfaces. A bullet of adrenaline shoots through you. Bugs? No. Seeds. They’ve been around for the past few metres.

A horrifying suspicion arises. This entire time, you’ve been distraught over the idea that a person intercepted and attacked him. You hadn’t even paused to note the dangers nature posed; if perhaps Mando had fallen into a pit, been attacked by an animal or grown susceptible to poison. Ede is an uncharted planet, the closest one you were able to land on post attack. Camp is safe, but there’s no way of knowing whether the rest of the world is.

Stupid, stupid. You waited so long to come out and find him when time can mean the difference between life or death. The gravity of your predicament comes crashing down, devastating in its weight. Where the fuck are you even going? The prints mean nothing here, the forest floor is unruly, roots winding amidst soil, disrupting leaves and tiny plants. They could have been made by anything; gone is the telltale pattern of Mando’s sole’s, missing is the pace of his regular gait. You’ve been grasping at straws and wasting precious time.

You stop for a moment's respite, hyperventilating. While trying to suck in as much oxygen as possible, you quickly realise none of it is enough. This isn’t working, that’s been established. None of this is helping Mando. You need to steel yourself and think with a clear head. Yeah, just… Just ground yourself.

The earth is solid underneath you. If you focus, you can feel the way it pushes back against the pressure you put on it. Your blaster is cool, the metal comforting in how familiar it is. You imagine it’s Mando, that you’re running your thumb over the curve of his pauldron. There’s a rustle of leaves, the thundering rush of a waterfall, a faint groaning. And there’s the tick of your chrono, constant and unchanging. The flowery aroma has grown richer now, shifting in and out of reach with the swirling mist. Can Mando smell it too, through that helmet of his? Can he indulge in the details of life; smell, taste, sound?

Sound.

A faint groaning.

You perk up, holding your breath, trying to pinpoint its source. They’re overshadowed by the ambience of the forest, but they’re there, hidden between lulls in the wind. It’s coming from your… You wait again, forcing all your mental strength into concentrating. Left. It’s coming from your left, in the same direction of a babbling brook.

It’s the best hope you’ve got.

At once, you start on your new path, half-running to your best ability on the rough terrain. It’s like your mind goes silent, laser-focused on this localised objective. Get to the groaning’s source. There’s no time to second-guess yourself, you can’t afford to temporise; whether or not it’s coming from Mando, there’s only one way to find out. So, you jog, readjusting yourself when the sound veers away from right in front of you. Your ankle bends far too often on account of your clumsiness, and your pounding heart threatens to drown any external noises out. Your desperate search lacks all the elegance of a seasoned predator - someone like Mando, who’s been doing this long enough to earn his stealth. You don’t let the foolishness of it disrupt you, though; it can’t matter to you, not when something far more frightening awaits.

The pained sounds have gotten louder now. You don’t really need to strain to hear them anymore - they find you. You stumble blindly forwards, squinting - trying to catch a glint of his armour, the squelch of blood-soaked earth beneath your boots - any indication that it is, in fact, Mando you’re chasing and not some wounded creature. The trees are larger here than they are at camp, triple your width, and crowd each other like wires in a chain-link fence. You should be wary; but common sense dictates that it’s safer than out in the open, where you can be attacked from any angle.

Your foot stubs against another stubborn obstacle, and you bite back a scream of frustration. These fucking roots are the worst; they weave into the ground and jump up at you when you least expect it. You can already feel the blisters forming on your toes as a result, and you have half a mind to punt this one if it wasn’t for Mando’s advice against it.

You’re grateful you don’t, though, because when you move to step over it, a cold grip wraps around your ankle.

And you just… know.

Your skin prickles with the atmospheric shift; you can smell it - that musk, leather and spice. The fog blocks any chance you might have in confirming your beliefs - the forest floor all hazy - but your brain short-circuits like it does only in his presence, and you know.

“Mando?” You whine down at your calf.

Your name comes back to you. It’s broken, choked between ragged croaks.

Sobbing, you fall to your knees, crawling over to the other side of the body slumped up against a trunk. His gloved hand remains at your ankle, unbearably tight. There’s something off about the way his fingers press into your skin, like you’re clay he can easily mould; honestly, you can’t bring yourself to care. He’s here. It’s him. You weren’t aware your shoulders were as stiff as they were until they slump at the sight of that T-shaped visor, a black void so comforting to you it’s hard to imagine you were once scared of it. There’s a man behind the helmet - one so unexpectedly gentle, somewhat awkward and so fucking reckless.

“W-What happ– Stars, are you okay? Are you hurt?” Your hands are everywhere all at once, smoothing down his arms, poking around his abdomen. You check for blood or sore spots that’d make him cringe. When you don’t find any, your agitation booms; maybe he is poisoned. You… you can’t help him if he is, not until you get back to the Crest. “Fuck– I’m s-so stupid, I should’ve brought–”

“Nghh, g…” He sounds hurt, but he doesn’t look it. There’s no open wound anywhere, he isn’t shivering with the chills of toxicants. He’s still strong, evident in the way he holds onto you. So, why is he lying before you like a dying man? Why do you taste desperation saturating the space between you?

“Hu–Huh? Mando, hey, tell me what’s wrong.” You squeak, shoving two fingers under his cowl, beneath his helmet to check on his pulse. It’s faster than it ought to be. Shit, and for someone who was out all night, he’s heating up. The fabric of his cape is fully soaked with sweat, peppered with those spiky seeds. You have no idea what this could be; he shouldn’t be sick, his mask prevents that. “Please.”

Mando lets out an aggrieved moan. “G-Go. You need to– to leave…”

“Are you insane?” You whisper-shout, the consonants hissed between your teeth. He’s not in his right mind. You need to get to the Razor Crest, to the medisensor and your supplies. That’s your only option. Decisively, you yank your leg back from his clutches and pull at his arm. Mando doesn’t budge. “Get up! C’mon. I need to get you back,”

“Fuck– you–” He moans hoarsely, head falling back. “C-Clever girl. Need… Need you– mmfh— need you to get away.”

The moniker catching you off guard, your efforts cease for a moment. No, not now. Whatever game he’s playing at, you’ll deliberate later. Forget how the praise sounds coming from him, his voice husky and rough. Forget about it. “Nuh-uh. No way, bud, get up. Let’s go home.”

“Home,” It’s spoken softly. You exploit the vulnerability.

“Yes, yes, home. Where it’s safe, where I can help.”

His hips roll before his thighs spread, a leg bending at the knee. When his foot digs into the ground, you manage to pull him up onto his feet. Hurriedly, you lay his arm across your shoulders, wrapping yours around his waist. He’s heavy, but aside from the occasional stagger, Mando doesn’t put his full weight upon you.

“You have to work with me, okay? We’re walking back to the ship, so stay conscious, please.”

“Sound– Sound so… pretty when you beg.” Warmth pools into your cheeks. Dismissing it, you begin to retrace your steps. Mando trudges along, his voice weak when he speaks again. “Can’t stop thinking of you.”

Ignore it. Your tummy blazes with the flattery, but it’s not real. He doesn’t understand what he’s saying. This… thing that’s gotten into him has the added element of psychosis, you’re sure. You reflect on what you know can do that instead of on your trickling desire. An agent that hinders the senses, perhaps. Or a brain-eating amoeba of some sort.

Your heart stops. Fuck, why would you even think that.

If possible, you push Mando harder, conscious of the way his hold tightens on you.

The carnage you left in your wake trying to find your companion makes for a convenient trail back to the Crest. Even so, it’s a miracle the two of you reach it for all your combined impairments; Mando’s hardly cognizant by the end - a string of hushed groans filter out of his vocoder, an added indication he’s not yet dead as he stumbles beside you. You imagine your complicated mix of panic and lust doesn’t help either; as much as you want to focus on all the means through which you can help him, his wandering hands keep pulling your attention away. It seems the only thing you could centre on is how strange it feels. Save for when he fondled you to gain an upper hand in your spar, Mando is not a physical person, deliberate or not. His touch grazing up your back is abnormal in all the right ways, a scene pulled straight from one of your fantasies.

Naturally, this happens to worry you even further.

You’d made sure to activate the ship’s ground safety patrols for the sleeping child before you left. In the time it takes you to disable them, it’s like Mando’s torment triples. He clings to you now, his body hunched over so his helmet can rest atop your shoulder. With how his arms are wrapped around you, you can feel every uneven breath he takes, his muscles jolting as if the action pains him. Or maybe it does.

You wriggle loose, dodging his embrace yet still supporting his weight. The sudden lack of warmth is sobering; you strive not to think about how nice it’d been. “We need to get you inside. Can you climb for me?” You ask, keeping your inquiry gentle as you guide him to the base of the ramp.

“Yes.” His words are restrained – not tense, but something a little more savage.

“Come on then. That’s it, yeah, that’s good.” And aside from the way he tips forward, Mando manages to make it up into the hull with relative ease. A shred of anxiety ebbs at that; he’s doing okay so far. It’s an encouraging sign.

“Let… Let me–” He starts, protesting as you help him down onto the ground.

“No. Just stop moving, I need to figure out what’s wrong.” You’re firm. His stunted motions still at the conviction evident in your tone, but he’s just as stubborn despite the stutter in his response.

“Nothing’s w-wrong, clever girl.”

“You’re burning up and you can barely function, Mando. Don’t lie to me.” Cutting him off before he has the chance to say much else, you hustle around the hull, locating the medisensor just as you set down your blaster by your makeshift couch. As much as you despise it, you clearly can’t deduce the problem on your own. You’ll need the hand-held diagnostic scanner for that prior to starting treatment.

But when you point it at the Mandalorian, it draws at a blank.

The glowing screen flashes a few times more down at the hunk of steel situated against a wall, seemingly as perplexed as you are. On the side are a list of his symptoms – fever, migraine, nausea – but the main box dedicated to the diagnoses is empty.

“You useless son of a–”

“Told… you…”

“Are you just… sick? Is that it?” Doubt creeps up. It’s in you to overthink; maybe you’ve blown this out of proportion.

