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songbirdstyles · 3 years

Text

sparks

summary: you’re a music journalist assigned to covering one of harry styles’ gigs, and he’s absolutely smitten with you. (part one.)

warnings: slight fluff, excessive liberties taken about music journalism; smut in later chapters, angst in later chapters

word count: 8.2k

inspo.: almost famous - cameron crowe; sparks - the who; hello, i love you - the doors

You’d never truly gotten a big assignment before - sure, you’d gotten a few pieces here and there detailing local LA bands that you knew would never live to see more than 100,000 monthly listeners on Spotify, and they mostly ended up buried by your higher-ranking coworker’s higher end stories on the front covers - and, for the most part, you’d honestly been fine with it. You’re fresh out of college, the newest recruit to your company and your colleagues who are sent out to tour with big bands and artists have been here for years, some even decades, and you suppose they deserve the opportunities more than you, don’t they?

You work your way up, your boss had told you the first day you’d started working, following him around like an eager puppy as he showed you the office. Eventually - if I’m impressed with you - you’ll get something big.

It’s enough for you. Small bands playing in hole-in-the-wall clubs and restaurants may not be the exact thing you’d envisioned when you’d set your sights on being a music journalist but it’s worked out well for you so far, hasn’t it? You’ve made friends - even dated the lead singer of an underground rock band who cheated on you hardly two weeks into the relationship - and your portfolio is slowly building, stacked with exposés and detailed recounts of small gigs that you’d watched from backstage. Eventually, you’ll leave this company and move on to something bigger, like Rolling Stone, and your career will take off until you’re practically the face of music journalism.

And, really, those dreams have carried you through college and the first year of your career, putting your all into every article and every piece just so your boss can tug you into his office one day with a rarely-seen grin to finally tell you -

“I want you to write an article on Harry Styles.”

You furrow your eyebrows, shifting in the cushy office seat that your boss has for guests in his office. It’s a facade that you’ve learned to acknowledge, because, no matter how much he makes it look like he appreciates guests in his office, you know he regards you as nothing more than an interloper, even if he’d invited you there to begin with. “Harry Styles?”

“You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?” Mike asks, light shining off his bald head, and your mouth opens and closes a few times uselessly.

“Of course I have!” You push yourself to sit up straighter in your seat, staring up at your boss with shock written in every feature of your face. You, writing about Harry Styles? God, you nearly want to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming. “Write an article about - about what?”

Mike scoffs in that pretentious way that makes you hate ever having to talk to him, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. “He’s coming to do a few shows along the West Coast. You can go to one or two - talk to him a bit, talk to his band - you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“With small bands, sure - Tacocat and - and the Mystery Lights -” You swallow thickly, and Mike stares down at you in your seat like he’s unimpressed with your enthusiasm, or lack thereof. And it’s not that you aren’t executed - but, Christ. Going from bands performing in underground clubs to Harry Styles is like going straight from crawling to flying a fucking plane and you’re not sure if any of your experience with the musical locality in LA could prepare you for that. “I mean, that’s huge, Mike.”

“It is huge,” Mike confirms, crossing his thick arms over his chest, leaning against the desk before you as though he’s immune to sitting in his seat behind his desk like a normal boss. “Do you not want to do it? Because Melissa, you know - she’d love to, was going on and on about it last week -”

“No!” Your cheeks flush at the volume your voice raises to, and if you didn’t know better you could swear you see the ghost of a grin on Mike’s face. “I want to, Mike, I really want to - it’s just crazy.” There’s a pregnant pause between the two of you, your boss nodding smugly down at you as you struggle for words, before you ask the question burning the tip of your tongue with its desire to be heard. “But - why me? I’m sure you have people more qualified for it -”

“Easy,” Mike says, cutting you off and you’d be annoyed in any other instance but you’re too desperate to hear his answer. “Look, Harry’s a young guy. Younger than anyone else our people have interviewed - I think he’ll respond more to a young, pretty girl like yourself than someone older than him.”

Well, that makes sense, you suppose. The only coworker even close to you in age is Melissa, and she’s pushing 30 as it is. You’re 23 - graduated college just over a year ago, and by far the newest recruit this company has taken in years - but you had always imagined that was the main reason you wouldn’t get many big articles, and here it’s the main factor in you getting what will surely be the highlight of your portfolio once you apply to Rolling Stone. An interview with Harry Styles - God, they’ll probably foam at the mouth when they see it, and a grin spreads across your face as you think of it.

“Is that a yes?” Mike questions, blonde eyebrows raised high and nearly disappearing into his scalp.

“Of course,” you respond without another moment of hesitation, and you push yourself to stand, office chair rolling behind you with the force, and it hits the wall behind you with a soft thump. “Yes - of course - of course.”

“Great.” And he crosses to the other side of his desk, pushing aside a few loose papers and folders on his desk, and you clutch your hands in front of your stomach as you watch him, practically bouncing up and down with uncontained joy and fear bubbling inside of you. The last time you’d felt like this was the first time you got a real assignment - more than just ranking songs and discussing new album releases - and you’d been sent to a strip club to cover a gig from an up-and-coming band. Back then, you’d never expected to ever feel more excited over anything in your life, and yet, here you are, eight months later, fighting back the urge to burst into joyful tears. “They come in a week - I’ll send you the address - if you need help with your questions -”

“I’ll ask Francine,” you finish the same advice he gives you every time you’re assigned an article, referring to your oldest coworker - a little old woman who’s been with the company since the 70s. She’s always been more than willing to help you with your assignments but this - you need to do this by yourself. “Thank you so much, Mike, this is - this is great.”

“Don’t let me down,” he says, pointing his finger at you, and you nod furiously. “I’m trusting you on this - it’s a big opportunity.”

“I won’t disappoint you,” you promise, holding up your crossed fingers just to show him how much you mean it, and you know it’s the truth - you’ll make this piece the best damn one this company has ever seen if it’s the last thing you ever do.

The night begins a bit - rocky, to say the least.

For one, you couldn’t decide what to wear, even after spending nearly a half hour trying on every variation of clothes in your closet and tossing them onto the floor of your studio apartment when they didn’t satisfy your needs. In the past you’d worn to gigs what you’d wear if you were a simple concertgoer, albeit a bit more modestly, but you can’t decide what you would wear to a Harry Styles concert if you got the regular chance to - and you’d never even dreamt that it would happen in the first place -

Well, you peruse your closet intently and land on a pair of patterned flare pants and a long sleeve sweater. It only seems fitting for the chilly weather outside, and you fold a shirt into your bag in case you need to change if it gets hot backstage. You’re not dressed to impress, necessarily - you’re dressed to get a job done, as Mike would always say, but how could you be expected to not attempt to impress Harry Styles? It’s a preposterous idea. You’re sure anyone would understand.

Journalism pass - phone - keys - deodorant - when you’ve checked your bag over three times to ensure you have everything necessary you finally leave, locking your door shut behind you and ordering an Uber to take you to the concert.

You hadn’t anticipated Uber and Lyft being absolutely overloaded with patrons due to the concert just a half hour away and you need to be there by 6:30 at the very latest to ensure you get in and can at least talk to Harry before he goes on - a quarter of your questions are geared towards how he feels pre show and you can’t get pre show questions after the show - that’s barbaric. But the minutes inch closer to 5:30 and your Uber driver is still ten minutes away and your heart beats so fast against your chest you think you might vomit right into the street in front of your building -

You’re in the car by 5:45. It’s not ideal, and you know you’re cutting it close, but hopefully you’ll be there before the soundcheck ends. It’s always an ideal time to take photos, watching the band warm up and check mics, and with a piece like this, you need all the opportunities for pictures you can get.

And traffic is horrible - you suppose that’s also to be expected, and your Uber driver curses in a language you can’t recognize as cars cut him off on the highway and if you were a different person, you’d recommend a shortcut he takes, but he doesn’t look like he wants to hear a single word come from your mouth. He had given you a dirty look when you entered the car, and that’s enough to make you shut up and pray for the entire car ride that you make it on time.

6:27. Mike would piss himself if he knew how close you cut it, and you hop out of the car with a speed you didn’t even know you could muster, pushing past the buzzing crowd standing in front of the main entrance. The hoard of people seems to have a steady heartbeat, pulsing with excitement much like your own, and you can’t help but smile as you make your way around the group, goosebumps cropping up over your skin as your teeth chatter in the coldness. For a moment you fear that the directions to the backstage entrance that Mike had given you were total bullshit - but then you see the door, blocked by a burly security guard that glowers at you as you walk up to him like you’re something sticky beneath his shoe.

“Hi!” you call, breath exploding in a white cloud in front of you in the cool night air. The security guard smells so strongly of booze that you need to try harder than you’d care to admit not to scrunch your nose - you cough softly. “Let me - um - find my pass - I’m with Autoamerican, the magazine?”

Fingers grab onto your journalism pass, deep within your bag, and you tug it out, flashing it to the security guard with a slightly nervous grin. All of the gigs you’d been to before hadn’t even had backstage doors - to get backstage, you just had to climb onto the stage and walk behind the wings - but this is a fucking stadium, not just a measly club, and a big one, at that. In your youth you’re sure you could recall your dad watching a football game that occurred in this very stadium - funny how life turns out, sometimes.

“Autoamerican?” the security guard questions, bringing his face closer to your badge as the wafting smell of alcohol increases, and he raises his eyebrows with a scoff. “Never heard of it.”

“Oh.” you pause, feeling your teeth beginning to chatter in the cool February air. You’re not quite sure what to say - you’d assumed Mike had called to arrange the entire thing, hadn’t he? And this is the time you’re supposed to be here - “well, we’re not as big as Rolling Stone magazine, but - we’ve done interviews with The Cure, The Smiths - even Zeppelin, at one point -”

Your voice trails off into silence. He doesn’t care. He’s looking at you like you’re some innocent teenage girl, trying to bribe your way backstage so you can bombard the artist and not a fully grown woman here on business, goddammit. And you’re not sure what to say - he doesn’t believe you, clearly, and you hadn’t anticipated that even as you listed all the ways tonight could go wrong.

“Look, kid,” he begins, and that really has your blood boiling, eyes narrowing to glare at him. “We get this all the time. I’m a journalist - I’m with the crew - it’s a bunch of bullshit. Now go to the front with your general admission tickets like the rest of them -”

“I have a pass - I’m a journalist!”

“Sure -”

“I can call my boss if you want proof!”

And before you can reach into your bag to search relentlessly for your phone to follow through on the promise like you intend to, the door the man is guarding suddenly swings open, nearly hitting the guard in the ass as it opens out. You take a step back as dim light from inside floods the darkness, and a man steps out of the doorway, his eyes darting between you and the security guard.

“Are you with Autoamerican?” the man questions, raising his finger to point at you as though he could be speaking to anyone else. You nod furiously, and you hold up your journalism pass again just to prove it. “You can come inside, then - c’mon, Steve, she’s got a pass, for God’s sake -”

And you can’t resist flashing the guard a smug smile as he steps to the side to let you inside, rolling his eyes so far back into his head that all you can see is a strip of white.

The man lets you inside and the door shuts behind you, and you nearly knock straight into a second security guard standing by the door inside, as though trying to stop people from going out. And, well - you’ve been backstage at more concerts than you could count but this is certainly bigger, better, bustling with people carrying equipment and makeup artists and more people you couldn’t possibly identify. You’re half inclined to reach into your bag and grab your notebook to jot down exactly what you’re seeing so you can make sure to include it in the article, but you have a distinct feeling you’ll never forget it.

“I’m Jeff,” the man tells you, already setting off through the people, and you’re quick to follow, trying to maintain your pace beside him. After a second of walking in silence you realize he’s waiting for you to say yours - you clear your throat and introduce yourself, and he sends you a smile. “The band just finished their soundcheck, if you’d like to have a word with them before they go on - what’s the article about, anyway?”

Jeff shoulders the two of you through lingering groups of people until you emerge into a small hallway lined with doors, and you can hear bustling noise coming from the one closest to you - holy shit, is that Harry?

“Um - just about the shows, the tour, how everything’s going. My boss basically told me to do what I want with it, so I’ll have a better idea once I speak to the band.” It’s the loosest instruction you’ve ever been given for a piece - you’d expected a clear cut outline - but perhaps with an artist this big, Mike trusts you to know what to write. “It likely won’t be anything too personal, but I’d love to get a chance to speak with Harry before and after.”

“Sounds great,” and you can tell he’s stressed - you wonder if he’s always anxious before his client’s shows, or if there’s something special about tonight that has him worried - and then he reaches past you, twisting the doorknob closest to you and holding the door open for you to enter before him, and you give him a gracious smile before walking in.

The room isn’t as crowded with people as you’d expected but they’re bustling with energy - a woman and a man, holding a guitar, lean against the wall with each other - two other women sip water bottles, laughing loudly amongst each other - another woman leans above someone, their body hidden from view except for their legs, covered in silk, floral printed pants -

Your breath catches in your throat as Jeff shuts the door behind you both, and the sound of the door clicking shut draws far more attention to yourself than you’d expected - it seems like every pair of eyes lands on you and Jeff, and you’d decided on being a music journalist to keep away from being the center of attention. You’ve always preferred being behind the scenes, a bit, at least until your career progresses until you’re a household name for music journalism, and now -

You feel very much in the scenes, eyes on you as Rhiannon plays in the background.

And then Jeff is tapping you on your shoulder, leading you around the room to the small groups of people lingering - you shake hands with Mitch and Sarah, the couple against the wall, and the rest of his band, and they’re so nice your smile feels like it’s going to break your face in half. You’ll need to interview them at some point - nothing too intense, and you may not even need to, if Harry’s answers are satisfactory enough - and you can already feel yourself building a strange sort of rapport with the band, their kindness rubbing off on you until you practically glide beside Jeff to the woman bent over Mr. Floral Pants, whose identity you’re fairly certain you’ve already deduced.

It doesn’t make it any more surprising when the woman steps aside where she’s carefully applying powder to the man’s face, and then Harry fucking Styles is staring up at her with a smile and an outstretched hand, suit jacket matching the floral pattern of his pants. His curls are carefully slicked back from his face, skin matte with the powder the woman resumes applying to the side of his face that isn’t turned to you, and you swallow your shock before reaching to shake his hand, Rhiannon turning into Hello, I Love You, playing from a source you can’t identify.

“Nice t’meet you,” Harry says when you’ve told him your name and the magazine you work for - Jeff had already mentioned it, but it is customary to repeat it to whomever you may have to interview. “Y’know, I love Autoamerican - told Jeff, s’the only magazine I’d let interview me backstage. Don’t usually allow it.”

“Really?” your stomach flips as Harry stops bouncing his arm, but it takes just another half second for him to untwine his hand from yours - you’re sure it’s because the makeup artist fretting above him is using her thumb to wipe off powder from his nose, but it still makes your heart thump faster against your chest. “I assumed most people haven’t heard of it - it’s nowhere near Rolling Stone.”

“I love it,” he insists, dropping your hand, and he looks so casual, as if this interaction isn’t blowing up your entire life, and you’re brought back to the many moments you’d spent as a teenager fawning over him in his One Direction days - God, this feels like a dream, and you’re half inclined to pinch yourself in case it is. Maybe you’ll wake up in Mike’s office to him giving you another shitty underground LA band to interview. “The interview with Sublime s’great - read it all the time.”

You swallow thickly, grin spreading wider across your face, and before you can open your mouth to tell him about Francine’s go-to story about how Eric Wilson had flirted with her while she interviewed them for the story, Jeff interjects - “Steve hadn’t even heard of it.”

“Steve’s an idiot,” Harry starts, and you giggle - his lips lilt upwards just a bit. “Hope he wasn’t hasslin’ you ‘bout it.”

“Just a little,” you say, hoisting your bag further up your shoulder just as the makeup artist drops the powder back into the apron slung around her waist, and her manicured nails tilt Harry’s head around for a moment before she seemingly deems his makeup satisfactory before leaving, sending you a tight lipped smile as she goes. “I’d love to ask you a few questions before the show - nothing too heavy - and then I’ll observe the concert and how everything goes, ask a few questions after.”

“Sounds great,” Harry responds, lifting his fist with his thumb up and you didn’t think your heartbeat could grow any faster or louder but you suppose today is just proving you wrong time and time again. “D’you need t’record m’answers? S’a bit loud in here.”

The truth is, you’re sure you’ll have this entire experience engraved in your brain for years to come - you’ll remember every word he utters for you until your dying days - but it is more practical to have a recording. You swing your bag off your arm and open it, digging through the jumbled mess of items inside until you find your phone, and you hold it up with a nod. “Yeah - there isn’t anywhere a bit quieter, is there?”

It takes a minute of bustling - Jeff tells you two instructions to go down the hall into another room where you may find more silence - and Harry promises, accent thick and eyes rolling, to be back in twenty minutes or less, if tha’s enough time for you, ma’am, and you try to trick yourself into thinking the burn flushing up your cheeks is due to the heat of the room.

Down the hall is another door that Harry opens for you, letting you walk in first. It’s a small room, clearly meant for storage, and he shuts the door behind the pair of you. There’s - luckily, or perhaps unluckily - just enough room for you two have at least a few feet between you, and he leans against the wall with an air of casual elegance you couldn’t hope to achieve as you scroll through your phone to search for the voice recorder app.

“Hope this s’good enough - is it?” Harry inquires, leaning his head closer to yours, and you nod. “Good - wish there was a nicer spot for you, but -”

“Don’t worry about it,” you interject, smiling up at him, and he grins back, and your stomach churns violently. You almost feel like you could vomit - when he goes on, you’ll go and have a bit to eat at the table set up with foods that Jeff had wheeled you past when you arrived. Eating seems to solve more of your nerves than you’d care to admit, and you feel like you’re nearly 95% nerves right now. Your fingers fiddle with the voice recorder app, adding a title to the recording while entirely too focused on the sounds of Harry’s breathing above you, and you can practically fear his eyes boring into your face before you press record.

And, for the most part, it does go smoothly. Harry introduces himself with an ease that only comes with years of practice, so much time spent being interviewed that it must feel like as much of a second nature to him as interviewing is to you. He’s charming and charismatic - flirtatious, even - making jokes and adding lines that you make a mental note to be sure to include in your final piece - whatever direction you go - and you can’t say you’re bothered by the way he leans closer to the phone, and thus closer to you, in order for his voice to be heard more on the recording when occasional noise bustles in from outside.

You don’t need to look at the questions you’d spent weeks laboring over - every question you inquire derives directly from his answers like he’s practically feeding them to you, and then you’re interviewing him so naturally, you could nearly fool yourself into thinking it’s an organic conversation between friends.

What’s his process to prepare for shows? Well, listening to Fleetwood Mac and eating finger foods, of course - he loves mozzarella sticks. Does Fleetwood Mac make you less nervous for shows? No, he doesn’t get too anxious before shows, now that he’s out of the band. He just loves Fleetwood Mac - he could listen to them at any time of the day. What do you think makes your solo career less anxiety-inducing than being in the band? Different fans let him be himself more. There’s less pressure to be someone he isn’t - do you think he could’ve worn a floral printed suit at a One Direction concert?

And, in the end, twenty minutes hardly feels like it, and by the time Harry tilts his head over the screen of your phone to check the time, you could nearly convince yourself that you’d merely spent a minute with the heartthrob, and it pains you to stop the recording.

“How’d I do?” he questions, cheeky smile indenting the dimple in his cheek, and you feel like you need to dip your face in ice once he goes on stage - your face hasn’t felt anything less than piping hot since the first moment he rested eyes on you, and his kind-bordering-on-flirtatious nature only makes your skin heat more under his gaze.

It isn’t as though you’d have it any other way, though.

“Perfect,” and you send him a smile. “I’ll watch the show - probably eat a bit, too, if I’m being honest - and maybe ask you a few questions. How many shows are you doing in LA?”

Harry reaches past you, grabbing the doorknob and opening the door for you once more, and you slip out with a small smile as he follows, face twisted in what’s clearly a show of being in deep thought. “Four. An’ a few more on the West Coast ‘fore we move out - reckon you’ll need t’come t’a few more?”

“Depends.” He looks at you curiously as the two of you make your way back to the room you’d been in before, and when you enter, it’s clearly in a more prominent state of preparation for the show - there’s more bustle and movement between every band member and Jeff, who looks entirely relieved to see you two come in as She’s a Rainbow thumps softly, volume clearly turned down on whatever produces the music. “If I feel like I’ve got enough material from this show, then that’ll be it - I usually just do reviews of specific gigs, and this is a lot broader - so I really don’t know.”

Harry nods, and you feel a flutter in your heart at how intently he seems to be listening to you, like he really cares, and you’re sure it’s a facade - he probably has a million other things on his mind as Jeff descends upon the both of you, whisking him away as he calls goodbye! to you - but still. When was the last time you’d felt listened to? By Mike, or by the security guard outside, or even from your own parents when you try to convince them over and over that you have a plan, that your degree wasn’t a waste of time when you could’ve been a doctor -

Well, Harry’s a gentleman, you decide, sliding your phone into the back pocket of your flares as you reach in your bag for your notepad. You can tell they’re preparing to go on soon and so you descend against the wall, grabbing your pen from deep inside the confines of your bag to scribble the essential notes of what you’ll need - it’ll make it easier when it’s time to write, rather than listening to the entire 20 minute interview again to try and find the important sections to include.

His responses to your question still burn fresh in your mind, and you began scribbling your bullet points on the small notepad in your hands. It’s decently easy to block out the chatter of the room you’re in along with its music, volume turned down further until it’s hardly audible, and it really is a skill you’ve mastered, though you suppose you’ve had to - trying to take notes for articles about gigs occurring in buildings so small that their noise reverberates off of every surface has made you a master in tuning out noise surrounding you.

You are aware, and acutely, at that, when the band starts exiting through the door beside you. They don’t look nervous, returning your encouraging smiles with ones of their own, and you watch them pour out the door with confidence practically radiating off of them. Well, that’s something to mention, isn’t it? Most of the bands you’d interviewed were practically vomiting with nerves -

Harry takes up the rear, fingers running through his slicked back hair, and you can’t tell if it’s a nervous habit or if he’s simply trying to let his curls fall in front of his eyes more. Jeff walks in front of him, giving you a smile as he leaves, and the singer stops beside you.

Your breath just about catches in your throat as you look up at him, and he’s staring down at you with a decidedly ambiguous look in his eyes, and you smile at him. “Good luck out there.”

“You’re gonna come and watch?”

You nod. “Eventually - I’m gonna eat something first, finish my notes. Maybe give myself a tour of the backstage in case I decide to include it.”

“Sounds good t’me,” Harry says, but he doesn’t make a motion to leave, and then his eyes roll down your body and is he fucking checking you out? Because - no - that’s crazy. That would cement into your brain the knowledge that this is a dream, and not reality, because there’s no fucking way Harry Styles is checking you out, eyes roaming from your eyes to your stomach to your - “I like your pants. Where’d you get ‘em?”

Ah. Of course. Fashion icon, he is, inquiring about the pants you’d chosen specifically because they looked like something he may like. “These?” You glance down as though you’d forgotten what pants you’d donned, as though you hadn’t spent hours in front of your closet envisioning what outfit you could wear to impress him. “I think they’re from Zara. Got them a couple years back.”