“No.” He uses the floor to push himself into a precarious stand. You’re right by him when he dangerously sways, propping him up by his chest. “Jus’ let– let me use the r-refresher, okay?”

“Mando-”

“You don’t u-understand,” Your heart twinges in mild offence. Regardless, you nod. He’s right. You can’t make sense of the situation. You’ve done your part in getting him home fine, but until he’s willing to tell you what else you can do, you’re purposeless.

“Okay, okay. But I’m staying right here. Shout if you need anything.” You scold, walking him to the refresher door. His visor turns to take you in, the intensity in his solid-black stare startling. It stretches the longer the pause, gorging on your vulnerability, and suddenly, you’re all too aware of everything wrong with you. You hadn’t thought to wipe the tear tracks on your cheeks; your hair is a frizzy mess; your parka is stiflingly hot along your collar, sweat beading down your forehead.

Mando shakes his head minutely. “Don’t… answer me if I do.”

Your expression drops. “What?”

But he’s already limping through the refresher door, unfastening the front of his cowl. You barely catch a glimpse of his neck before it whirrs shut.

The datapad flashes from its place on your lap, your legs crossed underneath it and pulled close for comfort. In your proximity to the refresher, the artificial rain of the shower is clear, pitter-pattering upon durasteel floors. The Mandalorian has been in there for a remarkably long time. Like you, his washes are usually militaristic in length, and if it wasn’t for the splashes he makes as he shifts, this prolonged interlude might be a cause for concern.

As it stands, though, you’re doing the best you can. Mando’s datapad is outdated and horribly inefficient - it’s been loading this page for the better part of five minutes now - but it works for what you need to do. After he shut you out, you’d decided you wouldn’t wait until he recovers; curiosity and concern dictate you find the source of his malady, if only to be prepared should something happen.

So, here you are, researching Ede on the galactic planetary index. In contrast to Arkanis or Chandrila, both planets with a rich history, there’s practically nothing on the one you’re stationed on. Basic facts about its climate, the fauna – its natives live high on the mountains, which explains the lack of life you’ve encountered so far. You’re just about to jump to the section on planetary borne illness when something captures your attention.

‘Markedly, Edians choose to stay well above ground level to avoid the fog that pervades through Ede’s forests during mating season. For more information, refer to section 4.’

Everything highlighted so far you’ve been able to discern based on experience; the rain is a water-based compound, rouge-tinted fruits are safe to eat, the blue ones are not. The fog, though - you hadn’t noticed anything wrong with the fog. It’s annoying at the worst of times, disadvantageous to your vision, but nothing dangerous. Certainly nothing that warrants as great of an adaptation as colony relocation. Worrying your lip, you tap on the redirection to section four.

‘Ede’s Aphrodisiac Nature.’

Your stomach sinks.

‘During the first 5 standard months of its rotation, Ede enters its mating season, where its climate shifts and the flora release stimulants to encourage fauna to reproduce. Not much else is known of this phenomenon, save for its common contributors, including but not limited to the previously mentioned fog and philein seeds.”

A photo of the latter is attached; a little sphere with thorns along its surface. Something sparks in your memory. You think back on it, trying to pinpoint the hazy recognition. Was it something you pried from within the kid’s mouth? No, if he had eaten one, he’d be just as sick right now. It’s something else, your intuition gnaws at you.

It occurs to you then. They were there, the seeds, on the ground as you tracked Mando down, attached to the pills of his cape.

And then the mental blockade frees, cold realisation flooding in.

It explains the unaddressed tension whenever he was around. The incident in the forest that had struck you as incredibly peculiar at the time. All the sweet nicknames and husky compliments. Fuck. Fuck. Of course he isn’t interested in you. Only a fool would connect the dots this late.

A hope you didn’t know you held diminishes right as your name echoes from within the refresher.

You’re on your feet in a second, reeling like a guilty child caught doing something naughty. You’re unsure why – nothing has changed since before your discovery; Mando is stable, the two of you have remained friendly. But the heat of his touch returns like it never left, grazing up your back, rounding at your shoulder. You can almost feel the sensation of his palm kneading your breast, digging into the tender flesh and holding it for the smallest second. All of it had meant so much to you – a possibility that the attraction you felt wasn’t so one-sided. But it was nothing, entailed nothing.

Your name comes again, broken. You don’t want to ask, you lack the strength it takes to, but you’re sworn to a creed much like the Mandalorian’s. As a physician, you’ve promised to seek and aid all ailments in face of personal bias. As his medic, you owe him as much for the protection and shelter he gives you in return.

As his friend, you hate to see him in pain.

Hesitantly, you approach the door to the refresher. Upon closing in, you pick up on the fainter sounds you’d missed. The water still runs, but there’s the purr of the heater just below, working overtime given the length of the shower, accompanied by loud reverberations as bottles hit the floor. The commotion is jarring, shaking you as you listen in for any indication of Mando’s well-being.

It comes in the form of long, drawn out moans, hoarse and desperate.

Shit.

However you’re able to muster the strength to speak is a mystery. The words are dense on your tongue, molasses, sticky with angst. “M-Mando? Are you… Are you doing okay?”

The other side goes quiet. In the lull, you notice a distinct absence of something you hadn’t caught onto before. Slick slaps of something. Soap falling to the floor, maybe. Or… skin on skin. Your legs press together at the mental image that surfaces.

“It hurts,” The whine is so unlike him, a little clearer than his voice usually is and closer to any admission of defeat you’ve heard from him. Your heart aches. This isn’t just hard on you.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Your ear presses into the metal wall separating you. His moans have devolved into hushed breaths now that you’re listening - you almost wish they hadn’t.

What comes next transgresses any expectation you have of his answer. You half assumed he’d reject your nagging completely and stay silent. Another part of you felt he’d walk out, good as new, to prove you wrong. The concession that comes is beyond concrete reasoning and hypothesis. No educated guess can predict Mando’s next words.

“Y-Yes, come in.”

You choke on your saliva, coughing violently.

It’s so startling, in fact, that it grounds you back to your senses.

It is so contrary of Mando to seek this out in you. You’re no idiot, you can comprehend what your offer must sound like to him in this state. Like you were asking for permission, consent. And though he admitted defeat and invited you in to join him, nothing in this can be consensual. He was hardly sane when you’d found him, and you’re sure he can’t have gotten any better since then – because now he’s calling you when he explicitly told you not to answer, and it’s so fucking deviant to the resolution he’d made. So far from the man who kept you at arms length until you touched down on this Maker-forsaken planet, who has the will of a nerf, who does not want you in the way you want him.

And you can’t take advantage of that.

You rush to pull out your supplies. You won’t help him, not in the way he’s asking you to, but you can make this a little easier. Yeah, two tablets of pharmaceutical-grade antibiotics should mitigate his other symptoms. You’ll keep an eye out for him afterwards but he’ll be fine, this will mull over. No long-lasting side effects were mentioned in your research, after all.

You knock the refresher door. “Listen. I’m gonna come in and give you these two pills. I’ll keep my eyes closed and turn off the lights for extra measure.”

You wait for any acknowledgement. A grunt is all you get.

Gulping, you brace yourself, screwing your eyes shut and holding onto the medication with an iron grip.

You’re met with a sickening gust of steam as you enter. The air is practically liquid with how humid the room is, hot water vapour pouring into your senses. You’re sure you won’t be able to see even if you do open your eyes, but you keep yourself on a leash, self-devised instructions repeating like a mantra in your mind. Give him the meds and leave. Give him the meds and leave. Get yourselves off this planet. Just give him the meds and leave.

Muscle memory alone ensures you’re able to find the light switch to turn it off. Your eyelids darken with the lack of light, somehow making it harder to navigate. Your free hand is outstretched in front of you, bumping into various surfaces before it manages to meet the cold glass partition to the shower.

“Can you move? I’ll hand you the antibiotics.” Your voice is shaky

“C-Can’t…” Comes the bated reply.

Stars, okay. Okay, that’s fine. That just means you’ll have to get in there with him and… and…

“A-Alright. I’ll come to you,” Your fingers slip against condensation as you slide open the barrier. They twitch uncontrollably, but whether it’s in trepidation or eagerness, you don’t know. The cloying heat doubles within this contained area; you’re thankful for the water that beats down on you for the way it washes away your perspiration.

“Down here.” Mando rasps, leading you to find him positioned up on the floor. You squat, careful not to touch any part of him when you extend your hand.

“H-Here, right in front of you,” You choke out, wound tightly in on yourself. His fever is palpable even with your distance, the warmth permeating the space between you. It’s a welcome break from the beskar he usually wears.

Something constricts in your chest, and it dawns on you again - probably entirely too late - that the Mandalorian is naked. Even though you knew he’d be. And of course he is. He doesn’t shower with the fucking armour on, but you’d blocked the idea off. Until now. Now, it’s real, and tangible, and so, so close. You can touch him, should you please. He needs you to.

‘But he doesn’t want you to,’ you remind yourself, ‘not really.’

You stay in place until Mando’s inaction becomes too much to bear. He hasn’t taken the pills off you yet. The shower rains down on you, thoroughly soaking your hair, causing your leggings to cling to you like a second skin.

You inch closer. His thigh grazes your knee.

Closer. The space grows tighter.

Closer still. His head is within your reach, hot breaths fanning across your neck.

Then, Mando’s ungloved hand spreads up your waist. Through the wet material of your shirt, the callouses and scars he’s earned over the years greet you. Your forearm comes to rest lightly atop his chest. The pills start to dissolve in your palm.

Your cunt weeps, throbbing in need, and you determine to make this quick. Boldly, rashly, you search for his mouth. You accidentally meet his cheek instead, a rough stubble peppering the expanse of it. Your fingertips trace the pinpricks down to a pronounced chin, then up, up, finding the bump of his lips with little else than a spluttered gasp.

When you push the medication onto his tongue, it vibrates with a guttural moan. His mouth is impossibly hotter than he is, like buttered silk along your skin. His touch roams along you as the muscle does much the same, swirling between your digits, tasting the desire that undoubtedly drips from your fingertips. Maker, he’s an expert with it; you have to bite back the desperate whine his ministrations inspire. Because you can’t. You can’t.

It takes every atom in you to pull away. Your entire body complains, seizing with unrestrained lust, and it’s hard to remember why exactly you want to be anywhere but here. Your core, your gut, your heart; they’re all set on the compelling Mandalorian in front of you. But there’s a tiny voice that manages to scream louder than all else. It convinces you that this isn’t fair, what you’re doing to him – and it’s right. Every single dream and reverie you’ve pondered on had included Mando as an active participant, either the instigator or sober partner to your filth. And sure, his actions may be disproving you at the moment, but what happens when he comes to his senses? When he remembers how you had let him fuck you when he was so clearly ill?

You can’t do that to him.

So, you peel his hand off from where it nips at your thigh and carefully move away. You’ve opened your eyes at some point, yet you still can’t see, the room shrouded in perpetual darkness. Consequently, your remaining senses heighten, and you’re able to step further back when Mando moans out an incoherent protest and reaches for you. If he pulls you back, you don’t think you’d be able to leave again.

“Mesh’la… Cle-Clever girl, please.” His leg knocks yours. You give his calf a reassuring squeeze.

“I… I can’t, Mando.” He’s the sick one, but a cry escapes you all the same. “You’ll be okay, I promise. Just hang in there.”

And, despite the way both him and your body howl at you, you leave him like that.

#din djarin #the mandalorian #x reader #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #star wars #pedro pascal #baby yoda #grogu #fanfiction #series #angst #smut #fluff #The Remedy #reader insert #friends to lovers #sorry for this one everybody

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mortalityplays · 2 months

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Against Jesters Who Defame and Insult / Contra Jogulatores Obloquentes: The Nobel Prize Lecture

Dario Fo, 7 December 1997

“Against jesters who defame and insult” – Law issued by Emperor Frederick II (Messina 1221), declaring that anyone may commit violence against jesters without incurring penalty or sanction

The drawings I'm showing you are mine. Copies of these, slightly reduced in size, have been distributed among you.

For some time it's been my habit to use images when preparing a speech: rather than write it down, I illustrate it. This allows me to improvise, to exercise my imagination – and to oblige you to use yours.

As I proceed, I will from time to time indicate to you where we are in the manuscript. That way you won't lose the thread. This will be of help especially to those of you who don't understand either Italian or Swedish. English-speakers will have a tremendous advantage over the rest because they will imagine things I've neither said nor thought. There is of course the problem of the two laughters: those who understand Italian will laugh immediately, those who don't will have to wait for Anna [Barsotti]'s Swedish translation. And then there are those of you who won't know whether to laugh the first time or the second. Anyway, let's get started.

Ladies and gentlemen,

Ladies and gentlemen, the title I've selected for this little chat is "contra jogulatores obloquentes", which you all recognize as Latin, mediaeval Latin to be precise. It's the title of a law issued in Sicily in 1221 by Emperor Frederick II of Swabia, an emperor "anointed by God", who we were taught in school to regard a sovereign of extraordinary enlightenment, a liberal. "Jogulatores obloquentes" means "jesters who defame and insult". The law in question allowed any and all citizens to insult jesters, to beat them and even – if they were in that mood – to kill them, without running any risk of being brought to trial and condemned. I hasten to assure you that this law no longer is in vigour, so I can safely continue.

Like I said, I applaud and concur with my friends.

Friends of mine, noted men of letters, have in various radio and television interviews declared: "The highest prize should no doubt be awarded to the members of the Swedish Academy, for having had the courage this year to award the Nobel Prize to a jester." I agree. Yours is an act of courage that borders on provocation.

It's enough to take stock of the uproar it has caused: sublime poets and writers who normally occupy the loftiest of spheres, and who rarely take interest in those who live and toil on humbler planes, are suddenly bowled over by some kind of whirlwind.

These poets had already ascended to the Parnassian heights when you, through your insolence, sent them toppling to earth, where they fell face and belly down in the mire of normality.

Insults and abuse are hurled at the Swedish Academy, at its members and their relatives back to the seventh generation. The wildest of them clamour: "Down with the King … of Norway!". It appears they got the dynasty wrong in the confusion.

(At this point you may turn the page. As you see there is an image of a naked poet bowled over by a whirlwind.)

Some landed pretty hard on their nether parts. There were reports of poets and writers whose nerves and livers suffered terribly. For a few days thereafter there was not a pharmacy in Italy that could muster up a single tranquillizer.

But, dear members of the Academy, let's admit it, this time you've overdone it. I mean come on, first you give the prize to a black man, then to a Jewish writer. Now you give it to a clown. What gives? As they say in Naples: pazziàmme? Have we lost our senses?

Also the higher clergy have suffered their moments of madness. Sundry potentates – great electors of the Pope, bishops, cardinals and prelates of Opus Dei – have all gone through the ceiling, to the point that they've even petitioned for the reinstatement of the law that allowed jesters to be burned at the stake. Over a slow fire.

(This is where we are now [indicates a page].)

On the other hand I can tell you there is an extraordinary number of people who rejoice with me over your choice. And so I bring you the most festive thanks, in the name of a multitude of mummers, jesters, clowns, tumblers and storytellers.

And speaking of storytellers, I mustn't forget those of the small town on Lago Maggiore where I was born and raised, a town with a rich oral tradition.

"But the cliff dwellers wouldn't listen to them, they even laughed and made fun of them: 'You think you're pretty smart, trying to scare us into running away from our houses and our land so you can grab them instead. But we're not that stupid.'

They were the old storytellers, the master glass-blowers who taught me and other children the craftsmanship, the art, of spinning fantastic yarns. We would listen to them, bursting with laughter – laughter that would stick in our throats as the tragic allusion that surmounted each sarcasm would dawn on us. To this day I keep fresh in my mind the story of the Rock of Caldé.

"Many years ago", began the old glass-blower, "way up on the crest of that steep cliff that rises from the lake there was a town called Caldé. As it happened, this town was sitting on a loose splinter of rock that slowly, day by day, was sliding down towards the precipice. It was a splendid little town, with a campanile, a fortified tower at the very peak and a cluster of houses, one after the other. It's a town that once was and that now is gone. It disappeared in the 15th century.

"'Hey', shouted the peasants and fishermen down in the valley below. 'You're sliding, you'll fall down from there'.

"So they continued to prune their vines, sow their fields, marry and make love. They went to mass. They felt the rock slide under their houses but they didn't think much about it. 'Just the rock settling. Quite normal', they said, reassuring each other.

"The great splinter of rock was about to sink into the lake. 'Watch out, you've got water up to your ankles', shouted the people along the shore. 'Nonsense, that's just drainage water from the fountains, it's just a bit humid', said the people of the town, and so, slowly but surely, the whole town was swallowed by the lake.

"Gurgle … gurgle … splash … they sink …. houses, men, women, two horses, three donkeys … heehaw … gurgle. Undaunted, the priest continued to receive the confession of a nun: 'Te absolvi … animus … santi … guurgle … Aame … gurgle …' The tower disappeared, the campanile sank with bells and all: Dong … ding … dop … plock …

Disturbing though it may be, there's no denying that a tale like this still has something to tell us.

"Even today", continued the old glass-blower, "if you look down into the water from that outcrop that still juts out from the lake, and if in that same moment a thunderstorm breaks out, and the lightning illuminates the bottom of the lake, you can still see – incredible as it may seem! – the submerged town, with its streets still intact and even the inhabitants themselves, walking around and glibly repeating to themselves: 'Nothing has happened'. The fish swim back and forth before their eyes, even into their ears. But they just brush them off: 'Nothing to worry about. It's just some kind of fish that's learned to swim in the air'.

"'Atchoo!' 'God bless you!' 'Thank you … it's a bit humid today … more than yesterday … but everything's fine'. They've reached rock bottom, but as far as they're concerned, nothing has happened at all."

I repeat, I owe much to these master glass-blowers of mine, and they – I assure you – are immensely grateful to you, members of this Academy, for rewarding one of their disciples.

(While you applaud, I'll have a drink of water. [Turning to the interpretter:] Would you like some?

And they express their gratitude with explosive exuberance. In my

home town, people swear that on the night the news arrived that one of their own storytellers was to be awarded the Nobel Prize, a kiln that had been standing cold for some fifty years suddenly erupted in a broadside of flames, spraying high into the air – like a fireworks finale – a myriad splinters of coloured glass, which then showered down on the surface of the lake, releasing an impressive cloud of steam.

It's important that you talk among yourselves while we drink, because if you try to hear the gurgle gurgle gurgle the water makes as we swallow we'll choke on it and start coughing. So instead you can exchange niceties like "Oh, what a lovely evening it is, isn't it?"

Above all others, this evening you're due the loud and solemn thanks of an extraordinary master of the stage, little-known not only to you and to people in France, Norway, Finland … but also to the people of Italy. Yet he was, until Shakespeare, doubtless the greatest playwright of renaissance Europe. I'm referring to Ruzzante Beolco, my greatest master along with Molière: both actors-playwrights, both mocked by the leading men of letters of their times. Above all, they were despised for bringing onto the stage the everyday life, joys and desperation of the common people; the hypocrisy and the arrogance of the high and mighty; and the incessant injustice. And their major, unforgivable fault was this: in telling these things, they made people laugh. Laughter does not please the mighty.

End of intermission: we turn to a new page, but don't worry, it'll go faster from here.)

Ruzzante, the true father of the Commedia dell'Arte, also constructed a language of his own, a language of and for the theatre, based on a variety of tongues: the dialects of the Po Valley, expressions in Latin, Spanish, even German, all mixed with onomatopoeic sounds of his own invention. It is from him, from Beolco Ruzzante, that I've learned to free myself from conventional literary writing and to express myself with words that you can chew, with unusual sounds, with various techniques of rhythm and breathing, even with the rambling nonsense-speech of the grammelot.