“They’re pretty.”

“Why, thank you -”

“Harry!”

Jeff’s voice calling from outside the room snaps you both out of your conversation, a slightly embarrassed grin spreading across Harry’s face that you’re sure is mirroring your own. His cheeks are tinged pink and he clears his throat.

“Sorry - gotta go - make sure y’try the mozzarella sticks, ‘kay? They’re good,” Harry tells you, and you grin, drumming the pen clutched between your fingers against the notepad in your hands.

“Will do,” you reply, and then you lift your hand and point to the door, raising your eyebrows with a smile. “Go break a leg - and then be ready to talk about it when you’re done!”

He doesn’t say anything else - just gives you a thumbs up and slips out the door, and you can hear his frenzied apologies to Jeff as their voices fade away, surely preparing to get on stage and sing his heart out and blow the fucking stadium away, but you can hardly focus on it. Because - God, you really don’t want to sound like a narcissist - but he was joking around with you, complimented your pants, and he did technically check you out, even if it was just to see your pants.

Was he flirting with you?

Surely not. No, that would be absurd. He’s probably just bored - maybe entertaining random people backstage is his way of dealing with his nerves.

That makes a bit more sense.

When you glance back down at your notepad, the page half filled with scribbled bullet points of things you’d sworn to remember, and when you click your pen open to continue your list, you find that you can’t quite think of anything else to write. All you can think about is the mozzarella sticks waiting for you, and then standing in the wings to watch him sing his heart out to a crowd of adoring fans that you, at one point, would have killed to be apart of -