In the past couple of months, Franca and I have visited a number of university campuses to hold workshops and seminars before young audiences. It has been surprising – not to say disturbing – to discover their ignorance about the times we live in. We told them about the proceedings now in course in Turkey against the accused culprits of the massacre in Sivas. Thirty-seven of the country's foremost democratic intellectuals, meeting in the Anatolian town to celebrate the memory of a famous mediaeval jester of the Ottoman period, were burned alive in the dark of the night, trapped inside their hotel. The fire was the handiwork of a group of fanatical fundamentalists that enjoyed protection from elements within the Government itself. In one night, thirty-seven of the country's most celebrated artists, writers, directors, actors and Kurdish dancers were erased from this Earth.

Allow me to dedicate a part of this prestigious prize to Ruzzante. A few days ago, a young actor of great talent said to me: "Maestro, you should try to project your energy, your enthusiasm, to young people. You have to give them this charge of yours. You have to share your professional knowledge and experience with them". Franca – that's my wife – and I looked at each other and said: "He's right". But when we teach others our art, and share this charge of fantasy, what end will it serve? Where will it lead?

Thousands of students listened to us. The looks in their faces spoke of their astonishment and incredulity. They had never heard of the massacre. But what impressed me the most is that not even the teachers and professors present had heard of it. There Turkey is, on the Mediterranean, practically in front of us, insisting on joining the European Community, yet no one had heard of the massacre. Salvini, a noted Italian democrat, was right on the mark when he observed: "The widespread ignorance of events is the main buttress of injustice". But this absent-mindedness on the part of the young has been conferred upon them by those who are charged to educate and inform them: among the absent-minded and uninformed, school teachers and other educators deserve first mention.

In one blow these fanatics destroyed some of the most important exponents of Turkish culture.

Young people easily succumb to the bombardment of gratuitous banalities and obscenities that each day is served to them by the mass media: heartless TV action films where in the space of ten minutes they are treated to three rapes, two assassinations, one beating and a serial crash involving ten cars on a bridge that then collapses, whereupon everything – cars, drivers and passengers – precipitates into the sea … only one person survives the fall, but he doesn't know how to swim and so drowns, to the cheers of the crowd of curious onlookers that suddenly has appeared on the scene.

At another university we spoofed the project – alas well under way – to manipulate genetic material, or more specifically, the proposal by the European Parliament to allow patent rights on living organisms. We could feel how the subject sent a chill through the audience. Franca and I explained how our Eurocrats, kindled by powerful and ubiquitous multinationals, are preparing a scheme worthy the plot of a sci-fi/horror movie entitled "Frankenstein's pig brother". They're trying to get the approval of a directive which (and get this!) would authorize industries to take patents on living beings, or on parts of them, created with techniques of genetic manipulation that seem taken straight out of "The Sorcerer's Apprentice".

This is how it would work: by manipulating the genetic make-up of a pig, a scientist succeeds in making the pig more human-like. By this arrangement it becomes much easier to remove from the pig the organ of your choice – a liver, a kidney – and to transplant it in a human. But to assure that the transplanted pig-organs aren't rejected, it's also necessary to transfer certain pieces of genetic information from the pig to the human. The result: a human pig (even though you will say that there are already plenty of those).

And every part of this new creature, this humanized pig, will be subject to patent laws; and whosoever wishes a part of it will have to pay copyright fees to the company that "invented" it. Secondary illnesses, monstrous deformations, infectious diseases – all are optionals, included in the price …

The Pope has forcefully condemned this monstrous genetic witchcraft. He has called it an offence against humanity, against the dignity of man, and has gone to pains to underscore the project's total and irrefutable lack of moral value.

The astonishing thing is that while this is happening, an American scientist, a remarkable magician – you've probably read about him in the papers – has succeeded in transplanting the head of a baboon. He cut the heads off two baboons and switched them. The baboons didn't feel all that great after the operation. In fact, it left them paralysed, and they both died shortly thereafter, but the experiment worked, and that's the great thing.

But here's the rub: this modern-day Frankenstein, a certain Professor White, is all the while a distinguished member of the Vatican Academy of Sciences. Somebody should warn the Pope.

So, we enacted these criminal farces to the kids at the universities, and they laughed their heads off. They would say of Franca and me: "They're a riot, they come up with the most fantastic stories". Not for a moment, not even with an inkling in their spines, did they grasp that the stories we told were true.

These encounters have strengthened us in our conviction that our job is – in keeping with the exhortation of the great Italian poet Savinio – "to tell our own story". Our task as intellectuals, as persons who mount the pulpit or the stage, and who, most importantly, address to young people, our task is not just to teach them method, like how to use the arms, how to control breathing, how to use the stomach, the voice, the falsetto, the contracampo. It's not enough to teach a technique or a style: we have to show them what is happening around us. They have to be able to tell their own story. A theatre, a literature, an artistic expression that does not speak for its own time has no relevance.

Recently, I took part in a large conference with lots of people where I tried to explain, especially to the younger participants, the ins and outs of a particular Italian court case. The original case resulted in seven separate proceedings, at the end of which three Italian left-wing politicians were sentenced to 21 years of imprisonment each, accused of having murdered a police commissioner. I've studied the documents of the case – as I did when I prepared Accidental Death of an Anarchist – and at the conference I recounted the facts pertaining to it, which are really quite absurd, even farcical. But at a certain point I realized I was speaking to deaf ears, for the simple reason that my audience was ignorant not only of the case itself, but of what had happened five years earlier, ten years earlier: the violence, the terrorism. They knew nothing about the massacres that occurred in Italy, the trains that blew up, the bombs in the piazze or the farcical court cases that have dragged on since then.

The terribly difficult thing is that in order to talk about what is happening today, I have to start with what happened thirty years ago and then work my way forward. It's not enough to speak about the present. And pay attention, this isn't just about Italy: the same thing happens everywhere, all over Europe. I've tried in Spain and encountered the same difficulty; I've tried in France, in Germany, I've yet to try in Sweden, but I will.

To conclude, let me share this medal with Franca.

Franca Rame, my companion in life and in art who you, members of the Academy, acknowledge in your motivation of the prize as actress and author; who has had a hand in many of the texts of our theatre.

Franca has a very sharp wit, I assure you. A journalist put the following question to her: "So how does it feel to be the wife of a Nobel Prize winner? To have a monument in your home?" To which she answered: "I'm not worried. Nor do I feel at all at a disadvantage; I've been in training for a long time. I do my exercises each morning: I go down on my hand and knees, and that way I've accustomed myself to becoming a pedestal to a monument. I'm pretty good at it."

(At this very moment, Franca is on stage in a theatre in Italy but willjoin me the day after tomorrow. Her flight arrives midday, if you like we can all head out together to pick her up at the airport.)

Without her at my side, where she has been for a lifetime, I would never have accomplished the work you have seen fit to honour. Together we've staged and recited thousands of performances, in theatres, occupied factories, at university sit-ins, even in deconsecrated churches, in prisons and city parks, in sunshine and pouring rain, always together. We've had to endure abuse, assaults by the police, insults from the right-thinking, and violence. And it is Franca who has had to suffer the most atrocious aggression. She has had to pay more dearly than any one of us, with her neck and limb in the balance, for the solidarity with the humble and the beaten that has been our premise.

Like I said, she has a sharp wit. At times she even turns her irony against herself.

At that moment, as if out of nowhere, a band appeared, playing nothing but wind instruments and drums. It was made up of kids from all parts of the city and, as it happened, they were playing together for the first time. They struck up "Porta Romana bella, Porta Romana" in samba beat. I've never heard anything played so out of tune, but it was the most beautiful music Franca and I had ever heard.

The day it was announced that I was to be awarded the Nobel Prize Ifound myself in front of the theatre on Via di Porta Romana in Milan where Franca, together with Giorgio Albertazzi, was performing The Devil with Tits. Suddenly I was surrounded by a throng of reporters, photographers and camera-wielding TV-crews. A passing tram stopped, unexpectedly, the driver stepped out to greet me, then all the passengers stepped out too, they applauded me, and everyone wanted to shake my hand and congratulate me … when at a certain point they all stopped in their tracks and, as with a single voice, shouted "Where's Franca?". They began to holler "Francaaa" until, after a little while, she appeared. Discombobulated and moved to tears, she came down to embrace me.

Believe me, this prize belongs to both of us.

Thank you.

Translated from Italian by Paul Claesson

#tumblr users who joke about 'jester's privilege' you are obligated to take it from a real clown #dario fo #theatre

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undreaming-fanfiction · 1 year

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Ohhh please do 37. Do you think they could have loved me? Extra points if you make it sad but sweet/give it a positive ending ✨ I love ur writing btw!

Thank you so much for the prompt and for your kind words! I'm sorry for taking so long, but I hope the positive ending makes up for the wait!

Steve doesn't talk about his parents often. Scratch that, he doesn't talk about them at all, but that doesn't mean their presence doesn't loom over him, casting prolonged shadows over everything he does, everything he is. He knows they are disappointed in his failures, his choices, only suffering his presence in their home because they know they would be judged. Public opinion matters to them more than their only son.

And Steve seems to believe everything they say about him, just takes it when they call once every few months and berate him for not utilizing his talents, not securing a sports scholarship ("we paid for your hobbies, Steven, all the equipment, and there is zero return. We really hoped you'd amount to something"), not doing what he's supposed to be good at. If someone calls him a failure, a washed-out ex-jock who peaked in high school, he just shrugs and never tries to refute it. Eddie sometimes wants to grab him by the shoulders, shake him, yell at him to believe in himself more. And if that isn't ridiculous, the master of self-deprecation lecturing the former king on self-esteem. But that's what friends do and Eddie wants to be a good friend to Steve. Maybe more, but that's not on the menu and Eddie will gladly accept any Steve-shaped dish he's offered.

So when the letter comes one week before his twentieth birthday, Steve isn't surprised. He skims over the precise, thin lines, his lips moving as he reads that he's on his own. His parents are starting over somewhere else and graciously left him the house (or what's left of it after the earthquake, even though Steve and all his friends did their best to fix it up). They say they'll gladly hear from him if he gets his life back on track, but until then he should think hard and long about what he wants and what he sacrifices by the company he keeps, the dead end jobs, his unsatisfactory choices. Eddie doesn't read the letter directly but sees Steve's expression, reads his lips, and even when Steve offers a small smile, saying that it had been long time coming, Eddie can't help but notice his trembling fingers and glassiness of his eyes. He wishes he could say something to make Steve feel better, but there is nothing, no hollow reassurances to make the hurt go away. He just offers to share a joint and lets Steve sag against him, lost in thoughts.

Eddie suspects that Steve must have fallen asleep, but then he hears that sentence and his heart skips a beat.

"Do you think they could have loved me?" Steve whispers against Eddie's shoulder.

He swallows, breath catching in his throat. "What...what do you mean, Steve?"

Maybe it's just his imagination, but doesn't his t-shirt feel a bit wet? "It's just...I wonder if I could have done something differently. I'm not smart, but I could have tried more. Maybe start in dad's company, prove him wrong. I've always thought they don't want to be around because I failed them, but...I wonder. I wonder if I tried more, if they'd still be around. If they could have loved me if I was who they wanted as a son."

Steve's voice is weak, defeated, and Eddie burns with rage, tightening his fingers into a fist. There were so many things he wants to do to those assholes and he marvels at the image of his rings tearing Harrington senior's stern face into shreds. He reaches behind Steve and squeezes his shoulders, pulls him into a clumsy hug. "I don't think they could have loved anyone, Steve," he mutters against Steve's hair. "No one but themselves."

And Steve seems to accept that, his breathing becomes more even and when they eventually say good night, he's smiling again. As Eddie climbs into his van and drives back to the tiny house government kindly provided for him and Wayne, he starts thinking. The next morning, he makes several calls.

Twenty years from the day Steve was born, Robin throws Steve a huge birthday party - in his own Frankenhouse, she had Dustin drag Steve away for the whole day and the excuses the young man comes up with are absurd, but Steve follows him, not questioning anything. He just enjoys Dustin's company. Dustin rambles about finding a perfect gift for Suzie for their anniversary (and when Steve points out that their anniversary was three months ago, Dustin scrambles up an excuse that it's actually for their half anniversary and he wants to customize the gift a bit, plus Steve is the only one he trusts with dating advice, so really he can't ditch him before they find the perfect thing, maybe they can stop for a lunch in the meantime, and does Steve want to be invited for a coffee or something for his birthday? Steve's eyes tear up a little at that because Dustin remembered what day it was and if that didn't make the younger man swear to all gods that the party had to be the best thing Steve ever experienced.

In the meantime, Robin, Eddie, Nancy, Jonathan, Argyle and the whole party minus the distraction do their best to make that prayer come true. They decorate the house, build an improvised pyramid of presents and bake a cake - there might have been a small fight over how to decorate and El wins by suggesting they should shape seven small figures representing them and a spiked bat from marzipan. The results are...questionable, but recognizable.

Eddie might have pushed them to go a bit overboard, gathered a crew of teenage boys to paint Steve's living room since its owner always complained about the peeling paint and impersonal taste of his parents. They create a surprisingly seamless gradient of yellow and orange, brightening the room and splashing the ugly couch in the process. When Mike sees the drops, he remembers that Steve really disliked this piece of furniture ("it's like sitting in a hospital", he used to say) and promptly writes FUCK THIS COUCH, YOU DESERVE A BETTER ONE, STEVE on the uncomfortable surface.

When they radio Dustin that it's safe to come back, Dustin basically shoves Steve inside and there is shared concern when Steve freezes as he takes in the new wall, the presents, the cake and a handmade banner saying HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO OUR FAVORITE BABYSITTER/DINGUS. Then, to the surprise of everyone, he lets out a huge sob and collapses against the door. Eddie and Robin rush to him, removing his hands from his face, but he's beaming at them through the tears, pulling them into a clumsy hug. In the end, Argyle yells for a hug pile and Steve is suddenly squished by seven kids and five adults. He can't even bring himself to scold them for disregarding their safety.

As they pull him up and slowly disperse to bring over plates and drinks, Eddie adjusts Steve's hair to its usual perfection. "Now, you asked me something a few days back, Steve," he says quietly so only Steve can hear. "And I didn't have a good answer. But I have one now. Because those jerks not loving you has nothing to do with you, they're just damaged sorry excuses for human beings. So no, they couldn't have loved you no matter how hard you tried and for that they suck, so fucking much. But all of us," he gestures towards the people who gathered in his house for him, for Steve Harrington, "happen to agree they have a single redeeming quality. They gave us the most selfless and metal guy we've ever had the pleasure to know."

"Eddie-!" Steve gasps and he looks as if he's about to cry again, and well, screw respectful distance. Eddie touches his face and wipes the residual tears away, taking care of the new ones too in the process.

"Shh, big boy," he soothes him and grabs his hand, leading him into the kitchen, the living room still smelling too much like paint to spend the whole evening there.

Steve looks around and watches his friends, his loved ones. He sees Erica bringing disconcertingly large knives to cut up the cake, El floating confetti with her powers and Mike and Will quickly scribbling an additional gift for Steve - a promise from Will to paint Steve a mural of his choice on the new wall, Mike joining in to mix paint and provide snacks. He sees Argyle and Jonathan blowing up party baloons and playing with static electricity, making their hair stick up in the weirdest ways possible, Robin and Nancy giggling at them and betting who can get the wildest hairstyle. He sees Max and Lucas arguing in hushed voices about which present Steve's going to like the best. And of course he sees Dustin who sneaks past Eddie, steals his lighter and starts lighting the candles on his cake.

They all gather around him, smiling, even Max has a grin on her usually stoic face. The metalhead beams at Steve and theatrically grabs a glass and a spoon, ringing them for attention. When everyone goes quiet, he climbs on top of a chair and clears his throat. "I will keep this short, we're all tired and your cake looks delicious, sue me. Ahem. From all of us who happen to love you, Steve Harrington, with all your pretty much non-existent flaws except for outshining all of our hair and not caring enough about the best tabletop game in the world - happy birthday. We're all fucking glad you were born."

As everyone claps and cheers, Eddie jumps down and pushes Steve into the circle of his friends, towards the cake.

Robin hugs him and tells him to blow the candles. "Wish for something, dingus."

Steve snorts, leans over the cake and thinks hard, as his parents told him, thinks about what he wants. His eyes still linger on his friends. "I can't think of a single thing," he admits with a huff.

"Aww, isn't he cute," teases Eddie, nudging Dustin's side.

Steve's eyes stay on Eddie for long, stretching seconds. "Well, maybe one thing." As he blows out the candles, he maintains eye contact with Eddie and well, doesn't the dungeon master have the prettiest blush he's ever seen.

And maybe it's birthday magic, maybe it's the universe trying to restore some balance into Steve's shitty life, but in this particular case wishes do come true. They come true on the same evening when Steve sneaks out with Eddie to share a cigarette, it involves a rogue drop of cake cream on Eddie's lips and who are they to waste such a great dessert?

Steve's parents could have never loved him, it's a simple fact. But for the first time in his life, he doesn't care a single bit.

(also, Steve does keep the couch, refusing to get it cleaned no matter what. He considers it a staple piece in his living room and Mike feels ridiculously proud whenever he sees it)

#steddie #steddie drabble #steddie ficlet #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #strangerthings #stranger things drabble #strangerthingsdrabble #the party #nancy wheeler #robin buckley #argyle #dustin henderson #jonathan byers #ask #writing prompt

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agonyaster · 1 year

Text

It’s Enough to Drive You Crazy (If You Let It)

So, Elesa… Have you defeated Clay yet?”

Elesa’s face immediately drops down into a scowl and she glares across the table at Emmet, who sips his espresso with a devious smile. Ingo’s sitting next to him, expressions equally as devious, though he tries to hide it behind his muffin.

“No. I haven’t,” Elesa says, enunciating every syllable with cautious precision. Almost daring him to keep talking.

He takes it as a challenge, apparently. “I was simply wondering! It’s been so long since your last attempt: leaving his as the last badge you obtain is a verrry interesting choice.”

Haven’t done anything with Elesa as the leading lady so you know I had to change that immediately

prefer ao3? read here!

“So, Elesa… Have you defeated Clay yet?”

“No. I haven’t,” Elesa says, enunciating every syllable with cautious precision. Almost daring him to keep talking.

He takes it as a challenge, apparently. “I was simply wondering! It’s been so long since your last attempt: leaving his as the last badge you obtain is a verrry interesting choice.”

“Shut up, Emmet.”

“How many times have you tried for the badge? I forget.” Dragons, does he have to do this right now? Elesa glances around anxiously at the other people sitting at the café, none of whom seem to be paying them any sort of attention. “You must be sure to keep your final destination in mind!”

Ingo agrees with a solemn nod. “If you’re not careful, you’ll miss the cutoff for the tournament.”

“Not that there’s any shame in waiting for next year. That way you’ll be able to study our battle tactics from the stands without worrying about your own matches.”

“Because they would not exist,” Ingo clarifies.

Elesa knows she shouldn’t grind her teeth, but it's the only way she can stop herself from saying something she’ll regret. “I still have a few months, I won’t run out of time.”

“Two months is not a few! It is a couple at best,” Ingo interjects. She shoots him a glare.

“Clay isn’t hard to beat if you find something that can take a few good hits.”

“It’s true! Fraxure did very well during my own challenge.” He pats a pokéball lovingly, the one in which Haxorus was held.

Elesa rolls her eyes. “Well, he uses ground types and I use electric types. Not much I can do there.”

“You could always phone a friend,” Emmet offers, extending a pokéball to her. “And I’m sure Skyla would be happy to offer her Swanna if you asked nicely.”

Elesa swats Emmet’s hand away with a scowl. “No, shut up.” She doesn’t need their pity, especially not Skyla’s. Dragons, she would never recover from asking something like that— her face burns at the very thought. “I’ll do it on my own.”

Ingo picks at the chocolate chips at the top of his muffin. “Perhaps you should consider investing in a new type specialty.”

“Oh, or a Jellicent! One of those would be perfect against Clay. Except for his Seismitoad.” Emmet ponders for a moment, eyes pinched shut in deep thought. “What about—”

“Hey look, it’s Tweedledee and Tweedledum.” Finally, a savior! Unfortunately, Elesa’s relief sours as soon as she sees who exactly it is. “You guys know the station is like four blocks away, right?”