You shove your pen and pad back into your bag with a determined spin of your heels. Food first - contemplation second.

~~~

The show is - needless to say - amazing.

You’d feasted on slightly-cold mozzarella sticks that were, even in their lowered temperatures, immensely good, and clearly garnered all the affection Harry had for them. The food table was nearly completely empty, crew members repeatedly coming up to fill plates with vegetables and snacks, and so you simply gathered the last three sticks of celery once you were done with your sticks before taking a leisurely stroll along the backstage area. Celery firm between your teeth, you pulled out your notepad and your pen once more and jotted notes of what you could possibly include in the article to jog your memory later -

It takes a while, admittedly. You don’t want to leave anything out, and eventually you have two pages filled with notes in your handwriting that would surely be illegible to anyone else who happened upon them - and, sure, your pages are small, but still. Two pages is a lot, and you’re sure most of it won’t even make it into the article but you don’t want to risk forgetting any important information.

A trip to the bathroom - perusing the food table again to pick up the last few carrot sticks - and the show is nearly halfway over, so you decide it may be time to slip into the wings and watch. Take notes, possibly, but mainly just listen and absorb the music and the atmosphere and exactly how the fans react to his every move. That’s what the people want to know, isn’t it? It’s what you would want to know - so you slip past the lingering groups of people into the wings of the stage, where you get a clear view of Harry and his band, singing his heart out to a tune you know to be Kiwi.

It’s ear splitting, truly, in a way that none of the other gigs you’d witnessed had been. But it sounds good - better than good - and he’s as charismatic on stage as he is off, waggling his eyebrows during the more suggestive lines and undoing the button of his suit jacket, and the latter garners a deafening scream from the adoring fans in the crowd.

No, you won’t need to take notes, at least not yet. You’ll remember this forever, won’t you? Watching him work the crowd like he was born to do it, like it’s a second nature and you’re sure it is, at this point. It’s all you can do to stand there, watching him, and you’re sure you look no different from the other fans in the crowd, your eyes wide and lips parted in absolute awe of him -

His head turns to the side, briefly, as if he can sense your eyes on him above anyone else’s. In reality you’re sure he’d simply turned his head to flick a sweaty curl out of his face but it’s never a bad thing to dream right? And your gaze locks for just a moment, his eyebrows raising when he sees your face, and heat burns at your cheeks before his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his right eye shuts in a quick wink before he’s turning back to the crowd as if his attention had never left them.

Shit. You nearly drop your damn carrot. God, he’s a fucking tease, and you’re not even sure he knows it - that this experience will never leave your brain for as long as you walk this Earth, watching him wink as he stared into the depths of your fucking soul, clad in a gorgeous suit with his gorgeous hair and -

Harry truly is a sight to behold, and you’re more than content to watch him forever.

Forever ends up being another half hour or so before you’re made entirely too aware of the fact that you have to pee - not insanely bad, but enough to make you shift uncomfortably from side to side before sighing, turning and making your way further backstage in your search for the bathroom. In your determined tour of the backstage you’d forgotten to search for the restroom, and you wander about for nearly five whole minutes before getting to it -

You do your business. There’s not much more explanation needed.

It’s when your washing your hands, though, water freezing cold against your palms, that you become slightly aware of a myriad of noises occurring outside the restroom. At first you choose not to focus on it, shoving your hands beneath the air dryer to ease your soaking, cold hands, and the noise of violent air assaulting your palms drowns out the scuffling sounds from outside.

When the dryer turns off, and you reach down to wipe your damp hands on your pants, the noises haven’t stopped. And, sure, no one could expect it to be completely silent backstage, but whatever you’re hearing isn’t the normal laughter and chatter and muffled music that you’re used to hearing -

It sounds like someone is fighting, and your hand freezes in its place on the cool metal doorknob. You lean forward, scrunching your nose as you plainly try harder to hear what’s happening -

But, Hell. You have a job to do - you need to get back to the wings to watch the remaining few minutes of the set before Harry leaves and, subsequently, returns for the encore, and you’d intended to write with detail about his closing repetition of Kiwi. So you grab the doorknob, swing the door open and step out, and freeze nearly immediately once you’ve exited.

There is a fight - not as violent as you’d expected - as the security guard from inside scuffles with Steve, who looks positively wasted in a way you’ve come to know all too well, doing gigs in LA. His face shines with a sheen layer of sweat, skin glowing in the artificial light, and his fists move slowly to pummel into the other security guard’s back. It’s, truthfully, a bit pathetic to watch - he isn’t putting up much of a fight against the guard trying to hold him, and your mouth parts with poorly-concealed confusion at the display in front of you.

You’re not sure what to say - or do - or think - standing in the doorway of the bathroom as you watch the poor excuse of a fight, Steve nearly toppling to the ground as the other guard tries to contain him.

“Come on, Steve - don’t be like this -”

Then the other security guard looks up and sees you, and the expression on his face nearly makes you burst into laughter, but you contain it with a bit more difficulty than you’d like to admit. He looks annoyed, like he’s absolutely done with his coworker, and also slightly embarrassed. Clearly, he’d dragged Steve into the hallway containing the bathrooms with the hopes of nobody seeing either of them, and you’ve interrupted his bid for privacy desperately. “Sorry, ma’am,” the guard says, grabbing one of Steve’s flailing fists in his hands. “Don’t mind us - he’s drunk - just trying to contain him.”

You’re doing a damn good job, you want to say, but you bite back the retort with a small nod and a whisper of a smile on your face, walking with your back to the wall past their display in the hopes of Steve not seeing you. He hadn’t been particularly nice to you when you’d first seen him and you can tell he’s in a much more heightened state, now - he’d been drunk when you’d seen him before and you can tell it’s only gotten worse.

Maybe you should’ve told Jeff the guard was drunk?

Well, it’s counterproductive to dwell on the past.

You’re not so lucky, though - you’ve barely made it down five steps down the hallway before Steve lifts his head, pupils blown and skin even stickier looking than before, and he gives you the same disgusted look as though you’re something his dog had left on the grass. “Hey - hey - Jim - do you know who that is?”

And the other security guard - Jim - just rolls his eyes. “No, Steve, I don’t - stop making a fool out of yourself.”

“She works at - at - Eat to the Beat - Parallel Lines - what is it?”

Do you answer him? You don’t quite know. You just swallow thickly, forcing yourself not to don the smile that’s urging its way onto your lips as you hear roaring screams from the crowd that alerts you to the fact that, if Harry isn’t done with his set yet, he’s close, and you need to watch the end. “Autoamerican. Those are all good albums, though.”

“She’s snarky - get off of me, Jim -”

In Steve’s final bid for freedom his legs kick out, and his sneakered foot knocks into your ankle, and it’s certainly not hard by any stretch of the definition but it’s enough to catch you off balance, his toe hooking into the loose fabric around your ankles as he brings his foot back to kick again. One kick did it, though - you tumble to the ground, legs flying out from under you until you land on your ass on the hard floor, your bag slipping off your shoulder, and its contents scatter across the ground.

Fuck. That hurt, more than you’d care to admit, as you brace your elbows behind you to stop your head from knocking into the ground. Your ass hurts and you can see Steve’s leg bracing backwards for another kick, and you push yourself backwards so his foot merely pushes against the air.

You can already see Jim opening his mouth to desperately say sorry when a set of footsteps interrupts his apology - you don’t have to look to your side to see who it is, the smell of expensive cologne wafting before him like an introduction. You practically feel him before you see him.

Your name falls off Harry’s lips entirely too easily, like he’d been looking for you in the overtly small window of space he has before he has to go back on stage - his hair is messy and his skin is sweaty and he bends down next to you with such sentimentality in his eyes - you almost feel like a child again.

“Are y’okay?” Harry questions, and his hand rests on the small of your back and warmth seems to seep through your body from its spawning point, palm moving in circles against your sweater so gently you can tell he’s scared to go much harder. “Wha’ -?”

For his eyes had just landed on the sight in front of you - Jim managed to pull Steve up, the latter clearly coming to his senses at least a little bit, and his eyes narrow at the sight of you on the floor and subsequently widen as he sees Harry next to you.

“Wha’ happened?” And you can hear anger quivering under his voice like boiling water, ready to overflow, and you instinctively reach up to press your hand against his forearm - you do it to your niece all the time when you can tell she’s on the verge of a tantrum and it always works on her - but she is five, and Harry’s twenty years her senior, so, needless to say, the motion doesn’t do much to soothe him. “Fightin’ back here, kickin’ her - you’re s’posed t’be security guards!”

“It’s okay, Harry -”

“S’not okay -”

And then there’s another set of footsteps jogging over to you, and you look up to see Jeff -

“Har, you need to get back out -” but you can see the confusion set into his features as he stands over the scene, eyes flickering to you and Harry on the floor to Jim and Steve, the former having settled the latter into a fairly calm position. The scent of alcohol is strong and you can practically watch as Jeff smells it, his nose crinkling. “Is he drunk?”

“He is drunk, an’ got into a fight wit’ -”

“Okay, okay,” you interrupt, squeezing Harry’s arm again as you push yourself to stand, attempting not to wince at the pain in your ass as your muscles tense. He’s looking at you like you’ve just been hit by a car instead of having a mild scuffle with a security guard, eyes wide and concerned, and you shake your head at him. “Didn’t get into a fight, Harry - he accidentally kicked me. It’s really fine - you need to go back out, anyway.”

“She’s right,” Jeff insists, reaching down to tug Harry up as his eyes bore into the sight in front of you, Steve slowly calming himself down until he’s simply red in the face and reeking of booze. “Come on, Har - you need to get on.”

But Harry’s already bending down again, grabbing your pen and your notebook and your phone (you can see a crack in the screen that most certainly hadn’t been there just a mere ten minutes ago) and you could nearly laugh at the display he’s putting on, shoving your items back into your back, if Jeff’s demeanor wasn’t bordering on murderous as he drags Harry up again. You reach down and grab your bag, now fully stocked again with all of the items that had clattered out, and you give the tussling security guards one final fleeting look before following Jeff and Harry as they make their way down the hall.

“Y’sure you’re okay?” Harry questions, slowing his pace so you can jog beside him, much to Jeff’s lingering annoyance as he brings his fingers up to rub at the space between his eyes. “Y’should know - tha’ doesn’t usually happen -”

“I get it,” you tell him.

“No, really.” You’ve reached the wings of the stage, and Jeff leaves the pair of you alone to descend on to where the band stands, clearly waiting for the cue to go on. Harry runs a hand through his hair, and he looks oddly exasperated and you wish you could get it through his head that it really isn’t a big deal - “Someone will take care of the guards, okay?”

“Don’t fire them,” you insist, even though you’re sure he has no say in it. “Not Jim, at least.”

“Jim -?”

“The sober one.”

“Oh.” He pauses, dropping his hands to his sides. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Just try.”

“Will do.”

There’s another brief second of silence before you nod towards the stage where he’s needed - the few lowly minutes between the end of the show and the encore has come to an end, and you’re sure people are beginning to wonder if he’s not coming back. “Go on, Har. There’s people waiting for you.”

“M’going!” And he isn’t going, just staring at you with his brows furrowed, and you raise your own with a confused stare. “Are y’gonna come t’any more shows?”

You pause, nibbling on your bottom lip as you contemplate your answer. “Well - maybe. If I need more information.” “You should,” he tells you, and you tilt your head to the side. “Look, I don’t want your only impression of m’shows t’be that they’re violent an’ crazy.”

“I don’t think -”

“Jus’ one more? In two days. I’ll send you th’address. I really want you t’come -”

Before you can process the request Jeff has stepped forward, hooking his arm in Harry’s and practically dragging him towards the stage, and you watch him prance back in front of the audience like it’s his God given purpose and perhaps it is. You’ve never quite met anyone like him, you don’t think, and you’d certainly had a perception of what you’d imagined him to be like based on the insane amount of time you’d spent obsessing over his band when you were younger -

Your mouth feels suddenly dry as you watch him begin, and the music seems to reverberate beneath your skin, and suddenly - without having to think about it much at all, really - you know it won’t take much convincing on his part to get you back for a second night.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles series #harry styles drabble #harry styles one shot #im sure im going to regret starting this as a series and not trying to make it one long piece #but honestly??#im working on another fic right now so i just want the beginnings of this to be out there #i hope u enjoy

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stubbychaos · 4 years

Text

Ori Kebiin and Saviin’ika

Chapter 8 of Saviin’ika

Masterlist

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x Nurse!Reader

Summary: Paz takes you to the covert after your long day, despite you not being accepted by everyone in the tribe yet. Though you are content to finally be away from a toxic environment, Paz wants his vengeance towards those who have hurt you.

Rating: M

Word Count: 13,000 (I kinda got carried away)

Warnings: Brief mentions of psychological abuse and manipulation, as well as the aftermath of the attempted sexual assault from last chapter. Again, there’s mentions of blood, but not nearly as graphic as the last chapter!

Translations will all be at the end since there’s so many this chapter. I separated the actual dialogue from the typical nicknames and such. The title, however, translates to “Big Blue and Little Violet” :)

You have no idea how you manage the strength to walk on your feet after the day you’ve had, but you think Paz’s hand firmly pressed to the small of your back gives you the motivation to be stronger.

Though the dread still lingers like a dark rain cloud over your frantic heart as Paz leads you to your home to grab a change of clothes, you’re certain that the Mandalorian would not let anything happen to you should your father be awake. His thumb moves in firm little circles against the thick material of his cape that’s shielding your body from any wandering eyes and even though you can’t get the memory of slaying the Trandoshan out of your mind, you feel slightly better now that your warrior had cleaned as much of the blood away from your skin as he possibly could.

Out of sight, but never out of mind, you resentfully realize as you slowly approach the worn down hut you’ve lived in for your entire life and find the thought of living anywhere else strange, but certainly not disheartening in the slightest. Paz gently urges you behind him as he leads you inside the building, his leather-clad fingers firmly wrapped around your wrist and you can’t help but to smile weakly at his diligence and insistence on keeping you safe from anymore danger.

Much to your relief, you hear your father’s snores from the other room, most likely blacked out on alcohol or his drug of choice and you hastily lead Paz into your tiny room, only letting go of his hand so you can sift through the wooden crate where you keep what little clothes and garments you own.

“Cyare,” Paz whispers the nickname, perhaps remembering that your abuser sleeps in the room down the hall; he makes sure to keep his voice down as he gathers some of your toiletries and carefully situates them in a small canvas bag, “Where we are going, it is deep underground--it is much colder--do you have anything warmer to wear?”

You blink and manage to find a large cable knit sweater that you haven’t worn in such a long time, along with a thicker pair of leggings and some clean undergarments; you freeze when the Mandalorian speaks again.

“And something to sleep in?”

Heat floods your cheeks and earlobes and you nervously move to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, growing even more embarrassed when you realize the strands are matted to your neck with blood, “Am I staying the night there?”

You find a thin-sleeved, satin night gown that falls a few inches above your knees and you slowly rise to turn and face Paz, noticing the tension in his shoulders as he stares at you through the safety of his visor. You’ve never once questioned his loyalty to the creed by asking what he looks like underneath the helmet, but you suddenly find yourself jealous that he is able to conceal his features upon feeling nervous or shy. He reaches out to gently stroke your jaw, helmet tilting to the side as you hold your clean clothes tightly to your chest; he is silent as he collects the fabric from your tight hold and places it in the canvas bag.

“You would not be turned away after the day you’ve had,” He reassures you, cupping his hand to the side of your neck, “I am hoping they will let you stay permanently once they meet you.”

Your heart swells and you nod a little, your heart pumping furiously in your chest at the thought of spending the night with him again, let alone the rest of your days.

“Thank you,” You fiddle nervously with your large sweater as he continues to stare at you, “I… I will change now.”

“Then I won’t look,” He hums, sounding slightly amused as he turns his back to you, “Unless you wish for me to see you, little nurse?”

An intense heat spreads throughout your face as you let his cape fall from your shoulders and you begin to remove your boots. You remember the way the Trandoshan’s grimy hands had found the hem of your dress and you drop your head in shame as you peel away your undergarments and replace them with fresh ones. You feel sick and ashamed that it had nearly gotten to the point where he had taken advantage of you and you want to tell Paz exactly what had happened, but the feeling of your attacker’s hands on your torso leaves you feeling raw and vulnerable.

You’re embarrassed.

“I fear you would not like what you would see.”

The Mandalorian’s helmet moves in a jolting gesture, though he makes sure not to completely turn his head towards you and your heart thrums frantically when you realize it must be out of respect for your own wishes. You’re hasty to cover your chest with a clean bralette and you feel as though your cheeks are on fire when you replace your shorts with fresh undergarments and thick leggings, all while keeping your eyes on the back of his helmet.

“You are beautiful, cyare,” Paz softly reminds you, his baritone as low and quiet as his modulator will allow him, “I don’t like seeing you bruised and hurt, but it does not take away from your beauty. I do not think I could go through all of your pain without any armor; it must be difficult to bare your scars for all to see.”

You think it to be the most heartfelt compliment he could give you--informing you that he believes your strength and endurance to be up to his standards--and you smile warmly at the back of his helmet.

“Okay,” You eventually murmur as you tug the large sweater over your head, the cozy fabric fitting you similarly to a short, loose dress, “I’m ready.”

The Mandalorian turns to face you just as you’re grabbing his cape that you had neatly placed on the foot of your bed; his helmet tilts to the side as he watches you hug the material close to your chest. Thinking he doesn’t need the warm fabric yet, you hold onto it tightly as you follow him out your room, tensing a little when you’re met with utter silence, rather than your father’s typical loud snores. Paz must notice it too, because you watch as his hand immediately moves to the blaster sheathed against his hip; your heart pounds wildly in your chest as the two of you make it up the two stairs leading out of the hut.

Before you even realize what’s going on, Paz immediately whips around and draws a blaster within a fraction of a second, carefully pushing you behind him; you’re confused, until you hear a familiar voice that you’re certain will forever haunt you, even if you never see him again.

“Where do you think you’re going, little one?” You tilt your head to the side so you can see your father staggering towards you and Paz, “You decide to fucking not show up to one of your shifts and thought I would be okay with it? Then you bring him here? After everything I told you? Are you really that fucking stupid or do I need to--?”

You snap before the Mandalorian does.

For the third time in the last twenty-four hours--you absolutely snap.

“I have had one of the longest, roughest days of my life, so don’t you dare make me feel bad for not showing up to work or bringing him here!” You step to the side and put yourself in front of Paz, though he still keeps his blaster pointed on the drunk man who poses no real threat to the warrior, “I have been working every day for you for the last decade and never once have you ever thanked me for the time I put in--for all that I have done for you and working for free! You never once thanked me for all the tears and blood I have shed for you at the expense of your own hands and I am exhausted.”

Your father--Maker, does he look stunned by your outburst--and you’re certain that if Paz wasn’t there, he would have struck you the moment you raised your voice, but his eyes widen and his mouth drops open as he regards you. You think of the Trandoshan and the bounty hunter and how both of them had caused you such rage, fear, and desperation and you suddenly find it easier to argue with your only living blood.

You don’t even notice the way Paz tenses behind you when your father staggers forward, nearly tripping over his own feet and you suddenly feel embarrassed for the kind of torment you have let this pathetic man inflict upon you. You’re shaking with the trauma from such a horrific day as you step a little closer to him, speaking through clenched teeth at the man who’s made your life a living hell for as long as you can remember.

After killing the Trandoshan, you think you’re not fazed by anything, let alone your father’s clumsy anger.

“You have put me through so much pain and so much agony--so much torture--Maker, do you have a heart at all? Do you even realize what you’ve done to me? How much you’ve scarred my body and my mind?!” You force yourself not to cry, thinking he doesn’t deserve a single tear from you when he’s stolen so many in your life, “I am supposed to be your daughter, not your slave, and I won’t let you treat me as such anymore!”

Your chest is heaving wildly as he simply stares at you in shock, probably not even aware you were capable of storing such hatred and fury in your tender heart.

"I have never hated anyone as much as I hate you," You seethe, speaking through clenched teeth as you watch the way your words sober him, his back straightening a little "I hope you feel a fraction of the same loneliness and pain you have made me feel after I leave this awful place; I hope it haunts you everyday until you finally die."

Your father’s eyes widen and you’re certain he is shocked at the courage you have somehow obtained within a single day, though it still does not stop him from continuing to berate you

“And what would you do when he grows tired of you?” He sneers, though you simply shake your head, remembering how your warrior had declared his love for you and you force yourself to remember the devotion in his deep baritone, “You think those monsters would actually take you in as one of their own? You think this savage could genuinely love someone like you? Someone so weak and useless? They’ll use you and simply throw you away, just like anyone else would.”

You hear Paz snarl behind you, no doubt shaking with rage and a desire for wrath against your father, but you offer your last living relative a weak smile and nod a little, thinking of everything your warrior has done for you in the last few months and the happiness he’s given you. Perhaps you’re not as naive as you once thought--now so used to the horrors of such a cruel planet--and you’re certain that if this huge warrior insists his love for you, he must not be lying.

“I am not weak nor useless and I now know that,” You insist fiercely, and even though your voice trembles, you feel the words deep down in your bones--in your soul--and you step closer to the man whose unfocused gaze is currently switching between you and Paz frantically, “I am far stronger than you have ever led me to believe and I will not let you tear down me, nor the only man who has ever built me up. Even if I am not accepted, I will find a way to make a life for myself because anywhere is better than this hell.”

His angry expression cracks as soon as he realizes he no longer has any control over your inhibitions or choices and you know what’s about to happen--the manipulative words he’s about to spew.

“Y-You can’t leave me!” He doesn’t sound angry, but more so frantic at the thought of no longer having control over you, and he pleadingly holds out his careless hands, “You are my only family I have left.”

Though you feel a twinge of pain in your heart at how distraught he suddenly sounds, you turn your head to peer at Paz over your shoulder, who now has his blaster lowered. His helmet tilts to the side a little when he sees the conflict etched on your features and you think he must be incredulous that you even have to think about this--choosing between him or your father--but he simply gives you a curt nod and you turn back to your father.

“You said it yourself--” You whisper, backing away from his stumbling form before he can reach you, “You have no daughter, nor do I have a father.”

As soon as you see the look of despair melt into something more intense, something you’re so acclimated with--that anger, that intense fury--you immediately know you’ve made the right choice. Feeling flustered and slightly overwhelmed, you hastily turn around and storm past the usually talkative Mandalorian that has grown deathly silent and still as his Beskar gaze follows your small form that’s still clutching his cape close to your chest.

“Don’t forget that promise, you useless bitch! I’ll make you both fucking suffer,” He spits, instantly making you freeze and though dread crawls up your spine, you slowly turn to find Paz charging towards the much smaller, more feeble man with great furiosity that you’ve never seen from him, “Fucking Manda--”

You watch with wide eyes as your warrior immediately wraps his fingers around your newly estranged father’s neck and you are quick to make your way towards the two men when Paz effortlessly shoves him up against the outside of the hut with enough force to crack the outside of the little building. Your father claws desperately at the hand that has him pinned to the building, his feet an inch or two off the ground and you freeze when you hear the anger and pain in Paz’s modulated voice.

“You are lucky the little nurse has a tender heart and doesn’t wish for me to end your sorry existence, because I would have gladly had your lifeless body at her feet the moment I first saw you mistreat her,” Paz easily inches him higher off the ground, not seeming all too worried about his comfort as he squeezes his hand tighter around the struggling man’s esophagus, “You have caused her enough pain to last a lifetime and I will not watch you hurt her anymore with your words or hands.”

Your father’s mouth is wide open as he gasps and flops wildly like a fish on land when Paz finally drops him and you can tell it’s taking everything out of him to not cause the older man further damage as he wheezes violently at the warrior’s feet. You think you should feel sorry for your father, but instead you feel embarrassed that you have let someone so pathetic and greedy push you around for such a long time.

“He’s going to get tired of you and leave, you ungrateful bitch!” The older man speaks through loud gasps for air, choking and heaving on his own spit, “Everyone always does, you know you’re nothing--”

You should stop Paz--you know you should stop him as he lifts his boot, only to send a mighty kick to your father’s ribs and you hear a loud crack that you are all too familiar with, though you don’t cringe or turn away from it.

You’re far too acquainted with the sound to be disgusted by it and you think it to be painfully ironic that he is now in a position that you’ve been in so many times because of him.

“Useless, huh? Have fun tending your own wounds without her help,” Paz scoffs, listening to the injured man wheeze frantically, biting back whimpers as he clutches his side, “You ever try anything with her or even think about coming for me, I’ll cut your hands off and let someone else in tribe deal with you, hu’tuun. They would not show you the same mercy that I have and I would not mind seeing what kind of pain they would show you.”

You watch with wide eyes as he slowly turns around, tight fists instantly unfurling as he sees your shocked expression, though he is quick to carefully grab your elbow and lead you away from the man who is still gasping for deep breaths of air. The bright glimmer of moonlight kissing his visor as he turns to peer down at you every now and then has you growing curious and slightly worried at the sharp, jittery motions.

“Paz, are you--?”

“I am sorry you had to see me like that,” He makes haste to apologize and you shake your head a little as he leads you further away from your broken home, “I do not want you to think of me as cruel, but the way he speaks to you and treats you… I wanted to kill him, cyare.”

“After today, I don’t think I could ever believe you to be cruel,” You whisper with a light shudder, feeling the way his fingertips immediately slide down the inside of your forearm before they’re weaving through the valleys of your fingers in a firm hold; you think of the Trandoshan and bounty hunter and shake your head again, “I… I have seen what cruel men are capable of and I would never think you to be like them.”

“When we get to the covert, will you tell me what happened to you today--what he did to you?” Paz sounds so restrained and full of anger and sadness as he thinks of someone he’s considered to be a brother hunting you down and hurting you so horrifically, “If it is too hard to speak of it, I won’t push you.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and exhale deeply as he takes you further outside the village, “I do not know if I have the strength to talk about it yet.”