“We are perfectly aware of every subway entrance in the whole of the region,” Ingo declares. “And the closest one is just off of fifth, thank you very much.”

“Oh! Hey, Skyla!” Elesa’s voice peaks at the end of the name and she coughs awkwardly in her fist to try and cover it up— twisting in her chair so her bangs cut Ingo and Emmets mischievous faces out of her sight.

With a playful smile, Skyla pops the tab of her soda and gives a little mock salute. “Sup?”

“Not much. What brings you to Nimbasa?”

“Getting my last badge from Cas.” She takes a swig. “Forgot to actually grab it when I beat the gym so their trainers have been hunting me down for like a week.”

“Did you know Elesa still doesn’t have all her badges yet?”

Oh, she was going to throttle him.

“Oh man, really?” Skyla pulls over a chair from a nearby table, straddling it and resting her chin on its back as she sits. “Who do you have left?”

“Clay.”

“I beat him just fine.”

“You use flying types, Skyla.”

Emmet sips his espresso. “You have flying types. Two of them.”

“Yeah, well. He plans for things like that.” Honestly, it’s like they forget Rock Slide is a thing. And that’s not to mention how her Emolga work best togetherwhen they could swap in and out with Volt Switch, which is… not an option.

“Then get a new pokémon, just for this battle! An honorary yet vital member of the team. You’ll never have to use it again if you don’t want to.”

“What? No! I’m not just going to give up!”

Ingo shakes his head. “You wouldn’t be giving up, Elesa, you would be winning.”

“Basically the same thing if I do it like that.”

“I dunno, they do kinda have a point.” Skyla takes a drink of her soda, swishing it around in her mouth before swallowing. “You’re free to take my Swanna for the fight if you’d like. I dunno which pokémon he adds for late-stage gym challengers, but she’s sure to cover most of them.”

Emmet looks positively beside himself. “See!”

“I don’t want your Swanna! And I don’t want a Swanna, period, so would you all just drop it? I can handle this myself.”

“Like you’ve handled it just fine for the past… How long has it been since your first attempt?”

“Would you cut it out already? Dragons, just leave me alone.”

They don’t seem to hear her over the sounds of their own voices, rising steadily as the three of them start to bicker. Dragons, she hates how easily Skyla falls into this with the twins— it's only fun when she’s not the one those little shits decide to make fun of. Elesa raises her coffee to her lips and takes a shaky sip, trying to tame her nerves. And the boys know about all the… stuff with Skyla! It should be their job to make her look good!

She can’t even really hear them anymore, all of their words nothing more than a dull and tinny echo. Maybe it's because of the blood roaring in her ears, maybe it's just because she stopped paying attention. As Elesa takes another sip of her coffee, she forces herself back to attention and meets Emmet’s eyes. He doesn’t even say anything, just gets that look on his face: the one that he always gets before doing something really fucking stupid. Like rolling down that giant hill just outside of Mistralton in a tire.

He says it— whatever it is— and the response is instant. Ingo howls with laughter, clutching his stomach with one hand while he pounds on the table with the other, nearly choking on his own spit. Skyla makes a sound like a startled Unfezant and soda shoots out her nose, her face going bright red as she cackles. Normally, that would’ve been a sight Elesa welcomed. But she’s not stupid the pounding in her head made it impossible to hear but there’s only one thing that joke could’ve been about.

Her.

Elesa stands up so fast her chair topples over, drawing the attention of the other people at the café. She doesn’t care. Without a second thought she rips off the lid and throws her coffee in Emmet’s stupid smiling face, scooping her bag up off of the ground and stomping off. Elesa can hear him shouting after her as Ingo and Skyla scramble to grab napkins and save his shirt. Serves him right. Dragons above, that shit better stain and never come out.

She doesn’t have anywhere specific in mind, just away is enough. No one bats an eye as she barges past, the world melting away as she moves through the streets. Soon the crowds begin to thin out and mist cools Elesa’s face, wind whistling through steel girders as she moves swiftly across the bridge.

The air grows wetter and heavier, rain falling from the sky just as she steps off of the Driftveil Drawbridge. Elesa flips up the hood of her jacket and pushes forward.

Fine. Fucking fine. They thought she couldn’t do it? Might as well prove them wrong. She can do this and she will be doing it with the pokémon she likes. A voice in the back of her head tells her this isn’t a good idea, that it’s too late, she’s too angry, that her pokémon don’t need to see her like this. She squashes it like a bug beneath her shoe.

Elesa stomps up the hill that leads up to the Driftveil City Gym, her socks squelching with every step, oozing water and mud. When she crests the hill and arrives at the entryway of the gym, Elesa reaches for the door handle.

It’s fucking locked. Of course it is— why wouldn’t it be?

Deep down inside her, something breaks.

The scream Elesa lets out is like that of a wounded animal, and all she sees is red as she beats and pounds and scratches at the door. Tears pour from her eyes, mixing with the rain and the snot that streams down her face— it leaches into her pores and draws forth only more rage. Ugly, retching sobs shake her entire frame and Elesa’s screamed herself hoarse at this point but she just doesn’t care.

Her palms have gone red and the polish on her fingers flakes off as she continues to scream and scratch and hit, backing up only so she can deliver a heavy kick that leaves behind a muddy footprint behind on that stupid fucking door.

Eventually, she loses her footing and collapses in the mud, thunder rumbling overhead. Elesa doesn’t know how long she sits there, breath coming in jolting gasps.

“What in tarnation are you doin’ out in this rain?”

“…Motherfucker.”

“Quite the answer, there.” Clay moves towards the door, inspecting the muddy footprint with a raised brow. Elesa doesn’t budge. “What, ya just gonna stay out here in this downpour? Last thing you need right now is to catch a cold.”

“You can’t get sick from standing out in the rain.”

“My mama always said you could, and I’m gonna listen to her before I ever listen to you.”

Elesa crosses her arms, trying to hide how she shivers. “Yeah well, you lick rocks. Stop trying to give me advice.”

“You say that like it’s an insult, Miss Elesa.”

“It is!”

“I encourage you to come up with somethin’ else.” His keys jangle and the door is pushed open. “If you change your mind ‘bout the whole rain thing, door’ll be open.”

Clay disappears inside and Elesa glares at the gym, watching through the windows as the lights spring up. Its shining interior almost mocks her— but fuck that. She’s got a gym, a gym leader, and her pokémon are still safe in her bag. Rising to her feet, Elesa’s legs tremble like a newborn Deerling’s as she heaves the door open and enters.

“Get that jacket off of ya, you’ll freeze if you don’t,” Clay says, his back to her as he fusses with something over at the receptionist's desk. He’d been a lot smarter than her, umbrella held at his side.

“No,” Elesa says, stomping her foot. “I’m here for a battle.”

Clay turns to look at her, brows raised, and with a scoff he shakes his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s outside business hours.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“Talk to me about working overtime when you’ve got your own gym.”

“I will.” Crossing her arms, Elesa sticks her nose in the air. “What are you even looking for? If you’re going to punish me just get it over with already.”

“And exactly would I do that? Not like you did any real sort of damage.”

“What, you want me to?”

“Not particularly. If you’d really like to, go for it, but you’ll hafta pay for it.”

Clay seemed to find whatever it was he needed and turns, gesturing to one of the couches in the lobby: telling her to sit. Elesa’s tempted to say no but all that adrenaline from before is really starting to wear off, so she obliges.

“I’m surprised you showed up without the boys,” Clay grumbles as he sits. Dragons, of course he would say that. He’s still their uncle, after all. She still can’t really believe Clay’s married.

“We aren’t attached at the hip.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“They don’t need to be here anyway.” Her voice quiets, thin and wavering like a thread of silk. “They’ve both already gotten your badge.”

“So that's what this is about, is it?”

“I already told you that.” Under the florescent lights of the lobby, it’s impossible to hide the redness around her eyes and the blotchy, irritated patches on her cheeks. “It’s stupid. I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe so. But if you don’t tend to the sapling it will never grow strong.” Elesa frowns down at her shoes, not really sure what that was supposed to mean. “Don’t pretend, darlin’— it won’t do you any good.”

Elesa tucks her knees up under her chin and squeezes her eyes shut. When she speaks next, her voice is just barely a whisper. “Sometimes I wish all of this would just go away.”

“I know.”

“And like— it’s not just them.” Her eyes are starting to burn again, the beginnings of tears pricking at their corners. “Girl stuff too, I guess.”

“Skyla, hm?”

Elesa chokes on her own spit.

“Don’t look so shocked, I have eyes. When yer not with the twins you're with her. It’s always you four running around causin’ problems. And don’t pretend you’re subtle or nothin: you youngins have lost the art of nuance.” Clay grunts. “So what, they givin’ you shit?”

A single-shouldered shrug. “Something like that.”

He scoffs, and Elesa knows the twins are going to be ripped a new one next time they see Clay.

“The boys… there’s somethin’ I’ve noticed about them over the years,” he starts. “They’ve always had that natural talent; somethin’ they got from Drayden— skipped over their father, mind you. There’s work put into it, sure, but nothing ever gives them enough pushback to lose in the way they need it.”

“You want them to lose?”

“Almighty— I’ve been prayin’ for it since the day I first met ‘em.” He laughs. “When it comes, and it will, those boys aren’t going to know what to do with themselves. Later on it is, the worse it’ll be.”

Elesa’s started to pick at her nail polish, miniscule flakes breaking away and dusting the couch cushion. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Those with more diverse teams— they tend to focus on their strengths too much. Strike hard and fast and get it all over with as quick as they can. You think differently. Just somethin’ that comes with the trade. Specialists like us, we know what it means to lose. We’ve always gotta be aware of our faults because everyone else is too. All the time.”

“I guess. But still, I just don’t know how to beat you.”

“Same thing you do to every other trainer: knock out all their pokémon.” Clay shrugs. “I know you’ll get it one day, and don’t think I’m sayin’ that just to say it. You’ve challenged my gym six times, and every time you end up comin’ back. In too deep to call it quits.”