“Okay,” Paz nods sharply, even though you can tell that this is all killing him slowly and he so desperately wants to know what the hell happened, “Okay, cyare.”

You smile softly at him being so understanding of the delicate situation and tiredly press your cheek against his bicep as he leads you to the people that are supposedly excited for your arrival. You think Paz must be exaggerating about his tribe’s eagerness to meet you and there’s a sick feeling growing in your stomach as you think of their bounty hunter and how he was most likely one of the Mandalorians who didn’t want you at the covert.

“Are you okay?” He asks after a few minutes of silence as you both slowly trudge through the village, though you think he only walks slow for you and your injuries, “That couldn’t have been an easy thing for you to stand up to him like that.”

“I… I don’t really know how to feel,” You whisper, your fingers curling tightly around his as you try to gather your thoughts into one cohesive statement to sum up your feelings, “I am sad, but my chest feels lighter. I have never talked back to him like that, but I do not regret what I said.”

“That takes a lot of courage,” Paz consoles with a deep hum, giving your hand a gentle squeeze and as he tilts his helmet a little lower and to the side, you like to picture him smiling down at you--whatever his smile may look like, though you’re certain it must be a kind, warm one, “It takes strength to stand up to someone that has hurt and manipulated you that badly, cyare, and you should feel only pride for acting so bravely.”

You smile and nod a little, knowing that someday you will truly believe his words, but for now you simply remain silent and focus on the firm hold he has on your hand. You hesitate and tense up when he moves to lead you down a dark alleyway that seems to go on for a mile; it’s so dark that you can’t even see where it ends and you move to take a step backwards as you think of the Trandoshan.

“It’s okay,” Paz reassures you, seeming to notice and understand your tension, “It’s… It’s been a long day, I get it, but I won’t let anything else happen to you. You’ve got me, cyare--always.”

You tug your hand out of his and squeeze the crook of his elbow as he leads you into the darkness of the alleyway. Despite not being able to make out anything, you feel how unwavering and sure the warrior is as he easily strides down the alleyway and it’s not until he scoops a thick curtain to the side that he turns on the little flashlight attached to the side of his helmet. You’re surprised to find a small set of stairs that leads down into a dark tunnel and you let him guide the way, trusting him enough to know he’s taking you somewhere safe.

“Careful,” Paz says softly as you slowly make your way down the winding staircase that takes the two of you further underground, “I know how clumsy you can be--or what was it you said when I took you to the hot springs the first time? The only thing graceful about you are your hands?”

You huff and try to shrug off the flirty remark, shaking your head as you carefully trail behind him, "You are not as smooth as you think, Paz."

He turns his helmet to gaze at you, nearly blinding you with the flashlight, all while continuing to descend the staircase and you hear him chuckle, "You’re lucky I am wearing my gloves, I know how hot your ears and cheeks get when you get all shy around me, little nurse.”

“I am sunburned,” You inform him with a scoff as he turns to face forward upon meeting the bottom of the staircase; you unfurl his cape to wrap it around your shoulders as it begins to grow colder, “I think most of my skin is pretty warm right now.”

He hums and you think he’s tense as you wrap both hands around his bicep as you two venture further into the underground tunnels; you remember the heavy weight of the Trandoshan’s body draped over your weak one as the heat from harsh sun rays beat down on you for hours on end. He doesn’t know anything that’s happened to you in the last day and you’re not sure if you should tell him, somewhat fearing for the bounty hunter’s life at the thought of Paz’s anger upon finding out you had been forced to take a life.

That the Trandoshan had touched you--that he’d nearly taken off your dress.

You don’t even realize how hard you’re clinging onto Paz’s bicep, forcing yourself to remember that you hadn’t been violated in such an intense way and that you were currently safe with your Mandalorian.

“We are almost there,” Paz reassures you, though you think it only brings you more anxiety and fear as he calmly leads you to his tribe, not seeming fazed or nervous in the slightest, “You will be loved by them as a little sister, please do not worry. I will take care of the bounty hunter.”

You simply nod as you let him guide you through what feels like endless tunnels and turns and you wonder how he could possibly know his way through such an intense maze of dark stone. You think of all the times he’s made his way through the tunnels just to see you and your heart swells as you glance up at his scuffed up helmet with admiration, thinking that he must see something in you to make such a winding journey so many times.

“Stay behind me, please,” Paz gently orders, responding quietly to your wide-eyed expression after he nudges you behind his big frame, “Just for a minute.”

He turns a corner just as an unfamiliar voice speaks up and you instantly perk up at the sound of a small, innocent voice; they sound younger than you and you’re not sure why, but that brings you great comfort immediately.

“Norac bid nusujii, ori kebiin?” A high-pitched, feminine voice has you feeling curious and despite Paz’s words, you poke your head to gaze past his bicep. Instantly, a forest green helmet with that notorious t-shaped visor whips to the side to stare at you and the smaller Mandalorian is quick to stand up from where she had been perched on a stone ledge next to the large, round entrance leading into the covert. You blink at the scuffed up teal armor that the female Mandalorian dons and you think the sapphire color of her gauntlets to be beautiful and less intimidating compared to the bounty hunter’s armor.

“Cuyir ibic gar orikih baar'ur, ba’vodu Paz?”

You think she must be asking Paz a question by the incline of her tone and he immediately turns to find you gazing intensely at the guard; letting out with a crackly sigh, Paz gives her a single sharp nod, “‘Lek.”

She lets an amused hum slip past her modulator and steps a little closer, “Ni copad at haa'taylir kaysh.”

Paz turns a little to place a big hand on the small of your back, kindly urging you forward and you hear the colorful Mandalorian let out with a small chuckle when you speak quietly in a shy voice, “The colors of your armor are pretty--blue is one of my favorite colors.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is.”

You immediately understand the meaning of her playful words when Paz offers her some sort of admonishment in his deep voice, speaking in his native tongue, “Gar liser't chayaikir kaysh guuror ibic.”

“Sorry, sorry,” The woman chuckles a little, helmet cocking to the side as she places a leather hand on her hip, “Thank you for the compliment, though I do not think I have ever heard someone refer to a Mandalorian as being pretty; most people would spit on us the first chance they got,”

She still sounds amused as she props her sharp Beskar staff up against the stone wall, holding out a hand for you to shake; you smile weakly at the greeting and grasp her hand lightly, noticing her firm grip right away. She stands a few inches taller than you and even though she is probably the least intimidating Mandalorian you’ve met so far, you don’t doubt her strength.

“I do not think that those who would choose to spit on you would last very long.”

“Ni guuror kaysh,” The colorful Mandalorian giggles, her head tilting to the side as she peers down at you, “Cuyir gar orikih baar’ur ratiin ibic pel?”

“Elek,” Paz huffs a little and nods, sounding proud as he quickly answers her question, “Yes, ever since the day I first saw her.”

Your cheeks burn at what they could possibly be saying about you, though you don’t wish to cause any disrespect and politely continue to firmly shake the colorful Mandalorian’s hand as she giggles a little louder at his answer.

“I am Imalia,” She finally introduces herself and you’re surprised to actually hear excitement in her smooth, modulated voice as she continues to shake your hand; you’re even more surprised that she would so willingly give you her name, “Everyone calls me Ima though; I am one of the guards that protects the entrance this late at night since we’ve been having more and more close calls with outsiders lately.”

You blink as her leather-clad palm slips from yours and you nervously wring your fingers together, not knowing what to do with your own hands, “My name is--”

“Oh, we all know who you are, vod’ika,” She interrupts with another giggle and confusion fills you when you hear Paz let out with an exasperated sigh; your heart warms when you remember that he had told you ‘vod’ika’ meant little sister, “Our heavy-infantry warrior hasn’t shut up about you since he first saw you--always rambling on about his ‘mesh’la saviin’ika’ and how pretty your flowers are and how kind you are and how he wants riduurok with you someday. We all thought he was making you up until he brought home your flowers one day.”

“Ori Kebiin bal Saviin’ika,” She tilts her head to the side, amused by her own words and you hear Paz groan from behind you, “How cute.”

You grow even shyer at her teasing voice, “What does... that mean? R-Riduurok?”

“Oh, y’know,” Ima says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, flippantly waving a gloved hand around, “When two people agree to--”

“It means Imalia is a teenager who likes to gossip too much and is far too nosy for her own good,” Paz quickly deflects, resting a large hand over the slope of your shoulder and you think he almost sounds stressed out and worried as the colorful Mandalorian shrugs halfheartedly, “Is the armorer at the forge, Mal?”

The way he seems so comfortable speaking with the younger warrior immediately makes you smile softly and you wonder if he’s this way with all the younger Mandalorians.

“I need to speak with her--it’s urgent.”

Imalia tilts her head to the side and you feel small underneath her intimidating gaze, despite the fact that she’s apparently younger than you; she must be inspecting you closely and you suddenly wish you had the opportunity to take a shower before leaving your house. You can still feel all the dried blood matted to your scalp and crusted into your hairline and you’re certain Ima must see it as well.

“Tion'jor an te tal?” Ima questions in a much quieter tone and you flinch severely when her hand moves to touch one of your braids, though she is quick to pull her hand away, turning sharply to gaze up at Paz instead; her voice sounds much graver and sadder when she speaks again, “Vaii cuyir te sarad gar rucuyir cyau'kuyc at dinuir kaysh? Cuyir te baar'ur shupur'yc?”

“It’s a long story,” He says in Basic, something you’re grateful for as the colorful Mandalorian, slowly takes her seat back on the stone ledge, grabbing her long spear once more as Paz continues, “It’s all Djarin’s fault. He came after her because of the vulptex.”

“That damn bounty hunter--no wonder why he was so tense when he came back earlier,” Ima sighs, shaking her head as though this is a common occurrence within the tribe and your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach, “I’m surprised he’s even alive still; I’m starting to think he has only one brain cell left.”

“Not for much longer,” Paz huffs, fingers twitching against the thick fabric of your long sweater and you let him guide you through the large entrance into another tunnel, “The runt is dead the moment I see his sorry ass.”

The teenager doesn’t seem all the fazed by Paz’s foreboding words, watching as you two venture further into the enclave, “I don’t doubt it.”

You turn your head over your shoulder to catch one last glimpse at Ima’s beautiful green helmet, “It was nice meeting you, Ima.”

“You as well, saviin’ika,” You can hear the smile in her modulated voice, warm and syrupy sweet, and your heart melts at her next words, “I look forward to seeing more of you, rather than hearing it from ori kebiin’s annoying mouth.”

Despite the long day you’ve experienced and everything that’s happened with your father, you smile tiredly at her and face forward as Paz lets out with another annoyed sigh, grumbling something so low that you can’t make it out from underneath his helmet.

He continues straight down the dim tunnel that is barely lit and your eyes widen as he leads you through another rounded entrance that has some sort of huge insignia welded to the top; you think it almost resembles a Mandalorian helmet with horns coming out the side and you make a mental note to ask Paz about it later.

Paz hums thoughtfully as he inspects his surroundings, looking for something--or someone--in particular; you take in your surroundings curiously, detaching yourself from the distracted Mandalorian to make your way over to a little workbench that seems to have discarded scraps of metal. Not wanting to be rude by touching someone else’s belongings, you simply observe all the scuffed and rusted Beskar, though something in particular catches your attention.

You force yourself not to reach out to touch the little pendant that resembles the one welded above the entrance of the forge, though something about the faded purple horns intrigue you more than you’d like to admit

“I thought we agreed not to take in your nurse until we got our bounty hunter’s vote,” A smooth, demure voice instantly startles you and you quickly turn around to come face to face with a Mandalorian who is slowly and surely entering the armory, her gaze fixated on you in an intense manner, “It is not like you to go against my word, Paz. Do you understand that you have put the tribe at risk?”

You eye the thick furs draped along her shoulders, along with the beautiful glimmer of her golden helmet; you think the richness of the gold contrasting against the deep maroon of the rest of her armor is stunning and immediately, you think she must be the leader of the covert. Though she lacks in height, just like you, she makes up for it with a powerful aura of quiet strength and leadership and you immediately admire her.

Though you’re terribly nervous, you’ve never wanted to make such a good first impression with someone and you shakily speak up before Paz can, his helmet jolting to the side to gaze at you with what you’re certain is surprise.

It seems as though you’ve been doing that a lot lately--surprising everyone, including yourself.

“He wanted to wait as well,” You inform her, awkwardly skittering forward when she pulls out a chair for you to sit on, seeming to understand your exhaustion after a long day, “I… I was brought here because of the circumstances of today.”

“And what were the circumstances, little one?” She questions smoothly, her voice like rich velvet through her vocoder as she grabs a small metal mug from a shelf and a teapot that must already be filled with hot water; immediately, Paz starts to speak in an angered tone, but she is quick and calm to interrupt his hasty words as she pours hot water over a bundle of herbs, “I believe I asked your nurse, warrior, not you.”

“Thank you,” You whisper your gratitude when she makes her way back to you and kindly places a steaming mug filled with something that smells simultaneously sweet and spicy, “I haven’t had a warm drink in a while.”

“I know,” She informs you and your eyes widen in fear at the thought of Paz telling everyone in the covert about your father; anger fills you just for the tiniest moment before the armorer is squashing your worries like a bug beneath her boot, “I know only of what our heavy-infantry warrior has informed us about you, though he has spoken nothing of your personal life or family. It is unfortunate that you do not wear our helmet, little nurse, for it is quite easy to read the pain and suffering in your eyes. You may be younger than I, but you have lived a lifetime already, have you not?”

Your nostrils flare as you struggle to swallow the lump in your throat when you realize the wisdom this woman possesses, “I have felt enough pity for one lifetime as well, I do not wish to feel it anymore from myself or anyone else.”

She glances up at Paz, who has his arms crossed over his chest as he watches you closely, before her gaze is once again fixated on you taking a tentative sip of the flavorful tea; she cocks her head to the side, as if intrigued, and you hope that you are making a decent impression, “Very well. Tell me of the circumstances that have led you here today, little one.”

So, you do.

Paz pulls up a tiny chair that creaks underneath his weight and sits off to the side as you reluctantly relay the story of you and the bounty hunter--how you had willingly taken that blaster shot to save your vulptex, how you had been forced to cauterize your wound, how many times you tried to mention Paz’s name, though the hunter refused to listen. You think it’s taking everything out of Paz to not immediately go searching for his fellow Mandalorian, but he remains seated, his visor fixed on you and his fingers curled into tight fists atop his armored thighs.

As soon as you mention the speeder and the barren lands, you see Paz straightening up, his breath hitching in his throat as you speak of the deal with the Trandoshan and how the bounty hunter hadn’t hesitated to trade you in for a pouch of credits.

How you had begged the hunter not to hand you over because the Trandoshan only held cruel intentions towards you.

Somehow, you manage not to cry the entire time, but as soon as you speak of the vibroblade Paz had given you--how you were barely able to keep a good grip on the handle because of how bloody your hand was--tears spring to your eyes. You squeeze the hot mug between your hands firmly, trying your hardest to take comfort in the warmth it brings your cold body.

Against your better judgment, you decide to leave the Trandoshan’s intentions as far away from the story as you possibly can, not wanting to inform Paz of how close he’d been to slipping his hands underneath your dress.

You know that would be the one detail of your story that would leave him completely unhinged.

You squeeze your eyes shut just as you maneuver around the painful topic, “Throat wounds are usually the most deadly and I… I didn’t have a choice. I wasn’t strong enough to fight him off of me and I had to take his life. I cannot stop thinking of the noises he made when I--and he was choking on his own blood and it got all over me and I never had to--”

“Ner cyare,” Paz’s voice sounds thick with emotion as you stare down at your lap in shame, not noticing the way the armorer is still gazing intensely at you, “I didn’t know you had to... Maker, that’s where all the blood came from?”

“You did what you must to survive in such a cruel place,” The armorer seems to have better words to say than Paz and you think he must be caught in an intense war of anger towards his brother or sadness because you had lost a piece of yourself, “Though I can only imagine the turmoil one so innocent would be going through after experiencing something so traumatic. Please, continue if you can.”

You’re not sure how you manage to speak with how shaky you’ve become, but surrounded by two powerful warriors, you want to be stronger, “I-I immediately went into shock because there was so much blood--Maker, there was so much blood--and I just froze and he fell forward on top of me. I was too weak at the moment to push him off and I passed out in the sun. When I woke up hours later, my skin was burning but I was able to get the Trandoshan off of me finally.”

You find it difficult to look at either one of them, so your gaze flickers up to the little horns on the armorer’s helmet as you take another sip of tea before continuing, “I… I passed out again; I don’t know why I was so tired, but when I woke up again, it was night time and the bounty hunter had come back for me and was taking Paz’s blade from my hand. He asked me who I got the weapon from and as soon as I said Paz, I could tell he regretted everything.”

The armorer speaks after Paz lets out an infuriated growl, standing up to his most intimidating size, though the female Mandalorian feels no sort of fear as she speaks only to you, “And do you truly feel as though our bounty hunter felt sorry for what he did to you?”

You sit up a little straighter and stare right into her visor, thinking hard about your response before answering out loud, though you can tell Paz is seething and vibrating with rage.

“I think he felt sorry for hurting someone who was precious to Paz, but not that I was protecting something I considered dear to me,” You inform her in an earnest, hushed tone, making her cock her helmet to the side a little, “I think he was just a man doing his job as a bounty hunter, but he was also cruel to me. When I tried to tell him that I knew Paz, he would make me be quiet and told me that whatever I had to say did not matter.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and quickly brush away the tears at your lashes as you continue, “He almost made me believe the stories that my parents used to tell me of Mandalorians, but I know Paz enough to know the stories aren’t true. I’ve only known Imalia--Ima--for a few minutes, but she treated me kindly and I do not wish to believe that everyone in your tribe could be so cruel, especially when you and her have shown me respect.”

“And how have I shown you respect when all I’ve done is given you the opportunity to tell me your story, little one?”

“I think that is one of the kindest ways you can treat another--to allow them to speak up for themselves without judging them,” Warmth spreads through your cheeks and ears as you take another sip of your sweet, spicy tea and you gaze shyly at the armorer, “I know my voice shakes when I am scared or angry and that I cry more than I probably should, but you and Paz and even Ima have shown me more respect than anyone else I’ve met in the last decade. Even if I was not accepted, I am grateful to see that love and kindness has lived underneath this cruel village for so long.”

The armorer stares at you in an unwavering manner and you fear the worst when she slowly turns her helmet to gaze up at Paz, who’s still staring intently at you, and she almost sounds amused as she turns to you once again, “It seems as though our heavy-infantry warrior was correct when he informed us all that it is impossible to dislike you.”

“I only wish to treat others the same way I would like to be treated,” You smile at the thought of your grouchy Mandalorian giving you such high praise about you to his family and you curl your fingers against your knees, “I apologize that this is the way I was introduced to you--all bloody and still shaken up.”

Her head tilts to the side in a curious manner, “Our tribe’s bounty hunter was careless and hurt you, yet you are the one apologizing?”

“It was my fault for--”

“Do not feel sorry or at fault for this, cyare,” Paz insists and you finally look up at him as he speaks through clenched teeth, “Where is Djarin, ner alor? I will have him begging for forgiveness at her feet the second I see him--I want him to suffer for what he did to her!”

The armorer lets out with a tired sigh and she shakes her helmet a little as you timidly finish off your tea, watching the altercation take place over the rim of your mug, “Our bounty hunter is currently asleep in his quarters, just as you two should be.”

Paz refuses to back down and you fear that he’s actually going to kill his fellow Mandalorian as his deep baritone grows louder and more infuriated, “I want to kill him, I don’t care that he is currently resting. He is a coward and--”

“Your little healer is exhausted and afraid,” The armorer reminds him firmly, standing up to her full height and you realize her true power when Paz recoils a little, “She is in a new place, surrounded by people she has never met and it has been a long day for her. Would you be so cruel and selfish to deny her relaxation after witnessing such trauma? The nurse is about to fall out of her chair, and yet you only wish to seek violence when she has already seen too much of it in her lifetime.”

“I didn’t--” Paz’s helmet jolts a little as he gazes intensely at you, though you offer him a weak, tired smile, “I am sorry, ner cyare, I was not thinking properly.”

“It’s okay,” You shake your head a little as you slowly stand, your hand traveling to the cauterized wound at your hip; and Paz is instantly at your side when you keel over a little bit in pain, “Although it would be nice to um, to maybe get all of this blood out of my hair?”

“Negotiations for the nurse’s future with the tribe will continue tomorrow,” The armorer stands tall, somehow exuding more power and grace than your blue warrior, “In the meantime, she will recover and rest for as long as she requires.”

“Th-Thank you,” Paz gently presses his hand to the small of your back as you offer your gratitude to the tribe’s matriarch, “For everything.”

She simply offers you a curt nod and watches as Paz dutifully takes you to his private quarters.

The enclave is a lot quieter than you would have expected and you think they must have some sort of system when it comes to training and sleeping; you have so many questions, but you don’t want to sound too nosy, so you remain silent during the small journey. Your eyelids feel incredibly heavy as he quietly guides you and you pray the Mandalorian doesn’t think too differently after hearing your story--that he doesn’t see you to be any less of yourself for being forced to steal someone’s life.

He’s still tense as he wraps an arm around your waist to help you descend another staircase leading even deeper into the enclave and you hate that you are a part of the reason why he’s so angry and upset. You hate his moody silence, knowing that he’s normally so talkative with you and could probably carry a conversation with himself if it meant you had his full interest.

Tiredly, you make it your own little mission to distract him from his inner turmoil and gently grab his yellow gauntlet once the two of you make it to the bottom of the staircase. His helmet jolts to the side to gaze down at you as you hold his forearm to your stomach, your fingers barely grazing the slim barrel attached to the top of his gauntlet.

You smile up at his visor, whispering out a meek little, ‘I love you.’

Instantly, he stops walking to lean down to press his forehead against yours and warmth settles over your heart similarly to the way his cape around your cold frame brings you comfort and security.

Immediately, he relaxes his tense muscles and lets out a deep sigh, “I love you too, cyare.”

You observe your dark surroundings closely as he leads you past what seems to be several different alcoves that you assume must be the living quarters for other Mandalorians, the entrances to them covered by thick black fabric. You’re surprised when he guides you past them and around a corner where there’s a stone door straight at the end of the corridor; you wonder if he has a bigger room than everyone else because of his status or ranking within the tribe, though you think it rude to ask and simply follow him into his dimly lit quarters.

You’re surprised to find that it’s far bigger than your little hut and you take in all the new surroundings with curiosity.

You keep your hands clasped tightly together, feeling awkward as you watch the warrior calmly make his way to a huge chest on the floor at the foot of his massive bed, seeming utterly relaxed as he begins to remove his big gauntlets and black gloves. placing them inside the large chest. You almost think he’s forgotten about you until he stands up again and purposely wanders back to you, immediately intertwining his fingers through yours and giving your hand a gentle tug.

“You must be dying for a shower,” He sighs softly, leading you further into his private quarters and through a small alcove protected by black drapes; your cheeks burn hotter than coals when you think of how easy it would be for him to easily invade your privacy, though you know him to be a respectful man, “The water doesn’t always get the warmest, but I’m sure it will be nicer than whatever you had at your home.”

You perk up when you see the big shower and dozens of little holes in the ceiling where the water must fall from, “We had a sonic shower at the infirmary. I’ve never used a real one with actual water.”

The blue warrior stares at you for a few moments before shaking his head a little; he digs through your small canvas bag, pulling out the jars that contain your hair products, as well as your bar of soap. You watch with curiosity as he opens the glass door the shower and places your stuff on a small shelf next to his own belongings and it finally hits you that you are actually at his covert with him and not your measly little hut with a man who hates you.

Paz twists a metal knob a few times around, causing a soft whirring noise, followed by fat droplets of water to fall from the holes in the ceiling and your eyes widen a little at the sight.

“Take as long as you want,” He gently orders in a cool rasp, stroking your bruised cheek with the utmost care and immediately, you turn your head to kiss his palm, earning you a little sigh from him, “I’ll go get some food for you while you shower.”

He turns to leave you alone, but your curiosity gets the better of you and you awkwardly speak up in his native tongue, “Ori kebiin--”

Immediately, the Mandalorian freezes, his back facing you as you speak the strange words that the guard had spoken earlier, “That’s what Ima said, right? I know you told me that saviin’ika means violet and I heard her say that, but what does ori kebiin mean? Is it your title in the tribe?”

“I--It’s just--” Paz seems to hesitate for a few moments before you hear him let out with a frustrated groan, “It is what many of the younger ones in the tribe refer to me as; it means big blue. When I told you that saviin’ika only meant violet, I lied to you, cyare. Saviin means violet, but ‘ika means little.”

“Big blue and little violet?” You murmur, cheeks burning more intensely than any severe sunburn could possibly inflict on you as the warmth spreads to the tip of your ears, “That’s what she was so--”

“It’s nothing,” He huffs a little and rolls his head a little, the joints in his neck cracking from the tension that comes with a long day, "The younger ones in the tribe keep teasing me about you because they know they can get away with it."

You nod and quietly ask him one last question before he can leave, "Where is my vulptex? You said she was here, right?"

Paz chuckles a little as you frantically voice your concerns aloud, now that the two of you are safe and alone, "She is most likely in the nursery with the little ones. She has been fed and taken care of all day, cyare, please do not worry about anyone other than yourself right now. I’ll be out there if you need anything, just call if you need help."

You smile and give him one last 'thank you’ as he leaves you to wash yourself. Slowly and tiredly, you peel your clothes from your bruised and bloodied body and excitedly make your way into the shower.

A gasp nearly leaves you upon feeling the warm water gently pelt against your skin and you smile a little as you tilt your head backwards and let the water loosen the dried blood from your hair. A content sigh escapes you as you remove your metal cuffs from the tails of your braids and you place them on a little stone shelf next to yours’ and Paz's toiletries before getting to work on gently washing your mane, taking your time to make sure all the blood is removed.

You do everything in your power to not pay attention to the pink swirl of water that runs around the big drain in daunting circles.

Instead, you focus on the scent of your comforting floral shampoo or the spicy, woodsy scent of your warrior’s toiletries as you curiously bring the bar of soap to your nose to smell it.

You're not sure how long you're under the warm spray of water, your eyelids threatening to slip shut, but eventually, you're finally clean and ridden of any proof that you've stolen a life. Reluctantly, you shut the water off and step out onto a furry mat, grabbing a towel that's neatly folded next to your canvas bag. As you dry yourself, making sure not to jostle your injured hip too much, you realize just how much better you already feel now that you're clean.

It’s only once you’ve put on your nightgown that you risk a glance at the little mirror that hangs above the sink and immediately freeze. You look exhausted, you realize as you stare at your wide-eyed expression with sadness and defeat, your eyes filled with the same kind of intense emotion that would be in a young warrior’s eyes upon coming back from war. Hastily, you turn your attention to your hair, carefully combing out all the knots with the comb that Paz had dutifully tucked into the canvas bag for you.

When you brush through your hair for what must be the hundredth time, you realize you’re only delaying the inevitable--him seeing your arms and the rest of your body so exposed in your nightgown, along with all the scars and welts displayed across parts of your arms and shoulders that he’s never seen before.

‘He is a warrior,’ You remind yourself fiercely, nervously tucking a wet lock of hair behind the curve of your ear as you muster up the courage to sweep the thick curtain to the side, ‘He is used to scars and he’s told you countless times that he doesn’t mind them.’

Your nerves are at an all time high as you spot your Mandalorian in the tiny kitchenette in his private quarters, setting a wooden bowl down onto the table and you tiredly smile as he places a small spoon next to it.

“Thank you for letting me use your shower.”

Paz turns around and freezes upon meeting your gaze with his black visor; you can feel water dripping onto the thin satin material of your dress, as well as down your neck and you blink with curiosity as he remains glued to his spot in front of the little table that you realize is next to a stone furnace. He’s holding a bowl with steam dancing along the surface and your mouth instinctively waters when you catch a whiff of all the spices and unfamiliar scents of the savory meal. Behind him, you see a small piece of bread and another bowl filled with vibrant fresh fruit and you feel your heart clench at the mere thought of eating something sweet.

“You don’t have to keep thanking me for everything,” He kindly informs you, pulling out a chair as an invitation to sit down as he sets the bowl on the table, “It is... nice to see you looking more like your normal self already.”

You smile warmly at him and take a seat as the Mandalorian begins to disarm his heavy weapons and equipment, placing them in a safe spot near his massive bed where they are readily accessible, should danger dare threaten him. You nervously fiddle with the wet ends of your clean hair as your knee bounces frantically, watching him as he begins to slowly remove his armor, starting with his pauldrons as he carefully places them in that large chest at the foot of his bed.

His helmet turns and he immediately notices your hesitation to eat the food he’s laid out for you, “You... You can help yourself, cyare. I have already eaten and I can tell you’re hungry.”

You politely murmur a quiet ‘thank you’, not noticing the way his shoulders drop a little as you finally pick up the spoon to eat, your stomach growling more intensely than a rabid beast. Tucking a leg underneath yourself, you tentatively blow on the steaming spoonful of delicious looking stew before bringing it to your mouth and before you can fully register all the different spices, your taste buds explode.

Paz nearly chuckles upon watching your eyes slowly close as you experience all the different flavors for the first time, “I’m going to shower while you eat.”

“Mhm,” You simply hum, barely aware of him shaking his head in an amused manner as you practically ignore him, focusing only on the well-seasoned stew as he makes his way to the refresher.

You’re slightly sad when your spoon inevitably scrapes the bottom of the wooden dish, but excitement fills you when you remember the bowl of fruit that had been left for you. The berry you pick up is a deep shade of purple and covered in white streaks and you slowly let it slip between your lips, your shoulders falling when you bite into the berry, causing tart juice to explode in your mouth.

You’re not sure how long you must be savoring the fruit for, but eventually, your Mandalorian exits the refresher, completely ridden of all the padding and armor and his visor instantly seeks you out; you’re in the process of licking juice off your finger when your eyes dart upwards to find him standing only a few feet away from you.

Immediately you freeze, eyes wide as he walks around with his scarred torso completely bared to you, his black sleep pants slung low on his hips and you find it nearly impossible to look away from the rich brown skin that he’s choosing to expose to you for the first time. The muscles of his shoulders and arms are more defined than his soft chest and stomach and you think he must carry most of his strength in those powerful arms, what with being his tribe’s heavy-infantry warrior.

You’re grateful that he’s not touching your cheeks or ears, that way he can’t truly tell how flustered you are. Instead, he dutifully retrieves an extra fur that’s folded in one of the drawers off to the side, only turning to meet your gaze once he’s done covering his mattress in the warm material.

He must take your wide-eyed expression the wrong way, because he almost sounds afraid when he quietly speaks up, “What? You do not wish to see me like this? Are you uncomfortable?”

Immediately, you abandon your fruit and stand up to approach him, “I think you are beautiful, Paz.”

He scoffs a little, but accepts a warm embrace from you as you rest your cheek against his sternum and hook your arms underneath his armpits so you can lay your hands atop his defined shoulder blades. Instantly, his arms are wrapped tightly around your own shoulders and he holds you close to his warm chest where you can feel his heart thumping against your ear like a beacon of power and strength.

“That is my line,” He murmurs, and your lips stretch into a tired smile against his soft skin, the dark curls loosely splayed along his chest are coarse as they tickle your cheek, though you don’t mind at all, “Besides, I thought you once said you would not dare to feed my ego anymore than you already have.”

You close your eyes, taking comfort in the deep rumbling of his chest and voice as you feel his heart thrum powerfully and frantically against your eardrum, “Something makes me think your ego is not as massive as I once thought it to be.”

He scoffs, but simply holds you close to him and you can’t remember the last time you’ve felt such comforting skin on skin contact like this; his huge arms simultaneously acting as a heater and a shield. He hums when you let out a relieved sigh, your warm breath fanning across his sternum as he shivers a little and brings a hand up to gently rub the back of your head, not caring that your hair is still dripping wet and getting onto his own chest.

“Sweetheart,” His chest rumbles as he speaks and your eyes flicker up to meet his visor, “We are both exhausted, it is time for us to rest, I think. Besides, I would much rather hold you like this in my bed.”

You smile and nod a little, watching as he stands tall and moves to turn off all the lights in the dim room. Hesitantly, you make your way underneath the thick furs that are draped on top of the mattress and as you let your head rest on top of a soft pillow, you fear that you will simply sink right through it, as you’ve never rested on something so pliable. Once it’s pitch black in the room and you feel the weight of his warm body dipping in the mattress next to you, you turn over onto your side to face him, despite not being able to see him in the slightest.

Immediately, your mind goes into overdrive as you think of what you’re supposed to do--what he expects from you--and you nearly jump when you feel the gentle weight of his palm carefully resting on top of your sunburnt cheek, his thumb tenderly stroking the tail of your brow. You’re not sure if you should move closer to him or what you should do with your hands as he moves the tiniest bit closer to you. Thinking of the Trandoshan and how you'd been pinned underneath his lifeless body for so long, you suddenly crave to feel his heartbeat and you scoot closer to the man that feels more like a furnace.

He doesn't say a word as he moves so he's on his back and lifts a big arm above his head, patiently waiting as you find a comfortable position to rest your head. Finally, after a few awkward seconds of the two of you fumbling around in the dark, your head finds its home on his chest, your cheek pressed against a thick, raised scar and you close your eyes with a soft smile. His arm comes down from above his head to hold you closer to him, his other hand moving to continue its previous ministrations on your cheeks and lips as you rest your palm above his heart.

You’re half asleep when you feel a crooked finger press up against the underside of your jaw, guiding your head upwards slightly and you gasp when you feel something warm and plush kiss the top of your hair.

You’re utterly unfamiliar with the sensation of being kissed, but when you feel the same pressure against your forehead, followed by an unmodulated sigh and warm breath fanning across your face, you realize the warrior has broken part of his sacred code.

He took his helmet off for you.

“P-Paz, you--” Your voice trembles and you feel his lips quirk into a smile against the brow he’s currently kissing before he moves to the bridge of your nose, “Your helmet!”

“What about it, sweetheart?”

You feel at a loss for words at the sound of his unfiltered voice and he lets out with a small chuckle at your intense reaction, humming softly against your skin as he squeezes you a little tighter.

“Can you see my face?” He questions softly against the apple of your cheek, and you shiver at the sound of his smooth baritone in the raw; when you answer him with a weak little ‘no’, he continues with amusement evident in his unfiltered voice, “Then I have not brought dishonor to my tribe or you.”

“Are you sure?”

He huffs out a small chuckle against the tip of your nose and you smile at how different his laughter sounds without his helmet--much lighter and less crackly--and you cling onto his warm voice as he firmly rubs the stress away from your shoulders and cradles your jaw with his other hand. After being handled so roughly and grossly by the Trandoshan, his tender hands fill your aching heart with love and relief; your eyelids slowly slip shut when you feel him move his torso a little off the bed so he can kiss your chin.

“I am positive, sweet nurse.”

Shyly, you lift your hand from his chest and rest it on the side of his neck as he lightly nuzzles his nose into the damp hair that’s just a little above the tip of your ear, seeming to feel no shame as he inhales the scent of your shampoo and conditioner.

You shiver when he presses another kiss into your hair and you speak up as your hand slowly inches up his neck, feeling all the little scars and veins that are prominent, along with the way his Adam’s apple shifts up and down when you graze past it, “Am I allowed to touch your face?”

He hums and moves his head to kiss all the areas on your face that he previously missed--the corners of your eyes, the spot between your brows, as well as the sides of your nose--but he ultimately decides to venture to the corner of your lips, “You may do whatever you wish to me.”

Your face grows hot as he captures your earlobe between his thumb and index finger, a large grin spreading across his lips when he feels the intense warmth on the pad of his fingers, and you shyly continue your ascent up to his face. The first thing you feel is a coarse beard and you nearly jump away from him when the wiry hair tickles and scratches against your sensitive palms; it feels neatly trimmed, cropped just a few inches underneath his smooth cheekbones and you think he must take great care to not slack with his daily hygiene or grooming.

Before you can make it to his nose, the massive warrior sighs against the corner of your lips and speaks in the most wistful tone you think you’ve ever heard--

“May I kiss you properly now, cyare?”

You freeze, completely caught off guard by his words as you hesitantly lift your head from his chest, aiming your gaze in the direction where you think his eyes must be as he reluctantly drops his head back against the pillow. His fingers tense along your sore shoulder blade and you fear that he must feel that he’s done something wrong because of your hesitation, but as you manage to turn and move until your chest is pressed against his, you shyly explore his plump lips with your fingertips.

Curiosity gets the better of you at the thought of exploring his lips with yours and you lower your head and use your hands to guide your lips to his in the darkness of his room.

Immediately, you soften against him, your palms cradling his scratchy cheeks as you shyly kiss him and you're surprised at how warm and soft his lips are against yours.

You can’t help but to grin a little at the deep groan he lets out when he seems to realize that you’re actually kissing him.

Tilting your head a little to the side, you find it easier to kiss him the way you wish and you feel Paz completely relax underneath the tiny weight of your body as you fully press your lips against his, the side of your nose lightly bumping against his. You can smell the minty scent of his own shampoo mixed with the woodsiness of his body wash and you think it intoxicates you as he reaches up to cup the back of your head to keep you from straying too far from his tender lips.

A small whimper escapes you when his teeth graze your bottom lip and you feel lighter and bereft of all thought when you reluctantly pull away from each other, feeling like a night sky without her moon and you can’t stop yourself from stealing another kiss, earning another soft noise from the surprised man.

Your heart pounds a little faster when you feel his hand dip down to your waist to carefully hike you further up his body so he doesn’t have to lift his head as much and you smile as you bring your hands up to cup his scruffy cheeks; as your thumbs graze his cheekbones, you’re delighted to find that they are just as warm as your own. You’re practically laying on top of him, though he doesn’t seem to mind the weight of your body in the slightest as he holds you close to him.

Paz makes a small humming noise as he gently rubs a large hand up and down your back, continuing to kiss the corners of your lips and cheeks with fervor even when you pull away for air; you close your eyes in bliss, unfamiliar with the affection, but also basking in his warmth--his love.

“Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum.”

He whispers the unfamiliar words several times against your warm skin and you think he must be telling you the sweetest words, what with how quiet and soft he’s grown underneath you and your curiosity immediately gets the better of you.

“What does that mean?”

“In Mando’a, it means ‘I hold you in my heart forever’,” He explains, teeth grazing your sensitive jawline before moving upwards to steal another kiss from your grinning lips, “It is our way of telling another that we love them.”

You think it sounds far more beautiful than those other simple three words but you let the warrior kiss your lips as many times as he wishes, thinking that perhaps he’s never been this intimate with another. Also because you’ve never been showered with such affection and you think receiving it from Paz is one of the most beautiful phenomenons you’ve ever experienced.

"Your lips still taste like fruit," He informs you as his lips graze your jawline before moving to your ear, "I wonder if the rest of you tastes so sweet."

The gruffness of his tone combined with the way his teeth gently nip at your lobe has you feeling as though you're going to pass out or spontaneously combust. Shyly, you tuck your head firmly underneath his chin, your sunburned cheeks feeling even hotter as the warrior's chest rumbles with a deep laugh.

“I think you only wished to have me here so you can torment me,” You whisper against his bare neck, earning another chuckle from your Mandalorian as he continues to rub your spine in a comforting manner, “I don’t think I mind this kind of torment though. I would not mind having this every night, if you and your people were so kind to allow it.”

“They will,” He murmurs, squeezing you tighter to him, “Please, cyare, rest your eyes. You have had a long day, but you are safe with me now.”

You breathe a sigh of relief and contentment as your eyelids slowly slip shut, exhaustion overtaking your body as he continues to gently press tender kisses to your cheeks and brows until you fall into a strange sleep where you can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. You have nightmares of the Trandoshan’s body pinned against yours, as well as sweet dreams of spending the rest of your days underneath such tender care of your Mandalorian.

You’re in a strange limbo of intense nightmares and delightful dreams, but Paz seems to wake up whenever you whimper or let out with a small cry, reminding you in a hushed whisper that you are somewhere safe with him, rather than the infirmary or your hut. It’s not until you feel him stroking the tail of your brow that you fully fall into a peaceful sleep with visions of blue Beskar and strong arms.

You barely wake up with a quiet whimper hours later when you feel him lightly shuffling your body off of his before speaking in a soft, raspy whisper, “I must leave now for negotiations, cyare. You stay here and rest, okay? I shouldn’t be too long.”

“M’kay,” You blearily hum, nuzzling your face into the pillow that smells like Paz and you’re only slightly aware of the way he gives you one last kiss against your brow before he leaves you to put his armor and helmet on and begin his duties for the day.

You don’t sleep for too much longer, finding that Paz has taken all the warmth with him, even with the plush, thick fur that covers your body. You stare up at the ceiling for a few until you hear the covert slowly come alive, metal scraping against metal and loud shouts in an alien language followed by ringing laughter. Feeling slightly lazy and useless, you decisively get out of the comfortable, massive bed and make your way into the refresher, preparing yourself for what you think might be a long, strange day.

It feels bizarre seeing your hair without its flowers and a part of you wonders if Paz still has the flowers you gave him; perhaps you would still be able to plant them and grow some more, you ponder hopefully.

After you finish your typical morning routine, choosing to leave your hair without your usual braids, you throw on your leggings and sweater before cautiously poking your head out the door. You’re surprised to find the corridor empty and slowly leave Paz’s quarters, despite his insistence on you resting.

Curiosity has you nervously wringing your hands together as you make it to the staircase that Paz had led you down the previous night, and you jump a little upon hearing loud cheering and the shrill sound of metal clanging and scraping against each other. After finally making it up the stairs, you tentatively head in the direction that the ruckus is coming from.

It’s not until you hear Paz’s infuriated baritone of a voice that you make haste to the armory, barely remembering how to get there. Eventually, you round a corner and nearly freeze upon seeing several armored Mandalorians surrounding what appears to be some sort of altercation in front of the forge and you immediately sigh when you see a blue helmet right in the center of it.

You spot Ima, who seems to stand out from the others with her bright armor and you perk up a little as you approach her.

“Ima,” You say her name just loud enough for her to hear over the a loud shriek of metal being scraped, successfully gaining her attention as she turns to face you, “What’s going on?”

“See for yourself,” She sounds slightly amused and you allow her to place a hand on your shoulder, urging you between her and another huge Mandalorian that barely cocks his helmet to look down at you, “Your ori kebiin verd is fighting for your honor, though I don’t think Djarin is putting up much of a fight.”

You gasp upon seeing the bounty hunter from the previous day crumbled to the ground on his knees, Paz’s hand curled into the thick material of his cowl to hold him up properly.

“How many credits did you deem her life worthy of?!” Paz roars and you instantly freeze, thinking you’ve never heard him this infuriated, even towards your father, “Tell me you fucking hu’tuun! Tell me how many credits you were given in exchange for an innocent, precious life!”

“Five hundred,” The bounty hunter rasps, sounding weak and terribly injured underneath all the Beskar and your instincts have you stepping forward, though Ima is quick to ground you in place with a hand on your shoulder; she simply shakes her head when you peer up at her.

“Five--you gave her away for five hundred credits?!” You feel frozen as Paz forces him to his feet and drags him over to the forge that is now activated, “You only did it because you thought she would be an easy target, didn’t you, Djarin?”

The bounty hunter grunts when Paz forcefully pushes him backwards, slamming his head against the outer rim of the forge before wrapping his fingers around the injured man’s neck and holding his shiny helmet close to the intense flames.

You immediately voice your fears to Ima, who seems unfazed, as though this is a common occurrence, “Is Paz going to actually kill him?”

“Nah, this happens all the--” She stops mid sentence upon hearing the bounty hunter’s grunts and groans from the intense, suffocating heat that’s trapped underneath his helmet, though Paz makes no move to let him go, “Actually, he might go through with it this time. If not, Djarin’s definitely going to wish he was dead.”

“What?” Paz scoffs when the bounty hunter begins to thrash a little harder against the warrior’s unwavering grip, the heat most likely becoming more unbearable, “Can’t handle a little heat, vod? I’m sure you’re crying under that damn helmet more than she cried when you forced her to cauterize her own fucking wound.”

“I didn’t--” The bounty hunter sounds like he’s trying to disguise his excruciating pain and you feel your shoulders tense up to your earlobes, hating that you feel sympathy for the man who attempted to trade your life away for such a small price.

“Do you know how many times she tried to tell you?” Paz’s voice drops to a terrifying growl, the noise crackly and you wonder what’s currently going through his mind, “Do you know what she already had to deal with every damn day and you--” Tears fill your eyes at the pain in his next words, “You know what she means to me and you made her too scared to even look at me, hu’tuun. I almost lost her because of my own brother!”

You fear that the bounty hunter has passed out when he doesn’t respond, his body growing limp underneath Paz’s grip, but the warrior continues, “Why don’t I help you with that heat problem, Djarin? Bet you could use a little fresh air.”

You gasp when a large hand moves to the chin of the bounty hunter’s shiny helmet, his fingers curling underneath the lip and you immediately understand what he wants to do.

“You’re going to look her in eyes when you beg for forgiveness at her feet, Din Djarin.”

Translations *this is for all the dialogue between Imalia and Paz*

norac bid Nusujii, ori kebiin=back so soon, big blue?

cuyir ibic gar orikih baar'ur, ba’vodu?=is this your tiny medic, uncle?

Elek=yes (Lek is more casual, like ‘yeah’)

Ni copad at haa'taylir kaysh=I want to see her

Gar liser't chayaikir kaysh guuror ibic=You can't tease her like this

Ni guuror kaysh=i like her

cuyir gar orikih baar’ur ratiin ibic pel=Is your tiny medic always this soft?

tion'jor an te tal?=why all the blood?

vaii cuyir te sarad gar rucuyir cyau'kuyc at dinuir kaysh?=where is the flower you were excited to give her?

cuyir te baar'ur shupur'yc?= is the medic injured?

ner alor=my leader

Then there’s the usual words for nicknames and such:

Saviin’ika=Little violet

Cyare=Beloved, loved, popular

Hu’tuun=Coward

Verd=Warrior

Author’s note: Thank you all so much for the kind, supportive words on the last chapter!! Like, literally everyone has been so sweet and so supportive despite me being more inactive than usual and it seriously means the world to me?? Like I said before, I’m so excited to have more time to be active on here and interact with you all much more!! I love you all so much, hope you’re having a wonderful day, and I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it <33

Taglist: @parabatai-winchester @auty-ren @theocatkov @oloreaa @talesfromtheguild @blindedbyyourgrace17 @datmando @dartheldur @miscellaneous-mando @karpasia @ben-is-a-hoe @the-feckless-wonder @whatababeleia @maybege @aeryntheofficial @corrupt-fvcker @lackofhonor @phoenixhalliwell @crazy-kat-in-the-hat @roxypeanut @mandolovian @honestlystop @teaofpeach @macabrefaerie @acynicalcat @spaghetti-666 @readsalot73 @lanatheawesome @absurdthirst @anakinsittinginsand @yes-music-is-my-religion @tangledlove27 @justrunamok @peqchynero @haloangel391 @honestlystop @cryptkeepersoul @haloangel391 @awhiskeywithawinchester *As always, if I missed anyone, please let me know ASAP!!

#paz vizsla x reader #Paz vizsla x you #paz vizla x reader #paz vizla x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #paz vizsla #ngl #Paz is just an angry boi #saviin is like #bitch u left our warm bed to kick Din's butt??

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princeescaluswords · 4 years

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Why Call It Racism?

I’ll start with what should be an unnecessary disclaimer: This is my opinion.

I had a friend complain that he couldn’t criticize a character of color without being called a racist. Well, I’m sure that it feels that way sometimes, but you can criticize/dislike characters of color, it’s just that – like everything else you might do in this world – how and why you do it is also important.

It’s important to remember that racism takes many forms, especially in entertainment. It’s not always some white bro with a Confederate battle flag decal on his pick-up truck screaming hatred at black people while wearing a white sheet. It can be double standards, prioritization, and editing. It can be an audience seeing Colin Kaepernick kneeling during the national anthem as unpatriotic and dangerous, but that same audience celebrating automatic-weapon-armed protestors on the steps of state capitals defying anti-pandemic civil instructions as the Spirit of America ™. If you ask the people angry at Kaepernick, many of them will insist that his race has nothing to do with it.

I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that Heroes of Color have a difficult time in fandoms. When I say Hero of Color, I mean a character of color that the narrative, that the dialogue, that the actors, that the producers, that the advertisements indicate should be admired and that their actions are presented as positive. I mean characters, for example, like Finn from Star Wars, Iris West-Allen from The Flash, and – the one I am most familiar with – Scott McCall from Teen Wolf. They have all been the target – not just of fandom disinterest, though they are ignored quite a bit – but also of fandom hatred.

I’m going to go over what I see as the main manifestations of subtle racism in fandom and I’ll be using examples from the Teen Wolf fandom, because not only is it the one I’m the most familiar with, but it’s also super easy with multiple characters of color being targeted.

If you can state that you hate a character of color, but you cannot or aggressively will not explain why you hate them, then people might suspect you are influenced by racism. For example, if, in 2020, you still think Alan Deaton is shady and a secret evil mastermind, even though 100 episodes revealed no agenda from him other than his desire to help others on his own terms, you could be reacting to the racist archetype of the Magic Negro, where the black character exists to help white characters.

If you criticize a hero of color for behavior and use it to condemn them but turn around and excuse a similar or even worse behavior from a white character, then people might suspect that your employment of a double-standard is influenced by racism. If you argue that Scott McCall’s thoughtless comment in Magic Bullet (1x04) about Derek’s accusation that the Argents burned down his house (“Well, then they had a reason”) is justification for Peter and Derek cornering a half-naked Scott in a darkened locker room and mentally violating him, but you also argue that Derek breaking into Scott’s home, lurking behind him, assaulting him, and threatening to kill him, does not justify Scott and Stiles having him arrested for Laura’s murder, you are holding them to a double standard. If you criticize Kira, in danger of being consumed by her fox spirit due its manipulation by Theo and the Dread Doctors, for honoring her deal with the Skin-Walkers in return for their help and sending Theo underground, but you think that Liam constantly threatening Theo with being sent back underground is a sign of their blossoming romance, you are holding a pretty big double standard.

If you edit the actions of a hero of color to make them look bad and you edit the actions of an antagonist against a hero of color to make them look good, then people might suspect your editing is influenced by racism. If you claim that you don’t like Scott McCall because he ditched Stiles for Allison and then Isaac by editing the story, you might be looked at suspiciously. The only person that Scott ditched was Allison, once for Stiles, and agreeing with Isaac over Stiles for 20 seconds is not ditching. If you claim that you don’t like Scott because he treated Derek as a villain in Season 2 for no reason, pretending that he didn’t abandon Jackson to death, endanger Isaac’s freedom, seduce an underage Erica, have Scott beaten for defying up to stepping on his throat, kidnap Stiles, kidnap Jackson, attempt to murder Lydia in Scott’s own home, and then lie to Scott once more, you also might be looked at suspiciously.

If you prioritize the white characters in your fandom pursuit even in defiance of canon or common sense, then people might suspect that you are influenced by racism. If you create a gifset of the Hale Pack, with Derek as Alpha, Stiles as Emissary, Peter, Isaac, Erica, Liam, Jackson, and Lydia (Lydia is a mighty stretch, yet sometimes they even include Allison), some people might suspect you only care about white people. If you don’t see a problem that Talia Hale features in 4128 Teen Wolf fanfiction stories on AO3, when she was dead 6-10 years before the start of the show and only appeared in flashbacks in two episode – one of which she had no words because she was a wolf, but Noshiko Yukimura only features in 328 Teen Wolf fanfiction stories on AO3, when she was in 16 episodes. If Talia Hale is cool-as-hell because she’s a full-wolf shifter and a powerful matriarch who deserves to be explored, why doesn’t a 900-year-old cool-as-hell celestial kitsune deserve it as well?

Disliking Scott McCall doesn’t make you a racist. But you can’t really blame certain members of the fandom for suspecting that racist thought does influence your dislike when we’ve seen a vast majority of people heavily invested in defying the show’s premise that he’s a good person and a hero. You can’t really blame members of the fandom for suspecting racist thought for influencing fandom when they see well-established racist tropes applied to characters of color. No Scott fan pushed the ‘Scott is sexually obsessed with Allison which is why he doesn’t work with Derek’ trope, they only pointed out that the ‘sexually obsessed’ stereotype has been historically assigned to Latinos. And it’s not just Scott. How many people force Boyd into the silent giant stereotype when Sinqua Walls is only an inch taller than Isaac’s actor?

And as I stated at the top of this essay: it’s not just Teen Wolf. Finn from Star Wars was portrayed as lusting after another man’s woman and/or infantilized. The actress who plays Iris West-Allen from The Flash has had to defend her character publically. It’s not unreasonable when someone criticizes a Hero of Color to wonder if it’s just another example of a wide-spread phenomenon.