He’s got a point.

“All that’s to say… don’t take your own experiences for granite.”

It catches her off guard, so unexpected she almost wonders if she heard him wrong.

Elesa raises her head, eyes wide. “I— did you just..?”

“You’re pretty darn good at it, but it’s best to keep your coal around the twins. They’re gniess boys, but…”

It takes all her strength for Elesa to hold back her laughter. “What, they’re full of schist?”

“That’s right. And if you ever need assi-stones in keeping them under control, you just let me know.”

She can’t help it anymore— Elesa’s whole body shakes as she howls with laughter, tears springing out of her eyes as she hoots and hollers. Her face aches from how hard she smiles.

#writing #submas #elesa #gym leader elesa #pokemon elesa #elesa pokmeon #ingo #emmet #skyla #clay #gym leader clay #pokemon skyla #subway bosses #nimbasa trio #its precanon #being a teenager is hard i make elesa Go Through It #had a lot of fun with this one :>

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all-fandoms-rise · 2 years

Text

Merely A Dream

Morpheus x Reader

Summary: You were an assistant to the Lord Morpheus and one fateful day he disappears from the dreaming leaving all to wonder of his presence. Only time could tell of what happened and what the future would hold whenever he returned.

Word Count: 1924

A/N: Here is the first chapter!!! The second chapter will be posted in a couple of days please let me know how you like the story so far! <3

Some things in the universe are unforeseeable and often leave those who are forced to encounter it to be left in anguish.

This is what has caused your current predicament, the dreaming deteriorating at the disappearance of your Lord Morpheus, some time ago the king of dreams went missing yet to return with no clues as to where he could be. Leaving the realm to rumor that he simply abandoned the kingdom causing most to escape to the human world. Yet here you were, the assistant to Morpheus trying to keep the remaining shambles of the kingdom together with the much needed help of your good friend and librarian of the dreaming, Lucien.

“ Do you believe the rumors y/n? That Lord Morpheus just left the dreaming?” Lucien asked as the two of you looked through the remaining journals in the library.

You contemplated what you wanted to say back, everyone knew the king would be gone for long periods of time trying to create and control things to send into the human world and that is precisely why you had known the king didn't just leave, it was because of control and that was something he would have never just let go.

“No Lucien I believe even though Morpheus could be harsh he did care about the dreaming and he would have never let it fall to shambles like it has, and no matter how hard we try we cannot keep it from falling apart even more”.

Your friend looked down at the apparent frown forming on her face, even though it had been years since his disappearance the two of you never spoke negatively about the situation, only about how problems could be fixed even when those solutions would go up flames. The kingdom needed its ruler even when most had found solace among the human world, as the years passed in your spare time you spent most all of it searching through the human world hunting for any indication of where Morpheus could be. Of course every time you left the dreaming you would come up with an excuse to Lucien about your whereabouts, the last thing you wanted them to worry about was if you would leave them alone in the dreaming, reassuring to always come back soon. For years there was no hint or trace of the lord until one day you heard talk among the mortals of an Englishman who had nothing but grief from the loss of a son to riches nearly overnight.

The evening had come to where you disguise yourself as one of the so called fortunate who could attend his festivities, winding through the halls you associate yourself with other guests to blend in with the crowd. You see a young man whom you recognize as Roderick Burgess' son, Alex Burgess sneaking through one of the back staircases that none of the other guests ventured towards. Giving it some time you wait until the young man comes back looking uneasy, maybe a hint of guilt behind those timid eyes. This was an emotion you were used to seeing a lot whether it did have anything to do with Morpheus or not you were still curious as to what had the young man shaken. Waiting until most of the attendees of the gathering had left or passed out on the nearing furniture you sneak over to the back staircase and find yourself at some sort of basement, a table near the entrance of what were supposed to be guard sits empty as they most likely joined the crowd upstairs early in the evening, that's whenever you see it… a giant glass dome.. No, it was a cage that was holding Lord Morpheus' capture.

You see the eyes of the being staring at you with what appears to be a small barely noticeable smile. Running to the side of the glass you can’t contain the wild beating of your heart as you have the confirmation that he had never abandoned his kingdom but the guilt that he had been encaptured for so long. “y/n how did you get here?” he asks. “I’ve been using the enchanted sand you gave me to go back and forth to search for you my lord but now that i’ve found you how can I get you out of this hell” you say forcing the words out as fast as you can. He taps on the glass saying how it just needed to be broken or the seal on the floor needed to be broken, but that's when you heard the heavy footsteps descending down the stairs to the basement. You start to panic and you can see the contemplation and pain on his face, he looks down whispering, telling you to take the dust now and to leave before they see you and capture you. You shake your head no it wouldn't end like this not after how long you spent searching for him, sighing you know at the end of the day it will do no good if you get taken alongside Morpheus and there's no telling if they would even do that, they would probably just kill you on the spot so you take the dust out sending yourself back to the dreaming.

Being transported to the gates of the dreaming you fall into charred grass with no energy left to move. All there is to do is to stare at the sky, you should’ve waited to go back out to the human world again so soon after your last quest but you were too desperate to find the king, and you did and let him slip through your hands. You didn't have anywhere near the power of Morpheus, you actually had very little, you could only go back and forth because of the enchanted sand. Trying to manage to stay alert, your eyes start to flutter close and you eventually stop trying to fight against the exhaustion, passing out in the grass. Waking up the sky is still dark, noticing you can finally move again you run through the gates into the village in the dreaming where you knew Lucien resided. Banging on the door she opens it moments later clearly being woken up from your random appearance, she sees the panic on your face and you finally decide to fill her in on all of the searching you’ve done but that's when you see the tears forming in her eyes before you could even speak. She embraces you in a tight hug asking where you had been, you pull back looking at her in confusion you had only been gone a few months like how you normally are and that's when she shakes her head no. “y/n you’ve been gone nearly 3 years”.

You stand there in shock because you didn’t just go to sleep, your body had shut itself down for over two years just beyond the gates so no one had ever looked there. You should have known this was gonna happen, your body isn't meant to go back and forth between the dreaming and the human world but you were willing to risk it to find Lord Morpheus. That meant that it had been that much longer that the king had to endure that prison he was in. Wiping your tears you get Lucien to sit down and tell her every detail about what had happened and how you found the king. Now you just needed to go back to the human world to get him and bring him home. Lucien shook your shoulders calling you insane, wondering how you could possibly think about immediately going back after just waking up from a near coma. No matter how bad Lucien wished the king could just be back in the dreaming it wasn’t worth it if you could barely make it back to the human world to begin with, the two of you needed to come up with a real plan while you rested more.

Not only were you having to come up with a plan to save the king of dreams, the two of you were also fighting to save things in the realm. There were journals that Lucien kept track of, recordings of all of the events that happened after Morpheus’ disappearance. One day when the two of you were searching for more information about the burgess family, the same library that had been visited thousands of times was now desolate. The only thing that now remained were the journals Lucien had kept up with, the problem was now that whenever you opened the pages were blank like it was erasing its own history.

Time had passed and you were finally able to transport yourself between worlds, hiding it from Lucien but you had felt much guilt since it had taken years since you had woken up outside of the kingdom's gates to be able to transport again. You had overworked yourself for too long and your body forced you to pay the price, you weren’t made for this and it showed, you were weak. But now was the time you could redeem all of the time that you had caused to pass by saving the king of dreams.

Teleporting back to the human world, specifically to the house that haunted your dreams for years you find yourself with more adrenaline. It is night time here, finding the easiest window to get to you slowly open it hoping no one would come in. It seems as if luck were on your side as the halls were empty, you followed the halls that you had walked so many years ago down to the basement that held Morpheus. Hiding behind one of the pillars whenever you see the two new guards sitting at an updated post talking about some vacation that one would go on soon. As you stand there waiting for the perfect moment to act out the plan that had been created you hear what sounded like wheels? There he was Alex Burgess being wheeled in by his husband offering Morpheus one last chance to do as he had asked for so many years, and Morpheus once again just sat in silence. Alex's husband wheeled him out of the room and as he did he scrapes part of the seal breaking it, not realizing what he had done he leaves the room for the last time.

Well that was one last thing you had to do for your plan, at this point you know Morpheus has already noticed your presence but isn’t doing anything to give away your position. Taking some of the enchanted sand into your hand you blow it towards one of the guards so he falls into a slumber, now you wait and it didn’t take long before you start to see the man in the glass eyes start to glow and the guard starts shooting at the glass in fear breaking the dome prison. Now was your chance, running out you blow more sand onto the female guard, as she falls to the floor you run over to Morpheus and help him up and before you can pull out your bag of enchanted sand, you look down to see he already has a hand full of sand then looking back up he has a small grin on his face.

“It’s good to finally have you back my lord” you say as he finally takes you both back to the dreaming lifting a giant weight off of your chest.

A/N: In the next chapter we will be discovering new information about the reader and how she came about in the dreaming and so much more!! Can't wait for ya'll to read it <3

#morpheus #lord morpheus #king of dreams #the sandman x y/n #the sandman netflix #dream of the endless #the dreaming #king of dreams x reader #fanfic #dream #the sandman #morpheus x you #morpheus x reader #new fic #please enjoy

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gabessquishytum · 10 months

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I think you were sent an ask at some point about Dreamling as pool players (or were you ?? I might have hallucinated that) ... So, regular humans Dream and Hob being excellent pool players individually, and by chance one day finding themselves playing together (among a party of other, less skilled men of course). They both are very competitive, and get increasingly worked up about how close the score is between them and each think of himself as a genius in the field (each in their own way of course, Hob is convinced he has the kind of luck that nobody can beat, while Dream is arrogant and looks down on every other player) so they can't comprehend how they haven't manage to take the upper hand. It ends in a tie (can a pool game end in tie ? I have no idea ah ah), and everyone else leaves because 1) the sexual tension is palpable and 2) more than one game soon becomes despicable with the size of each's ego.

So Hob can finally act on what he's been dying to do the whole time, which is pull Dream's trousers down and bend him over the pool table and bring one of his legs up (you know, the kind of position pool players get in when they want to be precise where they're practically laying on their belly on the table) so his pert ass is on display. And then. It turns out Dream's hole is stretched open and glistening with lube, because he has a ritual of fucking himself in the ass before playing to be in the best state of mind.