#teen wolf fandom problems #fandom racism #scott mccall defense squad

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bush-viper-cutie · 4 years

Text

Love Me Roughly: What Do I Pack?

Pairing: Snape x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,071

Rating: M for Mature

Plot: Hours ago Severus Snape escaped his death and has decided to leave everything behind. He is desperate for a new life, and that starts with a new place to live.

Warnings: none

A/N: This is part 1 of 7 for the week 1 schedule for Snape Appreciation Month! Thank you @snapeloveposts for organizing this! :D

DISCLAIMER: I have edited (drawn over the original) the artwork (taken from a 80′s bodice ripper novel) for the purpose of this short series and will post more information about the original work here.

Posted: 6/1/20

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“Damn It,” Severus looked away from the clock to the old and cracked mirror hanging on his bedroom wall. He traced the newly healed scar lines on his neck with his wand, trying to make them as invisible as possible. “This will have to do,” he looked at the clock again.

He tore off his frock coat – most of the buttons had been torn off by the Dark Lord’s ruddy snake, and the rest were jammed with his dried coagulated blood – and tossed it on his bed. He did the same with his waistcoat and white shirt.

I’ll have to buy new ones, he shook his head. Luckily his trousers were blood-free. He rummaged through his drawer and took out his old muggle sweater and threw it on, sniffing it once and sighing. Oh well. He knelt on the floor and reached in his closet for his old trunk, throwing it open and looking inside.

“Old school books, old clothes, old, old, old – ” he tipped it over on his bed and emptied it. He looked up at the clock again, “Damn it! What do I take? I don’t have time.”

He pulled out his drawers and started pouring in all his clothes inside the trunk. Next he dragged the trunk to the bathroom and dumped his toothbrush, toothpaste, and razor in. He grabbed the handle and apparated into the living room, grabbing all his favorite or useful books and shoved them in. He pushed his trunk into the kitchen and opened every cabinet.

“Bread, peanut butter, pickles,” he closed the fridge satisfied with the food he was taking. He took out a roll of paper towels and unrolled it, laying jars and shakers of potions ingredients and rolling them up in it. Cauldron! He stuffed the lumpy roll in his medium cauldron and shoved it all in his trunk as well.

He looked at the time again, Good enough.

He ran upstairs for his scarf, a hat, and a muggle coat, looking around his bedroom one last time before holding out his wand, “Incendio.” A jet of orange light burst from his wand tip and fell onto his bloody clothes. They caught on fire instantly. Smoke started filling the room and Severus watched it for a few seconds before nodding and walking out his bedroom door, closing it shut.

He took his time down the stairs and wound his scarf around his neck, shoving his knitted hat in his coat pocket. He took a deep breath and grabbed the trunk, apparating out of his house, leaving it for good for the second and last time.

He opened his eyes and looked around at Diagon Alley’s empty cobble streets. All the shops were closed due to the war that had broken out – mainly centered around Hogwarts – but that had scared every witch and wizard into hiding. Good, no one will see me.

He started up the street and headed to the tallest building, Gringotts. He raced up the stairs, pulling his scarf up to cover mouth, and bowed at the goblin by the door. It was beyond him how they managed to keep it open all day and night, but he thanked Merlin for it.

He rushed to the nearest goblin and gave them his key. He followed the goblin to the mine cart and stuffed himself and his trunk inside, bracing himself for the quick drop. His vault was one of the ones nearer the surface, since it was his mother who had made his account and the goblins organized the systems from poorest to richest families; the rich family vaults being deeper and therefore safer underground.

“Here we are, Mr. Snape,” the goblin jumped out of the cart and accompanied him to the small vault door.

Severus carried his trunk to the vault and sighed as it opened. Well at least its not much to carry. He opened his trunk and started dropping all the little pouches in the trunk. At the bottom of the pile of pouches was an identical set of wizard clothes he kept for emergencies.

He placed it neatly in his trunk and wished he could go back in time to kiss his twenty-four year old self on the forehead for having the most absurd idea to buy a second identical teaching uniform. He always thought the same thing about his style, Don’t fix what’s not broken.

He climbed back in the cart and closed his eyes as the cart shot backwards up the track. He exited the bank and ran back down the street tapped the bricks to enter the leaky cauldron. He pulled out his knitted hat and tucked as much of his hair in as possible, moving his scarf up to cover his nose as well, afraid Tom would recognize him.

He stepped inside the Leaky cauldron and nodded once to Tom, who was too busy listening to the radio to focus any amount of attention to the mysterious stranger dressed in all black who had just run in and out of his store onto the London streets.

Severus made out a few words said over the radio, something about a task force to help rebuild the school over the summer to help Hogwarts open at the usual start of term. He walked a few feet down the dark London streets and hailed a taxi.

He opened the door and flung himself inside, “Airport”, and stuffed his hat back in his coat, patting his hair down. It only took twenty minutes to drive to, which was not enough time to decide where it was he was flying exactly.

The cab stopped and he hopped out, paying the driver, and headed inside. He walked up to a counter where he assumed tickets were sold and looked at a board of departures, scanning the cities for anything good.

“Need help?”

Severus looked at the woman and nodded, “I want to go somewhere with as little people as possible and as far away as possible.”

The woman looked at him and blinked, “Alright… I have some cities… Mind if I ask you some extra questions to better help you?”

Severus nodded and folded his arms.

“The cities with the least amount of passengers going there are in some colder climates. Is the cold a problem?”

“No.” Suppose it makes sense more people flock to warmer climates.

“Great, and would you prefer the population size of the city to be as small as ten people? Or – ”

“Higher,” I don’t need any nosy neighbors or town crazies knowing me by name.

“What about a hundred-thousand?”

“Yeah, that’s a good number.”

“We have a departure from here to Fairbanks, Alaska, Unites States in four hours – ”

“Perfect, how much?”

Severus paid and took his ticket, following the signs and the woman’s instructions on where to go and what to do next. He placed his trunk where it said to put it and followed a guard’s instructions. After several minutes he was able to go sit down at a chair to wait.

The first hour went by fast, but the next was incredibly boring. He looked around and smelled fresh coffee. His stomach growled and he rolled his trunk over to buy a cup. He ordered the most sweet and sugary coffee with extra cream and whipped topping, thinking I need this. I deserve this, and made his way back.

He sipped on his drink as he went and sighed happily, looking around to make sure no one was watching, and decided to glance around at some books by a small bookstore before heading back. He walked in and was careful not to bump things off the shelves with his trunk.

He looked at shelf after shelf of categorized books, scoffing at titles and their illustrated covers, until he got to the romance section. The ‘bestselling’ shelf looked cheesy and gaudy, he glanced down at the bottom floor shelves and blushed. The bottom shelf had titles such as ‘Lord of Scoundrels’, ‘The Darker Side of Love’, ‘Wild Ecstasy’, ‘Fires of Surrender’, and ‘Love Me Roughly’.

I almost died hours ago, can’t I have just ONE thing? He picked up the last book and slowly walked over to the counter. There was a man drumming his fingers on the glass and looked down at the book in Severus’ hand.

“Good book.”

Severus sighed, relieved he wasn’t the only one in the tiny bookstore interested this bodice ripper novel. He gave the man some muggle money and made it to his seat, coffee still in hand. He tucked the book in his coat and focused on the sugary liquid entering his mouth.

He was now entering his third hour, finally growing restless and needing to spread his legs. He got up and walked over to a shop selling winter things. The muggle woman did say it would be cold, he looked at the hats and scarves.

“How cold though…”

“Beg your pardon?” The man next to him, also looking at scarves, looked over.

“Nothing,” he grumbled and stepped away into the boot section.

He imagined he would need some snow boots, but were there any in black? He looked at the three colors listed and took out a box. There were two styles of boots, and peering inside, he wasn’t all that disappointed at the only black one.

He read the size and new it was too small. He leaned around the corner and saw the man from earlier was talking to the worker and turned back. He dug his wand out from inside his coat and whispered a spell to make them grow two sizes.

He tried them on, saw that they fit perfectly – giving him an extra two inches in height – and purchased them. He carried them over to the restroom and opened his trunk, trying to find something to shrink to make them fit inside. The books will have to do.

He shrunk them down until they fit in the palm of his hand and placed the boots inside. He closed it and left, heading towards a bagel stand, where he purchased two cream cheese stuffed bagels and a single strawberry cream one. He sat down and finally opened up the book as he took a bite of the stuffed bagels.

‘Robin flung her dress onto her dresser, unlatched her bra, and let breas – ’

Severus stopped reading and closed the book, looking around as if everyone at the airport could somehow read his thoughts. He sighed and finished a bagel. I faced the Dark Lord and his giant venomous snake and I can’t even read a bloody word? He growled and started on his next bagel.

‘The cold air made her naked body shiver. She reached out for a blanket to shield her young naked body from the chilly wind as it swept in from the open balcony doors and touched her warm naked body.’

“Close the fucking window,” he muttered.

“Hmm?”

Severus turned and nearly jumped out of his seat in complete and utter shock. To his horror, a young woman was sitting next to him. She glanced down at the book in his hand and he quickly shoved it back inside his coat, turning a bright shade of red. He swept his hair down to cover his face, hoping it would act as a curtain to hide his shame behind.

I’ve been a spy for almost half my life and I didn’t notice her sitting next to me?? If it had been Nagini it’d have bit me. AGAIN! He cleared his throat and crossed his legs, figuring it would look even worse if he got up and changed seats – though he desperately wanted to get as far away from her as possible. Can people smell fear?

The next hour passed quickly, and soon it was time to board the plane. He stood up and got in line, looking around to see what everyone else was doing for clues as to what he should do. He saw them handing their tickets and he prepared to do the same.

The closer he got to the doors the more nervous he became. I’ve never been on a plane… I can fly. Apparate even, if I need to… Should I stay? No, I burned my house down already… There was no going back. He handed his ticket and took it again, following the young woman into the plane.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

Chapter List

Next Chapter -->

#pro snape #severus snape #severus #snape #severus snape x reader #severus snape x you #severus x reader #severus x you #snape x reader #snape x you #snapedom #snape x fem!reader #snapeloveposts #snape fanfic #snape fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #snape appreciation month #snape appreciation month 2020

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lordbloodysoul · 3 years

Text

Name:

Karma Doorman

Title:

"Dept Collector of Justice" - "Prosecutor of Consequences" - "Old Man Consequences"

Nicknames:

The Tall Doorman (Papyrus)

G. D. or Guardian/Big G. (the Human Children)

Old Timer, Pal, Buddy or "Karmamel" (Sans)

Old Freckle (Undyne)

Age:

[REDACTED]

Height / Weight:

6 feet 8 inches (or 2.11m) / 87 kg (112kg with entire attire)

Soul Type

"Collective Soul"

// - A Collective Soul shows trades of all known Soul Types and is shielded by a thin membrane of Void. It looks like a blank Soul with a black outline, that has a small pitch dot in its center from which a vibration rolls across the surface of the Soul. Those waves appear in different colors and strokes. To those who are very sensible to Soul Energy, the vibration will sound like an endless army of different voices breathing simultaneously in sync. The rhythm changes wit Karma's state of mind. It has an aroma/flavour that could be described as "a bittersweet taste of Salt and Iron". The feeling it would induces is more reminiscent of Guilt and Foreboding. Like standing before a King with an Executioner looming right behind you. - //

STATS:

[REDACTED] //Next to it often flashes the following message: "I can see ALL your SINS..."//

[REDACTED] // Their HP is so high that even a Critical from the LvL 19 Human affects it as if they would jut do 1 HP damage //

ATTACK

[REDACTED] //Next to it often flashes the following message: "I make the RULES."//

DEFENSE

[REDACTED] //Next to it often flashes the following message: "Your DEPT will be PAID"//

Doorman-Tier:

Tier S - Class S

History:

Karma Doorman is the original "Blueprint" of their kind within the Undertale Universe. Their Soul was a blank, purified Vessel with trades of both Human and Monster Soul. Within it, their creator stored the power of every willing being of the Old Dark's Court, forging a Soul of immense potential. Made from pieces of countless Entities and the Life-Blood of their Creator, this Doorman was chained to the purpose of "SAVING THEM", but left with a free will to decide on how to accomplish that Goal.

Karma's first appearance within the Undertale Multiverse was due to the waking call of UT Sans's Will to struggle against the Genocide Route's Outcome, which gave their existence a physical Form. Before that, they were just a spiritual presence and afterthought, mostly. A Dread looming above the Sinners, Cheaters and Fools of the World.

[!!!SPOILERS WARNING!!! - for those who wish to Read the FanFiction or wait till I get around to making the Comic, since the LITERATURE SUBMIT on DA doesn't allow much creative Freedom, so I have to do a lot of Re-Spacing and Editing on those Parts. This Section will spoil some of the Plot in exchange for Character Build - If you don't want that spoiled, please proceed to the APPEARANCE Section - !!!SPOILER WARNING!!!]

Karma's awakening shook the original Universe of Undertale at its Core, as they proceeded to exterminate the Genocide Timeline by removing the [ERASE] and [RESET]option from the Human Child and blocking the [QUIT] option. Their DETERMINATION exceeded any existent being in this Original Timeline.

After ridding themselves of Chara, Flowey and purifying Frisk's Soul, they continued [REWRITING]the Timeline, forcing Toriel to stay with Asgore and bringing comfort to his broken heart. They dragged Gaster and his Lab Assistants back from the Void and made Sans forget about the RESETS, weakening themself severely in the process.

Karma intervened in many upcoming Events, including saving the original six children, choosing to live with them in the RUINS, due to the absence of Toriel, and kept them save there. They properly locked the Gate towards Snowdin and became Sans's Knock-Knock Pal, as he recovered his strength, while waiting for time to unfold on its own. They dragged a Criminal into the Underground, who would serve as a trigger for Undyne's role in the future as head of the Royal Guards, as well as providing Gaster with a Soul for his research. When Gaster's experiment was about to end in failure, they leaped in and saved the staff, but Sans got struck and began remembering everything again, including his first encounter with Karma.

The Doorman left him that way, on behalf of his own wishes, closing the Rift towards the Void, straining their Soul towards its limits. When Frisk arrived, they were the one waiting for them, accompanied by the other six children. Together, they left the RUINS and began their journey through the Underground in order to reach the True Ending and the last option that would hinder their Safeguard over the Timeline. [TRUE RESET]

Appearance:

Karma Doorman looks like a tall, thin elf, clad in black robes and armor. Their cloak, which always rests on their shoulders, splits into multiple tendrils, which can move freely as separate limbs from the rest of their body. These tentacle-like arms are connected to his back, sprouting straight from a fissure across his spine. Their hair is charcoal black and slightly grayish in color, long flowing and smooth as silk. The eyes are red and always surrounded by a reddish blush, which runs along their pale cheeks.

When his expression and demeanor change, the eye-white turns blackish and their thin lips stretch into a wide, haunting grin. Often accompanied by streams of rusty, reddish liquid welling from underneath the eyes. This happens mostly in situations that call for them to use lots of Energy and Magic. It is due to the affects his tremendously powerful Soul has on their vessel body. The reddish liquid is not blood, but liquid-form Determinationseeping through their entire body. When reaching their limits, Karma often ends up with ripped skin or deep gashing wounds all over, which they have to let heal on their own.

Personality:

Karma was created by the remaining Will and Hope of Sans from across all RESETS, which shaped part of their personality. They are very intelligent and resourceful, with a developing love for puns and witty commentary. Karma sees his job as part of a Game, partially, but takes every step they make with utmost seriousness. They often hide the seriousness of their intentions to seem as less of a threat than they actually are, which paint them often in the lights of a sadistic psycho, rather than a helpful ally.

Karma is very kind, when not chasing after Sinners and Cheaters. As a manifestation of Consequences, their actions are justified in the eye of fate, however the Doorman has their doubts about it, acting to the best of their conscious, trying to find the best way to deal with every situation.

They are a selfless Soul, ready to give everything and more in order to see their goal achieved, which is the happiness of all deserving of it.

The Entity judges all on a fair standpoint, giving anyone the benefit of the doubt if it is present within their actions. Which is why they sowed pity and understanding towards Sans more than to Flowey, Frisk and Chara.

Karma is a follower of the principle of "Mutual Consent". They never force their way, feelings or the likes upon others (unless they need to judge that person for being a dirty Sinner, Cheater or the likes). Knowing that everything in life comes with consequences, they rather stay on a neutral ground till they’re sure of the others intentions.

Likes:

Puns and Humor (by that extend Sans)

Cooking

Baking

helping people

singing - ( he loves humming this Song here)

Children

hunting Sinners and Cheaters

napping

Dislikes:

Sinners and Cheater of all kinds

Mettaton (to some extend, since he finds the Robot quite obnoxious)

too spicy food

Capitalism (they've been trying to kill it off for since they've gained consciousness)

Gender- and Race Labeling (which is why they refer to themself as a "they" and won't accept anyone miss-gender them whatsoever)

Capabilities:

Due to their DETERMINATION, Karma is capable of blocking Tricksters, Sinners and Cheaters from abusing Fortune or, in the case of the Fallen Children and Flowey, the power of RESET. They can exterminate these Options and force their prey to face Consequences, without a backdoor to escape out off. The Entity can also alter the flow of time and space to previous states and interact with Checkpoints (which they mostly destroy instantly). They can reanimate people, by simply restoring their last intact living position. While restoring entire Landscapes and areas, they have to focus their manipulative power into a comfortable shape, which mostly appears as a Ring following near the ground, walls and ceiling behind them.

When they first appeared in the Universe of Undertale, Karma was only visible to a selective few. Mostly those aware of the RESETS. While traveling backwards through the Underground with Sans, they created Rifts within the fabric of the World to quickly advance. Similar in Sans's use of shortcuts only on a basic sense, as these Rifts interconnect on a completely different plain of thought. Like a Road along the weave of Space-Time itself.

Their strength comes not only from their Soul, however. Karma’s power forms from the Will of Justice and Vengeance lingering within the World they inhabit. Since their body was formed by Sans’s recollected strife to stop the fallen child from their murderous rampage, their power connected to it. As such, his memory became vital to their strength, but to ensure their goal was fully achieved, Karma decided to REWRITE him, even at the cost of a fair extend of their own power.

Karma's attack abilities range from direct hands-on Battle to them using their tendrils as extended limbs for range combat. They can use various magics, too.

Since their DETERMINATION is so high, Karma is capable of changing the RULES of Combat. They do so to 'playfully' dispose of their targets.

In such occasions, they like to play "JUDGMENT HELL", a game where he provides their foes with the means to battle them properly. Giving them armor, weapons and item to use. They also stag a persons SIN to their STATS, exceeding the limitations of the Universe’s limitations. Within the game they play the PROSECUTOR, who protects a JUDGE from the ACCUSED. While the ACCUSED try to kill or persuade the JUDGE it is the PROSECUTOR's job to keep the JUDGE save and eliminate the ACCUSED. When an ACCUSED perishes, they will be respawned with a penalty to their STATS. When the HP reaches 1, the next strike will indefinitely kill the ACCUSED. They will be erased with the severity of their sins burning their bodies and souls out of current existence. The PROSECUTOR can't act on their own, besides shielding the JUDGE. The JUDGE has full reign over their actions and decides if a person is worth of MERCY or not.

The Doorman is capable of all Magic Abilities. During Combat, Karma uses mostly White, Black and Red Attacks, although they like changing their Style up on the fly sometimes. Fighting them is quite the bad idea, due to them not acting upon the RULE of attacks having to always be in the same repeating patterns. Each of Karma's attacks is acting like a Critical Strike or Instant Kill Move, which makes the experience that much more frustrating. They also can slay foes straight outside of an open FIGHT.

For more casual activities, Karma uses their power of levitation for transport or just simply sitting in a floating position. They multi-task via their tendrils a lot, often preferring them over their own arms and hands. They can use healing magic to quickly close wounds, set bones or just giving a soothing warmth to distressed people. They usually, however, don't use that much magic overall. Only if it is absolutely required or helpful in aiding their goal or people in need.

Karma possesses the special ability of "REWRITE", which allows him to change any aspect of a Location, Item. Person or Rule. With this ability, they can change the flow of the world to befit their purpose. A REWRITE can only be undone by them or an outer-worldly Impact of similar Determination Power, which is rare.

Due to their massive STATS, which broke the readable Range of the World by a margin, attempting to destroy them via Battle is basically pointless. Bargaining with them will be seen as an insult, which often results in harsher punishment, while accepting ones fate is probably the smartest option.

Karma's destructive power can be placed easily above the power of most living beings in the Undertale Multiverse, however, he would struggle against other Doormen of their own respective Tier.

Relations:

Karma, throughout their journey will befriend many Monsters.

Sans will become their first friend among many, as they take the Role of Toriel after the REWRITE. Papyrus they meet briefly in his early childhood, but won't become a friend to the till later. They will bond with Undyne over a match of strength and perseverance.

The human children, as they fall one by one into the Underground, will end up being raised by them. They refer to them as their Guardian or Big G. for short. Karma collects them and ensures their safety while staying in the RUINS, up until Frisk appears. The children take a shine to them, as they cared for them, teaching them to accept monsters as part of their lives.

POTENTIAL SPOILER:

Similar to Sans growing an affection towards Toriel during the outplay of the Original Timeline, in the REWRITE he grows quite fond of them as they do of him.

In the Canon of the series, the two agree on a relationship based on both of their loss at what to do or expect from the newfound freedom they fought for. The human children encourage their romantic interest in one another, much to Karma's displeasure, as they are completely estranged to the whole romance business. Going even so far as to stopping Frisk multiple times, during their adventure, from flirting with every Monster they encounter.

Trivia:

Karma has no recollection of anything prior to their awakening to sentience. For all they've known, they were always a part of Undertale.

However, Sans and Papyrus both commented on "having seen their eyes somewhere before" and that this was not something good they've remembered.

It spun a bit of curiosity around their mind, which always leaves a bad aftertaste behind.

--------------

#Karma Doorman #Darktale #dark #tale #undertale #horrorpuppets #doorman #karma #au #alternate #universe #oc

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yeeterparkersblog · 4 years

Text

Last Days | PART 3

Pairing: 6 Underground! Four/Billy x reader

Word Count: 3.9 k

Warnings: Drinking, smut (Whaaaa?)

Summary: To everyone else, he was a suave young man in a gang of thieves, someone they would rather not get tangled up with. To you, he was a cheeky bastard who wouldn’t get out of your hair and most of all, a rival thief. But one day, he decides to reach out to you.

Publishing Date: 29 March 2020

A/N: Hello my dears! Thank you for being so patient with me. It’s been 2 months I think since I posted Part 2. Thank you for being so patient. I LOVE YOU. I had my midterms but now they’re over and everyone is in quarantine and practicing social isolation. Part 3 is quite short but it’s pretty satisfactory (I hope). Again I can’t say when I’ll post the next part, just know that I am trying my very best, under these circumstances, to write these fics. Thank you again! I love and appreciate you lots! (Also pls excuse any grammar or spelling mistakes I’ve made thanks)

PART 1 2

Pouring your heart out to someone you’ve known for less than a year, wasn’t exactly an easy feat. But you felt like you had to do it. If it weren’t for Billy, God knows the amount of debt you’d be in. Granted, he was the one who put you in debt. But the profit from the tiara would be more than you would have gotten from the Pasteque or the Blasé.

The cold wind sent goosebumps along your skin, causing an involuntary shiver. Though it could have also been due to your nerves. Your fidgeting hands picked at the sticker on the beer bottle until it had come off.

How would you put this?

“So long story short, I think I just wanted to say…” You concluded. “Thank you.”

“Thank you?” He repeated, inching closer to hear your whispers.

“You are saving my life by giving me the chance to work with you.” You put down your beer bottle. “The tiara will give us 1 million each!”

“You do realize I stole the necklace and ring from you, right? That’s why you’re in debt.”

“Yes, but I spent a bit too much preparing for those that even if I did steal them, the profits wouldn’t be much.” Billy arched a brow curiously. “This time, however, you’re the one who’s paying for the preparation. I’m getting 100% of my profits, but you… How much did you spend anyway?”

“Well, how much was the Pasteque?”

“Christ, Billy…” You stood up from the bench suddenly. “3 Mil? This means you’re losing money!”

“Stop worrying about me (Y/N). I’m not the one deep in debt.” He lightly gripped your hand to pull you back on the bench next to him. “You need the money more than I do.”

A moment of silence passed between you two. You didn’t know what to say to him. He’s sacrificing millions for you. But why? Was he feeling sorry for you?

“You need the money more than I do.” You barely hear him utter those words. “You need to take all the money. Please.”

“What? No!” You looked at him with disbelief. “Billy, you deserve your share.”

“Well, you didn’t deserve what I pulled over the last few months. Take. The money.” He said almost harshly. “The 2 million? It’s all yours.”

“Stop making things so difficult!” Your voices started to raise, each trying to overlap the other’s.

“It’s not difficult. I’m giving you the money. Why won’t you take it?! Who’d refuse free money?”

“You’re just feeling sorry for me, and I refuse to accept your pitiful handouts.”

“This isn’t a pitiful handout. I’m just trying to help you!” He rose from his seat to stare you down. “Why won’t you accept my help?”

A pang in your chest. “Why do you care, Billy?” Your voice had started to tremble. “Why do you care how I do? Why would you willingly sacrifice so much to help me? You just care SO MUCH, don’t you?”

You buried your face in the palms of your hands. Wherever these sudden bursts of emotions had come from, you didn’t know. All you knew was that you felt ridiculous, in your huge green dress, weeping like a child in front of Billy.

You felt his warm hands wrap around you. “I can’t tell you why I care. But I just do.”

“You need to think about yourself too.” Your words came out muffled from behind your hands.

You started wiping your tears hastily and smearing mascara everywhere.

“Look.” You spoke before Billy could get a word in. “I… care about you too.”

Your words not only took Billy by surprise but you as well.

“I get that you’re just wanting to help me, or just trying to apologize. But, what about you? You need the mo-”

“I have money, (Y/N). This isn’t my third or fourth heist.” Billy scratched the back of his neck. “Unlike you.”

You were sitting on the fence here. You needed the money. The other million would help you out SO much. You just didn’t want Billy to lose so much to do so.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Answer the question yourself.” He merely sat back on the bench and stared out at the city. “Will the extra million help you?”

Silence once more. You, wondering if you can accept his offering. Him, wondering how else he can convince you to take the money. And he cared too much to give in.

“If I’m the reason why you’re not accepting the money, you have nothing to worry about. I have money from previous heists.” He suddenly turned to you. “Please don’t tell me it’s because of your pride or some other stupid thing?”

You paused to think. “And you are still working with the crew?”

“Yes.”

“You swear you have money from prior heists and the Blasé.”

“I have money from prior heists, I swear.”

His eyes watched as you bit down on lip in uncertainty, as you licked your lips to wet them. Your nose scrunched in concentration, weighing the pros and cons.

“Alright.” You started to speak. “If you really don’t mind… I’ll take the money.”

His fists thrust up in victory. "Final-“

“On the condition that I will pay you back.”

Shrugging, he accepted your terms. “Only after you get out of that financial rut.”

A warm feeling spread in your chest. “I guess I owe you another thanks?”

“Love, you look like a raccoon.”

“Excuse me?” His comment was like whiplash on your sincere words. “I’m trying to…”

“The uh…” He playfully laughed, gesturing at the area around your eyes. “Mascara?”

“Fuck.” You rubbed at it, not succeeding to get it off at all. “Just…”

“It’s okay. You still look nice.”

“Sweet talk won’t get you anywhere, bugger.”

“You say that.” He put down his now empty beer bottle. “But I can see you biting back that grin.”

You chug down the rest of your beer to avoid his eye contact, slamming your bottle down next to his the moment you were done.

And then it was quiet again. You’ve said what you had come here to say. What else could you do? Just stare out at the magnificent view, then. Both you and Billy’s hands still lingering on the beer bottles in between.

It was comfortable, the silence. Not at all awkward like you had thought it would be. The glass bottle was still slightly cold, despite being taken out of the fridge some time ago.

Billy’s fingers were a sudden contrast to the bottle when they brushed against yours. You jumped slightly but said nothing. You, for some reason, didn’t need to think twice of what to do. You merely smiled to yourself as you returned his grasp.

Your fingers intertwine, ignoring the bottles now. Both pairs of eyes stared straight forward, and neither one spoke. But all the solace you needed was the comforting graze of his thumb over yours, just like he had done during the gala.

Your pointer finger just tapped rhythmically against the back of his hand, not knowing what to do.

His hand was so big it almost engulfs yours. His palm was as rough as it looked. And his fingers? Thick enough to make your mind wander, and your cheeks flush. Biting down on your lip, you suppress those thoughts.

Your head tilts in his direction, to see that his emerald orbs were already gazing at you.

“Hi.” He whispered.

Was it the wind? Was it the cold night? Was it the way he spoke it? Because whatever it was sent a pleasant shiver down your spine.

“Hi.” You smiled back.

With only the lone streetlight, you could barely see your surroundings. But even in the dark, you could see how intently and adoringly he studied you. The pupils of his eyes were dilated.

Heads inching closer and closer until your foreheads touched, and you could feel his ragged breath on your lips. They were hot. No words now. None of you dared to make a whimper.

It started softly. A teasing brush with just a bit of pressure. Like a dragonfly grazing the surface of the water, testing the waters. You could feel his lips curve up in a smile against yours.

How soft they were.

His lips were tender on yours, like he was mapping out every little curve. His arm dared to come up to cup your cheek as he continued to caress your mouth with his lips.

But the longer it went on, the more desperate and more passionate it got. It went from fleeting butterflies in your stomach to fireworks exploding and going off. His hands explored the curves of your body accentuated by your dress, while your hands made their home in his blond locks, gripping.

A moan escaped you when he bit down particularly hard. You pressed harder against his mouth in encouragement.

He took that as an invitation and parted your lips. You could taste the alcohol from the beer and champagne the two of you had been drinking. It was…intoxicating.

You couldn’t think straight. All you knew was that you wanted more. The heat between your legs demanded more.

You moved your leg to straddle him, but you had forgotten what sat between the two of you.

The two beer bottles fell to the pavement with a deafening crash, big glass shards shattering apart. The sound reverberated in the silent night and forced you and Billy out of your trances.

And both of you just stared at each other, frozen. You, caught halfway between a straddle, must have been quite the spectacle. Billy’s breath hitched in his throat, staring at the lipstick smeared and snogged all over your lips. He shifted uncomfortably.

He was the first to make a move- he shoved you off him. You flinched when he pushed you back into the bench, feeling your heart squeeze tightly in your chest.

Puzzled, you watched as he squatted down to clean up the glass shards. A mixing pot of emotions brewed in your gut.

Frustration. Confusion. Rejection.

And they all felt ugly.

Why’d he pushed you off like that?

You watched bewilderingly from the bench. He couldn’t even face you right now? His back the only thing you could see, with the way he was positioned.

You’re starting to remember how you look. The black mess of mascara around your eyes. Both of you panting as if you had just run a mile. Your hair was probably a bird’s nest right now.

Though Billy’s hair wasn’t looking any better. You silently ran your eyes over the job you had done, your cheeks turning a deeper shade of red when you recall the feeling of his hair between your fingers.

You felt your thighs clench.

Not the right time, (Y/N)!

“I’m sorry.” Billy suddenly spoke, standing up. He had taken the big shards of glass in his hand carefully. He breezed past you without meeting your eye and threw out the glass in a rubbish bin nearby.

Why was he sorry?

“Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.” His voice was strained. He couldn’t bring himself to look at you. Was he ashamed?

But you didn’t want to say anything either. You just got into the car with him and looked out the window, disappointed with how the night turned out. You had hoped that…

Never mind.

If you and Billy ever decide to talk about it, maybe you could blame it on the alcohol. It was certainly a factor. One too many flutes of champagnes, and the beer, you’d say. You could taste it on him, he could taste it on you.

The two of you may be sat next to each other in the car, but emotionally no one’s ever felt this distant.

Billy looked over at you. The dress and your messy bun had your back exposed to him. You hadn’t bothered to tidy up your hair.

A trail of barely visible nail marks had appeared along your spine, no doubt thanks to Billy. He didn’t know how he felt about that. Only that the front of his pants had felt tighter and he had to shift in his seat to feel more comfortable.

Sitting in the dreadfully silent car, you could only wonder two things.

1. How would the night have gone if the bottles hadn’t been knocked over?

2. How far would the two of you have gone?

But those questions weren’t meant to be answered. The night took a wildly different turn. He had decided to shove you off him.

And that hurt you more than you cared to admit.

A sense of dread washed over you as the car pulled into your apartment. The car came to a stop. Your grip on your purse tightened. What now?

Is he expecting you to leave right away? Perhaps you should say something. Something that had been bugging you.

“Billy,” Your voice came out weaker than you had expected, but it was enough to gauge his attention. “I hope you don’t think I only kissed you because you gave me money.”

“NO! No! I wasn’t thinking that.” He was nervous, fingers twiddling while he wracked his brain for something to say.

You dared to meet his eyes. They were wide with anxiety.

“Can I walk you back to your apartment?”

—

It feels like ages ago since the two of you were in this elevator together, though it has only been a few hours, earlier in the day.

While previously the two of you could successfully diffuse the tension, this time it was too much. Both your minds kept drifting back to the heated make-out session, too flustered to say anything. You tried to focus on anything other than the ache between your legs.

You did your best to ignore Billy, who kept changing his stance, visibly uncomfortable.

You could have sworn that you thought Billy had the same feelings. That’s why you dared to go all in. But… he had pushed you off. Rather quickly too. Now everything’s become so painfully awkward.

“I’ll be back next week, okay?”

His voice sounded so loud in the small elevator.

“W-Why?”

“I’m going to give you the money.”

“Okay right.” You tilted your head curiously. “A week?”

“It’s going to take me a few days to get it to the proper pawn shops. I can’t sell the entire thing all at once. Too much suspicion.”

“Okay.”

“And it’s going to be in cash only.”

“Why…?”

“Cash is less traceable.”

“Oh okay.”

Dear God. Were ‘why’ and ‘okay’ the only words you could muster? You need a good slap.

From Bil- no.

You crossed your legs. You can see the unmistakable blush on your cheeks from the reflection. He could see it too.

“I’ll call you, okay?”

“What?!” Your exclamation was a tad too loud. Billy looked at you as if you had grown a second head.

“To keep you updated…?”

“O-Oh, yes. Of course.”

Gosh. 'Painstakingly awkward’ couldn’t even begin to describe the mood. Hurry! Come on!!!!

A silent breath of relief escaped you when the 'ding!’ of the elevator was finally heard. One second later and you would’ve combusted from the tension.

You bunch up your dress in your arms and trudge out the small space, Billy following closely behind.

You unlocked your door and suddenly you didn’t know what to do. Would inviting him in be too weird? Perhaps you should just bid your goodbyes. Or say anything. Thank him? Yes, probably.

“Thank you. Again.” You let out a nervous laugh, which he hesitantly returned. “For the uh… 2 million.”

“Yes, you’re welcome. Not a big deal.” Pursing his lips, he briefly scanned your person. “And the earrings. Hopefully, you’ll keep them?”

“Oh! Of course. Yes. Thank you.”

And both of you just nodded like two idiots in the doorway of your apartment. You cringed inwardly. Now what?

“Hey, I’m quite tired… So uh.” You tapped on the door, mentally slapping yourself. God! What was that lame sentence?

“Okay, I’ll just leave you alone then.” Ouch. You looked anywhere but his person. “I’ll call you. Text you. Uh, whatever you prefer.”

“Yeah, I… thank you! Goodnight!” And you swung the door shut, praying that you didn’t come off as too insincere or rude. Because right now, you only had one thing on your mind.

“Fuck sake.” You whispered under your breath. “What was that?” You were bumbling and mumbling around like a shy schoolgirl talking to her crush, which was very unlike you! You’d rather not know how much you had been blushing.

But you knew your foggy mind was a result of something other than your nerves. You knew quite well what it was.

“Bloody wanker.” You cursed, finally giving in.

You made a beeline for the bathroom, fingers fumbling desperately with the zipper of your dress. If you had opened the door any harsher, it would’ve come right off its hinges.

Your dress pooled at your feet and you kicked it off hurriedly as you entered your small bathroom. Stopping just for a second to gawk and laugh at your reflection in the mirror. You did look like a raccoon, one that just had a heavy make-out session, that is.

You managed to wipe off your makeup in record time and hop in the shower.

Sighing loudly when the hot water from the showerhead hits your body, you lean against the other side of the wall. Not that it made much of a difference. The shower area was pathetically small, just enough room for you to spread one of your arms. How luxurious right?

Well, it was the apartment that you could afford. But now you’d have enough money to get out of this hovel. And you owed it all to one person.

It wasn’t just the hot water that was warming you up. Your mind kept drifting back to the hill. How hot and bothered you had become. How riled up you still are now.

Your fingers swiped over your lips, applying just the smallest amounts of pressure. His kiss still lingered on your lips, the fading taste of alcohol on the tip of your tongue.

Your finger trailed down between your breasts and along the curves of your figure. You could remember his starved touch, how the caress of his large hands left an ache between your legs. Oh, how you wanted to satiate it.

Your hand sneaked down to where you wish his had gone.

A strangled gasp escaped you as soon as you brushed your sensitive bud. That’s how pent up you were. Your cheeks reddened, because all you could think of was what he would say if he were here.

“So needy.” He would tease. “All for me.”

The hand on your lips inched up to your hair, gripping hard. If it were him, how hard would he pull? How far would he go?

You let your imagination ran wild. Your finger rubbed small circles on your clit, and you imagined it was his thick and large fingers instead of yours. His body would be pressed against yours, pressing you harder into the wall. His lips would be by your ear, asking you how good you felt, before they continued to make red marks down your neck.

Then his lips would trail down to your chest, his hot breath igniting the nerves of your skin before he wraps his plump lips around your nipple, sucking the sweet moans out of you.

“Count for me, love?” His already deep voice would be an octave deeper. The tip of his middle finger pressed lightly against your entrance. It sent jolts of electricity up your spine.

He slowly inserted the first finger, dragging out the feeling so you can take it in. It earned a whiny moan from you.

“O-One…” You breathed out.

His middle finger began to thrust in and out, his thumb still playing with your swollen bud. Your gasps and moans were music to his ears.

“Ready for more?” He grinned wickedly. His index finger came into play and yet another eager whimper escaped you. His fingers curled up in a come-hither motion, curling against the spot that has your toes curling.

“TwO- FUCK!” You bite down on your lip, hard. You were loud. Your free hand goes up to clamp your mouth while his fingers continue to pump in and out of you rhythmically.

“No, no.” He suddenly says, his other hand letting go of your hair to move to your jaw. He pulls away your hand covering your mouth. “Let me hear you.”

And so you did, staring straight into his greens while he soaks up every sweet moan and curse from you.

Then he added his third finger, adding onto the thickness, filling you up more. A loud cry left your lips from deep within your throat at the additional friction.

“You can take it?”

You just nod in reaction, desperately grinding against his fingers as a sign for more. He took in your response with a lick of his lips.

He began to quicken the pace of his pumps, and the pace of his thumb around your bud. You just hope you didn’t wake the neighbors as your head threw back in ecstasy, loud pants and moans filling the small room.

“You’re such a good girl for me.” He groaned. “Such a good girl.”

Your eyes shut tightly as your mind clouded over. You couldn’t keep them open when you started to reach your high.“

"Are you gonna cum for me?” He asked, placing kisses on the tips of your chest. “Let me hear it. Let the whole floor hear you.”

You could see yourself on the small mirror of the other side of the wall. Your full breasts rising and falling, chest heaving. Your head against the wall while your jaw slacked wide open with filthy moans. You, chasing your high and getting off to imagination.

In the mirror, you see a glint of green through a blur of tears. The emerald earrings, still on your ears. You had forgotten to take them off. It turned you on further.

“Come on.” He says. “Scream my name.”

The pace on your clit quickens, the shine of the emeralds egged you on. All of it sent you over the edge. You couldn’t hold back your loud cry when you reached your toe-curling, back-arching orgasm. Your vision is white and eyes were squeezed shut, but you could still see his eyes savoring you as you fell apart.

“BILLY!” You moaned hard, knees buckling as you gasp for breath through your high.

“Good girl.” You barely hear his whisper through the muffled ring in your ears. You couldn’t feel anything besides the intensity between your legs.

But it ended sooner than you had hoped, and the feeling ended within a matter of seconds. You’re left to lean against the wall for balance while you blink away the white spots of pleasure, chuckling quietly at what you just did.

You steadied yourself with your arms. Your fingers were starting to cramp up.

It was suddenly so quiet, with just the sound of the water hitting your skin and the tiles. It felt so solitary, so empty. There hadn’t been a blond hunk that fingered you to orgasm. Oh, but wouldn’t it be nice if there had been?

You pumped a few blobs of shampoo into your palm, massaging it into your hair. Your reflection stared back at you. And so did the earrings.

Maybe... Just maybe... And you admit it.

You walked a few steps in front of the mirror, gazing at the emeralds. You smiled fondly.

Maybe you fancied Billy.

Tags:

@pippin248

@queenlover05

@sjeunhaelover

@takemetoneverland420

@onceuponadetectivedemigod

@dabitchisback

If I forgot to tag you I’m sorry!!

#6 underground #billy x reader #6underground!billy x reader #ben hardy #ben hardy x reader

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staarshines · 4 years

Text

Attached: Chapter 1

Warnings: Spoilers for 6 Underground, basically everything related to getting a deep gash in your leg (blood, blood loss, description of wound, collapsing), a ton of cursing, Six’s death in detail, hydrogen peroxide on an open wound, mentions of stitches, passing out

WC: 2.1k

You know you’re not supposed to get close to the ghosts since their line of work is so dangerous, but you can’t help but fall in love with one of them. Being “Zero” means the ghosts are your top priority. But when you almost die putting them first, a certain blond wants you to rearrange those priorities.

[A/N]: I rewrote the truck that Four and Three were in during Florence to be a black 5 seater with a trunk kind of like this one anyway enjoy this :)

“That was… a shitshow,” you declare as Three pulls into the parking garage. Four just nods, resting his head against the window. You wince, trying to ignore the pulsing on the outside of your thigh. Looking down at your right leg, you hold back a groan as you see the pink flesh overlaid with a darker red that had soaked your black leggings. The wound had to be at least an inch deep.

You had attained it from skywalking with Four but tolerated it as you ran; you didn’t want to slow him down or alarm the rest of the team. Five already had to worry about Two and you’re not sure who else; comms had gone dark after both cars had lost their trails so communication wouldn’t be intercepted. Plus, you had decided to go out in the field with Four instead of hacking or driving, like your usual roles.

Big mistake, your throbbing gash reminds you. You shake your head to rid your vision of dark spots and wipe away the sweat on your forehead with the front of your cut out tank top.

Three brakes in front of the lime green car Six had chosen for the getaway. You quickly look around and smile at his choice of flashiness, getting out of the car cautiously as to not aggravate your wound more. Making sure you’re not limping, you ignore the pain and walk up to the hood of the black car. Resting your back on it and relieving your bad leg of any pressure, you make sure your gash is at an angle so nobody in front of you can see it. Everyone starts to get out of the luxury car rather quietly, causing you to arch an eyebrow and cross your arms. Shouldn’t we be celebrating? Whatever, everyone’s probably just tired. The other eyebrow goes up when you notice splatters of blood on the left side of One’s face. You scour his body for cuts, but don’t come across anything major.

Before you can say anything, Four comes up to you and mirrors your actions, leaning on the hood of the car. “You alright, love?” Your turn your head left to face him and just give him a smile and nod. Shit, he needed to stop calling you love. You had already fallen for him, which was against One’s rules. You understood why One didn’t want you guys getting personal with each other, but you couldn’t hold back your feelings; becoming best friends with Five and Six and crushing hard on Four.

At this rate, you would actually end up dead.

“You did really good today. You’re a natural; you should get out in the field more,” he tells you honestly.

You smile. “Thanks. I want to, but One made me a part of this team for you guys. You guys come first, then me. I do everything to make sure you guys successful. In fact, the only reason One let me be in the field with you is because this is our first mission. It’s why I’m called Zero,” you shrug.

He frowns, clearly not content with your answer. “To make sure we’re successful,” he corrects you, and you give him a sad smile. “You should come first.”

“But I don’t, and that’s okay.” I’m used to it. He sighs. Scanning the rest of the team in front of you, you notice that everyone’s out of the car besides Six. One, Two, and Five are shooting each other looks which you dismiss. “Six, we have to go,” you call out, craning your neck to see the driver’s seat. “One’s a billionaire, he can get you another one of these—” and then you see it.

The forks of a forklift are impaling Six in the neck and chest.

You furrow your brows, not processing what you’re seeing. “Six?” You ask, walking through the team over to the car. Your gash is the last thing on your mind, the first is what the hell happened to Six? You stop dead in your tracks a couple feet away from the car, eyes trailing down the skid marks the car had left. Suddenly, it clicks, and everything hits you at once. He made it here, but he didn’t see the forklift and couldn’t stop in time and— bam. He looked peaceful. Like he was sleeping. You try to imagine his last moments. Did he see it coming? Was he scared? Did it hurt?

Light footed steps come up behind you and you recognize them as Four’s. Everyone was dead silent. Nobody was closer to Six than you. Hell, most of the team thought you two were fucking until Two pointed out the way you looked at Four to Three and Five. Six was like the best friend you never had, and now he was… gone.

Your gash feels like it’s on fire, but you’re not going to make this about yourself. Six was dead. Actually dead. You watch, unable to move as Three gently removes Six from the car by putting it in reverse and One pulls out a body bag from the trunk. Your head pounds as Three gently lays him in the bag and One zips him up. For some reason, it makes you angry. The fact that One just had a body bag, like he was prepared for any of you guys to die at any time. But that’s it, you realize.

That’s what you signed up for.

“Zero,” Four starts, gently laying a hand on your shoulder. He hesitates but then grabs your shoulder, and you turn to see why he’d suddenly grabbed you. “Christ, you’re fucking freezing.” The mood in the air changes from somber to fearful as you feel the team’s gaze shift to you.

“Is she in shock?” Five asks, and you hear her heels start to click, coming towards you and Four. As if on cue, your right leg gives out and you grab Four for support; thankfully, due to his fast reflexes, he catches you right before you fall. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying your best to avoid screaming in pain.

“Zero, look at me. Look at me!” You open your eyes, and there’s something in those crystal green eyes you’ve never seen before. Fear.

“It’s not shock,” Five declares staidly and you groan, knowing she’s found the gash in your leg. “How long have you had this, Zero?”

“Had what?” The fear in Four’s voice hurts you more than your wound, if possible. He looks from you to Five to you again, then your leg. His jaw goes slack and you look down at your leg, noticing it’s gotten a lot worse than before. “What the fuck happened?” Shit, keep your voice down.

“I tripped,” you say sarcastically, but immediately wince afterwards. Four’s eyes soften, but you can’t tell if it’s because he’s scared or knows how much pain you’re in. You never showed pain. The fact that you even winced spoke more than a thousand words. He gently lies you down, sitting down and putting your head in his lap. “It was the rooftop you thought I wouldn’t make right after we got off the Duomo. I don’t know what the hell scratched me.”

“The Duomo? You’ve had this for fifteen fucking minutes and you didn’t bother tell me?” He yells, looking at your wound then you. You don’t know how to respond. Normally, you’d punch someone out for yelling at you, but you deserved this.

“It would’ve just slowed us down—”

“Is this the ‘you guys come first’ shit?!” You can’t find an answer that won’t make him mad, knowing in all ways the answer was “yes”.

“You call this a scratch?” Five asks you, genuinely annoyed and scared at the same time. You feel her gently try to pry it to see what’s going on and inhale sharply.

“Don’t you fucking dare die!” You hear One yell, and you roll your eyes.

“I don’t plan on it!” You yell back angrily, immediately regretting your decision to use that much energy.

Five sighs. “Whatever the thing was, it caught her deep. I don’t think it hit an artery, though. The bleeding hasn’t stopped, so I’m going to need stitch it up and give her a transfusion. I can’t do any of that right now, so we just have to—”

“—pack it because it won’t stop bleeding and get back on the plane as soon as we can,” you finish for her, seeing her nod. Your constant hanging out with Five had given you at least half her medical knowledge and you both hated and loved her for it.

“We have to dump Six first,” One adds, and you turn your head in his direction. “That was not the best way to word it—”

“Have some fucking respect,” you complain, wincing once again as Five tries to hold pressure.

“We have one other problem,” she starts, and you turn your head to look at her once again. “I don’t have any lap pads or morphine.” Oh fuck. “But I need to pack the laceration. Three, is there anything in the car?”

“Nothing,” he tells her, and you close your eyes, realizing you were in some deep shit. Five bites her lip, looking at you.

“So I’m either gonna pass out when you’re packing it or pass out in a couple of hours. I wish I was alive,” you moan, prompting a slight chuckle from the team.

“I’m going to have to clean it and pack it with gauze.” Your eyes widen and you prop your elbows on Four’s lap to look at her.

“What?” She shakes her head, trying to tell you she isn’t kidding. “Gauze won’t stop the bleeding if it hasn’t already stopped. And water won’t clean it out well enough, will it?”

“We’ll just have to hope for the best. God, I really wish you didn’t know this much about medicine.” She gives you a sad smile.

“Hydrogen peroxide,” you declare, knowing it was the only way to go.

“But that’s going to kill the good and the bad bacteria, not to mention maybe the tissue.” You strain your neck to look at Three, surprised. He casts a look around himself, seeing the confused faces of the team. “What? I’m not a total idiot.” You hold back a smile, removing your elbows from Four’s thighs and placing your head in his lap once again.

“I don’t know what she was cut by, and she’s been running around like an idiot for, what did you say, fifteen minutes?” She looks up at Four.

“Oh my god, please don’t bring him back into this—”

“Zero, just shut up, will you? Save your damn energy.” Well, he’s in his defensive stage now. You knew him too well. He’d panic, become defensive, then start to shut everyone out. One brings over her bag and sets it down on her left, giving you a look that was a mix of sympathy and annoyance. Maybe a hint of fear. You were the first member One had ever recruited, so it was natural that you two were close. After dying, he coped with his emotions by putting up a front and deflecting with cold sarcasm, something you’d learned to not take personally and see through. The others would in due time as well.

“Can we do this in the car? Backup’s probably three minutes away—” One stops talking as soon as he receives a hard look from Five. “Just don’t kill her.”

“She’ll be out by then. My guess is she’s trying to stay awake,” Five tries to lighten the mood, and you cock an eyebrow. She shrugs and rummages through her bag, pulling out gauze and the maroon bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide you oh so hated. You close your eyes, trying to get your shit together before you had to deal with more pain. “Do you want me to tell you when?” She asks sincerely, and your stomach flips like crazy. You could handle most types of pain, but hydrogen peroxide on an open wound? Fuck that.

“No. Just do it.” In an instant, your gash feels like it’s on fire, and you gasp. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You throw your head against Four’s lap, biting your lip so hard you can feel the skin break. You can barely breathe, mind completely focused on your throbbing leg.

“I thought you said she’d be out!” You can only imagine the look on Four’s face.

“I didn’t know she had this much tolerance! I’m giving her another round!” Your stomach drops, not wanting to go through that again. You try to protest her decision but no words form; your brain is too focused on your burning leg.

“Zero, you’ll be okay. I promise.” Four’s voice soothes you, but it can’t stop the agony you’re in. The last thing you feel is a light stinging before you go senseless.

Masterlist

All taglists are open! Send me an ask or a message :)

Permanent: @becausewhyknotme, @criminal-cookies, @theladyoffangorn, @officialtonystarkprotectionsquad, @justmebeingtheweirdmeiam, @agentpeggybarnes

#four x reader #four x you #four x y/n #billy x reader #billy x you #billy x y/n #six underground x you #six underground x reader #six underground x y/n #six underground fic #six underground imagine #my writing

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itmighthavebeenintentional · 4 years

Text

Shackled - Chapter 8

Summary: After nearly ten years, Sam Winchester calls Miriam Bard to collect on a life debt. Unfortunately for Miriam, Sam leaves out a few important details.

WARNINGS CHANGE EACH CHAPTER, PLEASE CHECK EACH TIME.

Warning: Show level violence, implied loss of family, blood, grieving, depression, cursing, Demon!Dean, emotional manipulation, mind fuckery, psychological manipulation, questioning one’s sanity, emotional exhaustion, depression, blood, consuming blood, Was it just a dream?, sexual content, biting

Word Count: 1567

Author’s Note: @cracksinthewalls had very little to correct in this chapter, which made me pretty damned happy. Thanks to @thoughtslikeaminefield , who went through all this more than once and kept pushing me to make it even better. Thanks to @fangirlxwritesx67 for all the flailing. Me too, girl, me too. Please read/heed the warnings. 18+ ONLY.

In case you missed it:

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch 7

Masterlist

Chapter 8

Unnaturally strong fingers slid up her sides, hooking under her arms and pulling her upright. She spun around only to find a knifepoint pressed under her chin, and her head tilted back so sharply she could only just see the void staring back at her from the demon’s eyes.

She reached instinctively for the back of her waistband, but Dean pressed the tip of his knife upwards, and she scrabbled at his arms to keep from overbalancing.

She felt a sting under her chin, followed by a trickle of warmth that cooled as it slid down her throat.

“Think this’s what you’re looking for,” he said, flexing his grip on the blade as he drank in her tense, terrified expression. He nodded at the island behind her. “Hop up.”

Miriam hesitated, frozen, but a little extra pressure from the knife had her moving backward, stepping up to awkwardly sit on the edge of the metal prep table.

Pots and pans swung crazily around her head until Dean shifted, his face tightening for a split second. A wave of concussive force sent the cookware flying into the wall with a deafening metallic clang.

“Comfy?” he murmured, crowding her space, invading her senses.

He smelled of sulfur and musk, smokey and dizzying as if his close proximity was sucking the oxygen straight from her lungs. His nose dragged up the scar tissue on the side of her neck, inhaling deeply, and she fought against the urge to moan at the contact.

“Good,” he rasped, not waiting for a response. “We’re gonna be here a while.”

He jerked the dagger from her neck and flung it away without looking. The knife buried itself to the hilt in the wall, but before Miriam could react, the demon pulled her face to his until they were nose to nose.

“You’re not here; you can’t get out of the dungeon,” she choked, fingers clenched around his wrists, failing to budge his grip even an inch. “This is a dream. I’m dreaming-”