But Hob meant to take him rough and tight, this won't do. However, as wide the girth of the dildo Dream has taken might have been, his passage is very much too tight for the nearest objects at hand. So Hob takes a pool ball and coats it in saliva and then he starts pushing it into Dream's yielding asshole. And Dream did not expect that, he thought he was getting Hob's cock !! Except the pressure is soon so much it renders him speechless and panting, and he is simply unable to protest as Hob pushes it deeper, until Dream's hole swallows it, and then he uses his cue to push it deeper still, before he starts inserting a second ball, and soon Dream has three heavy pool balls in his abdomen that are also weighing down on his dick squished between them and the table, and he's stretched so wide and deep and the pressure on his prostate is constant and he's completely incoherent. Hob behind him has already come in his pants just from the view but he said nothing because he's rapidly becoming hard again. He's going to fondle those squishy and soft balls of Dream and then slip a hand under Dream's abdomen and he's certain he's going to come again from feeling the much heavier and harder and larger pool balls poking out through his skin :D

Oooo yes!! I did mention Dream as pool hustler at one point! This is a fantastic elaboration, friend!! I think this genuinely has legs to be a really great fic!!!

Let me say I am obsessed. OBSESSED. With Hob pressing Dream onto the table in that position. I don't know what the technical term is but I love the image of Dream on his belly with his leg out to one side and his arse perfectly accessible.

Imagine how Dream’s hole would gape and ache and strain against the massive intrusion. His skin flushes and he's dripping sweat down his thighs, and cue inside him is almost like a relief because it isn't squeezing and pressing against his sensitive insides. His stomach is totally bulging outwards and putting even more pressure on his dick against the table... just imagine the mess on the green baize fabric when he cums - an orgasm that seems to start at his prostate, and ends up nearly exploding out of his cock.

Poor little Dream feels so pained and stretched and abused but... he also feels like an absolute winner. There's nothing like making your rival snap to give you a bolt of deep satisfaction. It's Hob who ends up licking the table clean after Dream is finally spent, and it's Hob who has to carry him all the way back to the hotel... with the balls still inside :D

#dont put pool balls in your butt. im not your mother but just dont do it #the sandman #dreamling #nsft #cw object insertion

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joshmedin · 3 months

Text

Not Equal At All

Game Design Essay

Introduction

Many game systems offer a variety of choices or options during character creation; the general thinking among these options is that they are, in theory, “equal” to one another. In other words, while there may be specific reasons to pick one or another for certain purposes, they can all be chosen without fear of one choice being clearly superior to the others, or at least close enough to not hinder gameplay and player enjoyment. But this isn’t always the case, and in some games where very coarse-grained choices are part of the process, a wrong choice can have a heavy impact on character capabilities. Let’s look over some examples.

(For the purposes of this essay, I’m NOT looking at comparative resource costs to get the same result, which is the bane of certain more-complex character creation systems, but instead circumstances where players may have a handful of choices to make. The topics are similar, however.)

Broadness of Application

One area that this will often matter is broadness of application; if a character has a trait that can only be used in limited circumstances, they may feel very limited in play compared to a character with traits that can be used in a variety of ways. Extremely freeform traits, such as Aspects in FATE, are susceptible to this problem. (The FATE rulebook does provide guidelines, but it can still take experience to see the difference in application between Can Make Machines Purr and “Okay, I’m going for it!” One is good for technological challenges, but the other could be used for almost anything.)

But sometimes, these issues with broad application are actually built into the system. One example of this is the Sentinel Comics RPG. PCs built in this game have two Principles in their Abilities list; without getting into game mechanics and probability too heavily, these are actually a very important resource for characters, because they allow characters to use the Overcome action with a dramatically improved success rate. (The odds of complete success jump from extremely roughly 2% to 43%; PCs should rely on them a lot!) Principles are selected off a list (and the full range of choices is sharply curtailed depending on character type), and everybody will always have precisely and only two of them, so they should, in theory, always be comparable.

But they aren’t. An Overcome in SCRPG is, roughly speaking, beating a challenge that is not an opponent, whether it’s persuading an official, solving a puzzle, rescuing a drowning victim, or infiltrating a warehouse. The Principles, among other things, have a triggering circumstance in which they can be used. For example, the Principle of Lab says “Overcome while in a familiar workspace or when you have ample research time.” That’s good when those very specific things are involved, but it becomes a very hard stretch to rescue a drowning victim or shift a boulder out of your way. For contrast, the Principle of the Tactician says “Overcome when you can flashback to how you prepared for this exact situation.” For that one, it becomes almost impossible for the GM to deny its use, and fairly simple for a player to justify it. Shift a boulder? Studied leverage just in case. Drowning victim? Took lifeguarding classes to know what to do, anticipating trouble. Persuade an official? Did research on the profiles of all of them. One is much more broadly useful than the other, period. A player who plans ahead and picks at least one Principle that they can use in a wide range of situations will have a distinct advantage, but a random choice might find a character who is great at knowing locals and their own business and at situations where being small and young is an advantage and nothing more.

(And yes, very creative and/or persuasive players may be able to somehow stretch and distort their Principle to fit anything, but there’s a point where it just goes outside rational use.)

Scenario Specific

During a scenario at a gaming convention I attended last year, one of the pregen PCs had their one-and-only special trait be a bonus at piloting extraterrestrial spacecraft. In the course of the scenario, our characters wound up on a spacecraft that we couldn’t control or pilot in any way, arriving at another spacecraft that we then took over-- and that wrapped the game. That player never had a chance to use their specialty; it was irrelevant to the game. Now, that’s not good design, since it was a convention game with pregen PCs, but it showcases another kind of problem with unequal choices-- scenarios where some of the options for characters don’t matter. A classic one is a character built for social encounters who finds the group frequently in deadly combat, but there are countless other examples that are possible. (At the same convention, I wound up with a character whose major resources were related to hacking and communications, which was fine, but the only conflict involved very dangerous enemies attacking us while we were on a highway in the middle of nowhere, and it was set in the 80s, so there wasn’t much I could do with that.) This is at least easier to solve if the GM is involved with the characters during the creation process, and can guide them into roles relevant to the scenario, but if that doesn’t happen, it’s all too easy for a character whose focus is not relevant for the game to simply be unable to participate in the way they wanted to, and that feels like a serious loss.

Combat and Noncombat

One key area where this matters in games is, of course, combat; woe betide the player whose character lags behind others in this arena, it is known, lest they simply die! And that’s certainly a concern-- many RPGs involve a lot of combat, combat almost always involves the entire group, often takes up a lot of table time, and inability to participate meaningfully can get somebody killed.

But that’s actually not the only consideration here. Being combat-capable is so ingrained into game design and character design that it’s almost not the largest concern compared to noncombat application in a number of game systems.

One of the classic examples of this is the most popular game in the US and probably worldwide-- Dungeons and Dragons, notably the current edition. In D&D, one class is “Fighter”; Fighters… fight. They are good in specific aspects of combat; otherwise, they have skills. But everyone gets skills; likewise, everyone can participate in combat, often challenging Fighters in their specific area of greatest strength (Single-target combat), and utterly triumphing over them in other aspects of combat (Crowd control, for example.) It’s doubtlessly necessary for gameplay-- it wouldn’t do to have other classes be helpless in combat, which is a large part of D&D-- but outside of combat, things change. Fighters can have Skills, as can all classes. But spellcasting classes gain abilities that let them bypass Skill challenges, or let them do things that no Skill could ever accomplish, and this gap grows larger and larger even as the combat abilities of spellcasters grows with it.

But this can also impact other systems! In a relatively freeform system like Cortex, creativity can let a trait like Senses outperform Super Strength. It’s easy enough to justify using Senses in combat-- analyzing a foe’s movement, spotting their weaknesses and strengths, and so on. But Senses can also be used to solve puzzles, track enemies, potentially even have application in social settings. Likewise, in some games, it’s very possible to even use social or psychological skills in combat, perhaps by creating “Good morale” assets for other to use. However, conversely, it’s often much, much harder to apply combat skills to noncombat situations as broadly. Being a master archer is much harder to apply to debate than it is to find a justification for a master of persuasion being able to distract a foe or boost an ally. In this regard, it’s a serious issue if combat-themed characters can’t do anything out of combat, but the reverse isn’t true, and it’s something that needs to be considered, either in game design or in campaign design.

Does it even matter?

Does it actually matter if characters are unequal? This is a delicate question, and depends in part on the group and the specific players. If the differences aren’t great, of course, it surely matters less no matter what. But sometimes it’s easy to see where one character has noteworthy advantages over the other… and I think that it does matter, broadly, and it’s worth addressing. Some players, for example, can become frustrated with their inability to contribute, or to act effectively, and that frustration isn’t fun, the more so when it’s not obvious that some choices aren’t as good. Likewise, even if one player doesn’t mind being less capable, other players may become frustrated with that player’s weakness and having to cover for them; the GM, in turn, may find it more challenging to balance encounters and challenges while still allowing that player spotlight time. Overall, the less inequality between equivalent choices, the more desirable the results will be, even if it’s fine with certain players.

Solutions

When making characters, of course, one should look at options and choose carefully, but that’s not always very satisfactory. What if one’s character concept depends on certain choices, or if it’s not obvious that there’s a problem? Another good place to work on this problem is at the design phase of a game, of course, but that’s not an option the majority of the time; most of us play games other people have already made. (I’m a game designer, but for a variety of reasons, mostly play other people’s systems.)

Sadly, this means that a certain amount of work on the part of the GM becomes necessary; it is, however, worthwhile. It’s good to see what choices players make, and then play to them. Is the player immune to something? Make sure it shows up so that they can have their moment! Do they have a Principle that’s great at stealth? Give them lots of chances to sneak in places! Make sure to give players a chance to shine by adjusting scenarios to their characters, rather than making the players adjust to the scenario. Sometimes, it’s the only solution, but I think that it’s the best one.

#game design

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