“I’m flattered,” he said, ignoring her panicked struggles as he tilted her head to the side. Satisfied with the angle, Dean pressed the tip of his tongue to the base of her throat, tracing the line of blood upwards until he reached the tiny cut. He fastened plush lips to the wound, sucking fiercely, and Miriam lost all pretense of defiance.

Something clenched hot and desperate in the pit of her belly, and her legs wrapped around the demon’s waist, locking him in place. She tangled her fingers in his hair, her hiss of pleasure turning to a strangled curse as his teeth dug in, pain searing across her throat.

“You can make this stop anytime you want to,” he breathed. His voice was hypnotic, his presence an intoxicating fog that clouded her mind against logical thought. She stared at him hazily, taking in his endless, ebony eyes, the smear of her own blood around his mouth, the shine of his teeth in the harsh lighting.

All at once, the uncertainty, the pain, the grief, just... stopped.

“What I want is for you to shut your goddamned mouth,” she snarled, fisting the hair at the crown of his head.

She yanked his head back, closing her lips on his chin, tasting blood, feeling the stubble scraping over her tongue and the rumble of his growl ticklish against her hypersensitive nerves. Her legs contracted, pulling him closer, and his fingers dug into her ass, dragging her forward until nothing could fit between them.

“What do you want me to shut it on?” he asked, his voice grinding at her resolve even as his hips ground against hers.

Her fingers jerked reflexively in his hair, and his eyes snapped shut as he exhaled with an expression just short of reverence. When he lowered his gaze again, her lungs locked at the depth of his hunger.

“I’m gonna bleed you dry.”

He lunged forward, and his teeth latched onto her neck once more, sinking into the flesh with decisive finality.

Miriam’s eyes snapped open as her knees buckled.

She found herself sprawled on the kitchen floor, hand clasped to her scarred but intact throat. She snatched at her lower back, fingers closing around the handle of the demon blade, and her jaw clenched as she fought to get her breathing under control.

Metal cookware swung cheerfully above the island in the empty kitchen, and she swore as she stood on shaky legs. Miriam clutched hard at the metal table as rage flooded her senses, tingeing her vision red.

“Son of a bitch,” she swore.

Strength surged through her trembling limbs as her adrenaline spiked, steadying her. She straightened and stalked from the room. She needed to vent this crazed energy, to tear something apart or smash it to pieces.

Her first thought was the pretty face in the dungeon just a few rooms over. And though she currently felt equal to the task, even in her heightened emotional state, she realized very quickly just how bad an idea that was.

“No matter how much he deserves it,” she seethed as she passed the door to the dungeon.

Her feet found their way to her temporary bedroom, and she paced furiously, muttering under her breath.

Maybe there was a gym around somewhere; this place had obviously housed a lot of people at one point, folks who were comfortable living underground. There was bound to be somewhere for them to get some sort of exercise. She swapped out her t-shirt for a tank top, switched jeans for leggings, and grabbed her gun and the demon blade before setting out.

Since she had no idea what she was looking for, Miriam resorted to checking every room she came across. After five empty bedrooms identical to her own, she wondered if this were simply some sort of bizarre motel or dorm. Then she came across something different.

Structurally, this room matched the others, with its outdated furniture and machines, but someone had settled here more recently and taken the time to make it an actual home.

Weapons and souvenirs lined shelves around the room and above the bed, a basket of laundry perched on a chair, and there were even some highly questionable magazines tossed aside for future perusal. On a small phone table next to the wall, notebooks were heaped haphazardly where someone had been called away in the middle of research.

“And a snack,” she said softly, noting the half-eaten piece of pie that seemed to be partially mummified.

The table was littered with scribbled notes circling a very old-fashioned telephone, and a spiral notebook sat beneath the desiccated pastry. Miriam began to turn away but stopped, some hunter’s instinct tugging at the corner of her mind.

She looked back to the container of pie, shook her head, and looked at the notebook beneath it again. Tucked inside was a small stack of pictures. She set her weapons down, pulled out the photographs, and began flipping through them.

Family pictures, she realized. A young boy and a smiling blonde woman, the same woman in the second picture with a dark-haired man, still smiling. John and Mary Winchester, she realized. Most people in the hunting world knew the Winchesters’ story; it had been one of the reasons Miriam steered herself and Aaron clear of the few demonic cases that came their way.

Miriam paused, then glanced back at the first picture again. Her finger stroked down the little boy’s face.

“Dean.”

She wondered how long after that photo had been taken that his mother had died. Miriam was potentially looking at the last photographic evidence of Dean Winchester with a carefree smile.

The next picture showed Dean and Sam together with a familiar face. If most hunters knew the Winchesters’ story, then damn near everyone in the hunting world knew Bobby Singer. Hell, there had been a point in time when she and Aaron had Bobby as number one on their speed dial.

She smiled faintly, shuffling the pictures around.

The last two were both of Sam and Dean together, right around the time when she and Aaron had met the brothers, and she realized her assumption about the first picture wasn’t accurate.

The freeness in Dean’s posture, the open happiness on his face when he was next to his brother, despite everything he’d already been through up to that point in his life, stole her breath.

Miriam felt stinging behind her eyes as she studied his genuine joy, his relaxation, his unlined face.

This is what Sam is fighting for, she thought, and sniffled, catching herself off guard.

She cleared her throat, tilting her head back as the tears began to fall. The anger bled out of her in trickles and drips of saltwater.

What lie wouldn’t she tell, what atrocity wouldn’t she commit to save Aaron? Yes, Sam owed her a hell of a lot of answers, but could she honestly blame him?

I knew you’d understand, he’d said.

Still sniffling, she carefully replaced the photographs in their original order and stuffed them between the pages of the spiral notebook. She collected her weapons, then glanced down at the decomposing dessert, wrinkling her nose with distaste.

In the end, she shrugged and left it where it was.

She might be a glorified babysitter but damned if she was going to clean up after two grown men.

...

Chapter 9

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ryik-the-writer · 4 years

Photo

Chapter 28: The Missing Pan

A03

Chapter 1: Pan meets a Wendy

· Chapter 2: Scars (Felix’s Story)

· Chapter 3: Day One

· Chapter 4: Revenge and Fireflies

· Chapter 5: Brighter than Stars

· Chapter 6: filler: The Tigress

· Chapter 7: Operation Spotless!

· Chapter 8: Operation Spotless: Reporters Down

· Chapter 9: A Dance with the Devil

· Chapter 10: filler: Felix and the Pancake

· Chapter 11: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 1

· Chapter 12: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 2

· Chapter 13: The Girl With Blue Eyes: Underground

· Chapter 14. Recovery

· Chapter 14.2 Recovery some more

· Chapter 15: Trapped

Chapter 16: Filth

Chapter 17: Fairydust pt. 1

Chapter 18: Fairydust pt. 2

Chapter 19: The Mystery of the Dead Nun pt. 3

Chapter 20: The Mystery of the Dead Nun pt. 2

Chapter 21: The Mystery of the Dead Nun pt. 3

Chapter 22: Reflections pt. 1

Chapter 23: Reflections pt. 2

Chapter 24: Closing

Chapter 25: Felix is helping Pan

Chapter 26: Temporary Fix

Chapter 27: The Search Begins

It was like a bizarre book club meeting, except there was no book and the meeting was held at Tink’s forest of a living room.

He had found Pan’s broken cellphone nearly three days ago, and hadn’t seen hide or hair of him since.

He was worried, especially as he saw less and less of Wendy roaming the town looking for him.

No, he wasn’t stalking her that would be creepy. He was just watching her from afar, usually behind buildings, in case Pan reappeared by her side.

He was worried about the little shit, even if he’d rather not think about him and what they were—or rather what they had been.

Their relationship was on Pan’s terms, as it had been the night August returned to Storybrooke two years ago.

It had been just a glitch on their timeline, a moment in history that would go unrecorded.

He had returned to Storybrooke after the money he pawned from several of his father’s tools ran out.

He was tired and sore, not sure whether he was back to ask for forgiveness or to take more from his loving father. His motorcycle was nearly out of gas, his tires shreds of rubber attached to rims.

He hadn’t realized the clusterfuck he’d road in on. That Storybrooke was practically on lockdown after Jekyll killed those two girls—and nearly a third, he’d find out later.

And—for his own sanity—Pan was waiting at the town line for the psychopath to return, with the blunt end of his camera at that.

As his head was spinning from being clabbered over the head from the hit, Pan had kicked him onto his back.

“Shit,” he had said. “You’re not him.”

“Lucky for me,” August deadpanned, wobbling as he picked himself up. “Want to explain why the hell you did that?”

“Monster hunting,” Pan had stated, staring at him suspiciously, offering him no assistance.

It was close to 3 a.m., a completely unreasonable hour for anyone to be running around—travelers or off-their-knocker journalists.

“Yeah,” August muttered, grabbing his bike and preparing to head into the town.

“Everything’s closed,” Pan said. “You’re better off sleeping in the woods.”

It was none of the little shit’s business. In fact it was probably best if he kept his entire being to himself. For he knew his father had taken out a report to the police.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Thanks for not giving me a concussion.”

“You might as well come back with me.”

The weight of those words still clung to August’s brain this very day.

That brutal, flirtatious, broken boy…

“What’s this about?

August looked up. Tink, Felix and Lily Tigress were surrounding him, trying to figure as much as he was what the hell was going on.

August stood, feeling the mix of emotions from the people in the room.

“Pan’s missing.” He said, simply.

The reactions that followed fit everyone perfectly.

Tinkerbell scoffed and rolled her eyes while Felix seemed to melt with fear. Tigress snorted.

“Have you checked all the holes in the city?” she teased.

“And ditches,” he replied humorlessly. “He’s not anywhere.”

“Maybe check in the depths of hell.” Tink muttered, flopping down on her couch.

“What happened,” Felix inquired, obviously the only other person in the room that had general concern.

“I have no idea,” August sighed.

“It’s probably nothing!” Tink exclaimed, visibly aggravated. “He’s always pulling shit like this, we all know it!” she looked around at everyone, their eyes dropping .

“I don’t know this time—” August began before Tink cut him off.

“He’s fine! He’s off screwing someone or ruining a life. He’ll come back and continue as normal.”

August blinked hard and reached into his pocket. In a flash he threw Pan’s broken, dead cellphone onto Tink’s coffee table, an inch away from Tigress’s boots.

The occupants of the room stared at the device like it was something that had just fallen from the sky, as if they had no idea what to make of it.

“I found this the other night at the docks,” August explained, swallowing a lump. “I’ve been looking for him ever since. It died a few hours after I found it.”

Felix gripped his kneecaps until his fingers turned white. Tigress glanced at him and then at Tink’s still shoulders, wishing she could reach into her back and unknot every single one of her muscles.

“It could be an accident,” Tink said, her mind numb.

“There’s something wrong here, Tink,” August said. “Something I don’t think we’ve dealt with before.”

Tink nodded slightly. She could accept that this was a bit odd, but she wasn’t ready to relent to a search just yet.

“Did you go through the phone, see who he called last?” Felix inquired.

A cold sweat ran down August’s back.

“Yeah…it…it was me,” he looked straight ahead, trying to avoid Tink’s direct gaze. “The night he wrote that story about you.”

Tink barely moved, the only indication that she heard August was the darkening of her pupils.

“Last time I saw him was the morning after that when Wendy showed up and…all the other stuff happened.”

“Have you talked to her?” Tigress asked. “Why isn’t she here?”

August thought about the blonde enigma who spent the better part of two days searching for the wild boy…

And then she stopped…

Not from falling into a fate like Pan’s, but rather a strange dark haired man seemed to be gypsying her away from her task.

Maybe she had the same mindset as Tink, that Pan was somewhere safe and sound but avoiding the rest of the world.

Or perhaps she’d finally realized she deserved to use her time the way she wanted and not focus so much on Pan.

When he’d see her in town, her gaze would occasionally stray to the streets and into shops, looking for him without trying.

But she wasn’t alone. There was someone else with her, some dark entity that always seemed to be just out of both their line of site.

“She’s looking for him,” August concluded.

“Have you gone to Graham?”

“No, not yet,” he admitted.

Tink smiled bitterly. “There’s your answer,”

August leaned forward. “Do you really think Graham is going to take this seriously with Pan’s track record?”

“That’s the best thing to do!” Tink yelled. “He’s not our problem.”

“Yeah, he is,”

“No he’s fucking not! We have nothing to do with any of this!”

“Yeah we do!”

“He’s your little fuck buddy not mine!”

A wave of sand coursed through August’s throat, cutting him off.

“Okay, that’s enough!” Felix finally jumped in, evenly meeting Tink’s glare. “He’s right, we have to help.”

“Are you kidding me, Felix!” Tink exploded.

“What he did was terrible,” Felix injected, putting everything everyone in the room had held in for days now. “But if you turn your back on him and something really is wrong, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. Because he is family, Tink. He’s one of us.”

He stepped forward, keeping his distance after taking her stiff posture into account.

“And you know he didn’t do any of this to hurt you, even if he did,”

Tink scoffed. “I know that. But I’m so sick of him thinking rules don’t apply to him and that he’s invincible,” she paced a bit, thinking about the wild-haired boy to always brought so much chaos into their lives. Who was more trouble than any of them knew what to do with.

“What if he’d been alone that night?” She wondered aloud, knowing firsthand the type of cruelty Mother Superior could enact when pushed too far.

Pan was in trouble, and this time it was more serious than ever of them had ever seen before.

He was usually good at getting himself out of messes and suffering the consequences on his own. But things were different this time. This time he was somewhere none of them could find.

Tink groaned, tucking her anger away for later.

“When was the last day you talked to Wendy?” she sighed in August’s direction.

His lip twitched in gratification. “The day she told me Pan was missing.”

“Then Lily and I will check with her first.” Tink said, voice strong with leadership. “You and Felix check the paper and Graham and all his usual haunts.”

Before Felix could ask for more, Tink was out the door.

Lily gave the men a shrug before following her friend, not looking to cause a fight with the fiery blonde.

Felix sighed in relief when they finally left, trying his best to stay calm. Last thing he needed was to fall into a seizure.

“That takes care of that,” August teased. “You ready?”

Felix looked over at him, frowning heavily. He had no feeling for August, good or bad. The two didn’t see or speak to each other than the few times he left Pan’s place.

He wasn’t a bad person from what Felix could gather, but he wasn’t the best influence on Pan. He was too casual, not interested in settling down.

Adding gasoline to the fire of Pan’s soul.

Still, obviously he cared about him enough that he cared if he was missing or not, so some points were warranted.

“We’ll need to start with Graham first,”

“Why’s that?”

Felix frowned. “I might know the reason he’s missing.”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Pan wasn’t sure where to target his latest wave of sickness from.

The swaying ship, the dehydration, or the infection building around his numb wrists from the metal cuffs?

He was more than certain he was developing some kind of bladder infection as well.

God he was tired.

Jones hadn’t been to see him in a day and a half, or at least that’s what he was estimating judging by the light that was coming in thorough the cracks of the ship.

He wondered what he was doing, especially to Wendy. Had he hurt her? Was he torturing her right now to get information out of her?

What did this asshole hope to accomplish keeping him locked up? Why didn’t he just off him already?

Or maybe this was it. Maybe he just wanted to kill him slowly.

As he nodded in and out of consciousness, he caught images of the people in his life. Wendy and Felix up front, Tink, August, and Tigress just behind them. Even Glass and Gold, and deeper in the shadows, Belle.

Each time he woke up, they would vanish, and Pan wouldn’t remember who he was dreaming about.

The smell of salt was enough to make him vomit now. He was dying, and he was doing so cruelly slow.

Would any of the people he kept seeing in that place between sleep and awake ever know what had happened to him.

Was anyone looking for him?

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The last few days had become sort of a new routine for Wendy. She’d leave her apartment at the crack of dawn and visit Pan’s apartment…knocking just in case he’d come home.

But he hadn’t, and she’d let herself in and feed his fuzzy orange cat who had yet to be utterly concern about his master’s disappearance.

It was comforting feeding the large cat without Pan’s interference, she thought. No one to pick fun at her at every opportunity. No one to push her into a corner, away from her safest places.

No one to pick fun at her at every opportunity. No one to push her into a corner, away from her safest places.

It was unsettling, Pan’s absence. But there was an odd peace in the air. One that didn’t quite fit in Storybrooke’s atmosphere, but one that was welcome. If only for a short time.

Each day without the wild boy was like a blurry vacation: you knew each day was passing by but the details were unclear.

And somehow Pan was blurring from her memory as well.

She’d wake up in the dead of night with a glimpse of him in the air above her head.

Then he’d disappear, and she’d fall asleep without concern.

It felt wrong, to brush him off after all they’d been through, even in her sleep.

But there was an odd freedom to letting him go, especially if he didn’t want to be found.

She stared at the number on her cell phone glaring back at her, the one she’d called constantly in the last four days.

He doesn’t want to be found, she reminded herself. Calling him again would be fruitless.

She knew this, it was imbedded in her brain at this point.

Yet she pressed his number again and listened as his voice mail immediately came up.

It’s Pan. Call me back.

No, she decided solemnly, she wouldn’t.

“Hi, Pan…it’s…it’s me again.” Wendy chuckled. “I guess you know that by now…”

She paused, knowing if she were quiet for too long she’d have to start over.

She didn’t want to start over. She wanted to go forward.

“Look,” she sighed. “I can’t keep doing this with you. Everyday it’s a fight with you and I have no idea why. I don’t know what I did the other day to make you leave like that…but you need…”

She paused again.

“Well I don’t know what you need o honestly, but it’s something you have to figure out for yourself.”

She considered hanging up then, but she didn’t want to leave him on such a harsh note.

“I really hope you try, Pan, because I don’t want to fight with you anymore. After everything, I really want us to be—“

The voicemail beeped, inquiring if she wanted to start over or if she was satisfied with her message.

She didn’t want to start over.

So she hung up and headed to the docks.

Killian was there, as he always seemed to be.

Perhaps it was her need for new freedom that silenced the warning bells in her head, that made her drop the walls and inhibitions that had clung to her like a second skin during the last several months.

She approached him without fear, without any type of concern holding her back.

And she didn’t question him when he slid a manila folder into his leather coat.

“Is dinner still on the table?” she questioned.

He tilted his head, amused, though his pulse was racing. “I thought lunch was the next step.”

Wendy shrugged, stepping a bit closer. “I’m feeling…braver than I did yesterday.”

He chuckled, concealing the folder further into his jacket for dear life. “Well then, Miss Wendy Darling, tomorrow night?”

She smiled, relieved. “I’d like that.”

He watched her leave, noting the little pep in her step.

Such a lovely girl, he thought, and more malleable than he had originally foreseen. Jones thought he was going to have to push her more to fall into his grip, but it would seem she was finally crumbling.

He made his way back to this ship quickly, opening the folder full of information for his backup plan.

He stepped into his cabin, breaking out his best rum. This was a small victory after all.

Some of the glasses on his counter shook lightly, so little they could almost be missed. Jones rolled his eyes. He’d forgotten to feed his captive again…and water him for that matter.

Whoops.

He still hadn’t told him why he’d requested those files, what he was digging for.

Who he was searching for.

And how Miss Darling was involved was still being revealed, but time was running short.

He had been given orders to find out now.

He spread his new leverage across the table, frowning a bit.

The two boys, preteens by the look of it, caught his eye first. He hated targeting kids. It was so pointless.

His eyes traveled to the woman next. He could see bits of Wendy in her, especially in the shape of her eyes. She had the man’s jaw however…and his frown, he noticed with amusement.

A tidy little family in danger of meeting the blunt end of his gun.

Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, he decided as he hid the folder. Hopefully, very soon, Wendy would tell him what he wanted to know.

The pipes sang from Pan’s struggle again.

He was already a dead man walking, and too tight-lipped to save now.

Feeding time.

#darling pan #darling pan fic #wendy darling #ouat fic #ouat #peter pan #felix #tinkerbell #captain hook

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monstaxsthetics · 5 years

Text

Ch. 3

Genre: Angst/Romance/Action

Warnings: Harsh Language/Violence

Characters: Wonho/Lee Hoseok x OC x Monsta X

Word Count: 4k

Synopsis: Nara and Hoseok split ways six years ago. She was not a top trauma nurse who couldn’t be happier with her life and Hoseok was head of her father’s security detail. When her father is kidnapped and her life is put in danger, Hoseok and Nara are reunited. What will come of the reunion and will they find her father before it’s too late?

A/N: A good majority of this chapter takes place in flashbacks and multiple POVs. I hope it’s not too confusing. Enjoy!

Ch.1 Ch. 2

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[6 Years Ago]

“H-hoseok please don’t do this. You don’t have to do this!”

The ground felt like it was cracking beneath Nara’s feet, the earth ready to swallow her whole with each word he said.

“It’s over, Nara.”

“Then look me in the eyes when you say it, you coward!”

She stared him down, willing her bottom lip to stop quivering and dared him to repeat himself.

He steeled himself as he looked at her, shoulders squared. He couldn’t back down now. This was the only way. His two months was up and this had to end. Hoseok already loathed himself, so this would just be another item to add to the list of reasons why.

“Nara-yah, let’s end this here, hm?”

“No, let’s not. Not without an explanation. You owe me that much, Hoseok.”

The knots in Nara’s stomach twisted and turned to the point she felt faint. She faltered, reaching out to the nearby railing to steady herself.

Hoseok reached out to catch her if she were to fall but stopped himself, knowing that if he touched her now, there was no way he could finish what needed to be done.

“I owe you everything, Nara”

“Pfft, then why? Why are you doing this to me? To us? Hoseok, this doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m not right for you, I don’t know how to love someone without hurting them. I can’t be the person that you deserve and I never will be. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

“That’s utter bullshit, Hoseok, and you know it!”

“P-Please Nara-yah”

To Nara, Hoseok’s voice cracking was a sign that he didn’t want to do this. That there was some other reason he was trying to leave her and she was damn determined to find out.

She took his moment of uncertainty and used it to walk up to him until they were mere inches apart. Cupping his face in one hand, she lay the other on his chest over his heart.

Hoseok’s breath hitched and caught in his throat. The urge to lean his head into her hand like he had done so many times before was too strong and for a moment he let his façade fall.

“Hoseok, I know this isn’t what you want. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

He let himself relish in the feel of her hands on him a few seconds longer before regaining his resolve, realizing he was an idiot to think she would let go this easily. Nara wasn’t dumb and she had always been a fighter. She wasn’t going to just let him end it this way.

“Dammit just tell me why you’re doing this! I love you, Hoseok.”

And there it was. The very words he needed to hear in order to end this once and for all. It would gut him to his core, but he would deal with that later. For now, he had to get this done and over with. He could punish himself and wallow in self-pity afterward.

“But I don’t love you, Nara. I’m sorry.”

It was barely a whisper. He couldn’t muster much more with the enormity of the lie he just told weighing on him.

Nara’s hands dropped, as she stumbled back, disbelief clouding her mind. Tears welling in her eyes as she continued to step back and away from the man she had spent the past two years loving.

“I-I’m so sorry, Nara - -”

“I never want to see you again.”

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She would hate him for walking away like this, but it was what was best for her. His life - the life that Hyunwoo and even her father lived, wasn’t meant for her. She deserved more, infinitely more.

Hoseok has been through hell in his life, but up to that point nothing had been harder than looking into her eyes and breaking her heart. When Hwang Ji had brought him into the family, he never imagined that he’d meet and fall in love with someone like Nara.

He was completely taken with her from the moment they met. He knew from the beginning that it could never work between them, and for the first few months, he resisted temptation and remained strong. But there was just something about Nara that pulled him in, almost against his will, and refused to let go.

She was bubbly and energetic, smart as hell, witty, raised in wealth and luxury, but the most down to earth person he’d ever met. She loved people fiercely and was loyal to a fault. He eventually gave in to his feelings for her and for the past two years he had known more happiness being by her side than he had ever felt.

That was until three weeks ago when he overheard her talking with her father about being accepted into one of the top trauma nursing programs in the country. An acceptance she planned to decline. When her father asked her why, she simply stated that she would be just as happy training at a local hospital as opposed to half way across the country at Ansan.

Hoseok knew this was crap. Nara had talked about the possibility of training at Ansan since they first met. He knew she was only staying for him. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let her sacrifice her future, her dreams, her happiness for him. Nara was the most kind, caring, selfless, and compassionate and person he knew. She was going to make an outstanding nurse and she deserved the best training their country had to offer.

He knew that she wouldn’t leave of her own accord, not while they were still together. So it was then that Hoseok decided to end things.

He knew it would be the hardest thing he would ever do, but even he couldn’t have foreseen how it would tear him to shreds, leaving him unable to sleep for months, and feeling like he could never catch a breath. But even then it didn’t matter, because he would do anything for her. Nara deserved more than someone like him and the danger that his lifestyle could put her in.

That’s how he found himself in the situation he was in now, trying to keep himself together as he looked into the eyes of the only woman he had ever loved and denied that exact fact.

“But I don’t love you, Nara. I’m sorry.”

He thought he would collapse as he watched her face fall, hit with the weight of his words. And when she told him she never wanted to see him again, his knees almost hit the hardwood and tears threatened to break the threshold they were maintaining at his lash line. He expected this type of reaction from her, but none of his mental preparation had been enough he heard her say the words aloud.

Nara accepted the offer at Ansan and left a few days later and Hoseok spent the next few weeks in a drunken stupor. Even Hyunwoo, his best friend, couldn’t lift his spirits. Instead it was Hwang Ji who delivered Hoseok words in which he could find solace. Hoseok expected his boss and mentor to be furious with him. Nara was his beloved daughter after all, but instead Hwang Ji offered Hoseok wisdom and understanding.

One evening over a bottle of soju, Hoseok confided in him the reason he left Nara the way he did. Hwang Ji said he understood and offered words that would help Hoseok find a way to live with the guilt and heartbreak - even if it couldn’t make it go away.

“Hoseok-ah, the best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, and the capacity for sacrifice.”

Hwang Ji’s voice had a gravel-like undertone. It boomed in his chest and around the room even when he was speaking in hushed tones. It was warm, reassuring, and calming as he placed a caring hand on Hoseok’s shoulder, squeezing ever so lightly.

“And you my son, are one of the best people I know. I could never be angry with you for the sacrifice you made for my Nara.”

That meant more to Hoseok than he could ever express, since to him, Hwang Ji was the best man Hoseok had met in his 22 years. Sure, he was a mafioso like so many others in the area, but so was Hoseok, and Hyunwoo. But Hwang Ji was different than most.

Hwang Ji was a mob boss with a different code. He had more morals than most others in their line of work. He didn’t deal in drugs or prostitution, he didn’t own a chain of strip clubs or seedy nightclubs with nefarious dealings in VIP rooms. His empire was built on a handful of casinos which housed illegal betting houses and underground fight clubs. He also dealt in illegal trade of art to bidders of great wealth and public standing.

For this reason the other mob bosses despised him. They hated that he was so successful without having to stoop to their levels. They felt he thought he was better than them. This made Hwang Ji the recipient of a growing number of threats and attempts on his life which lead to Hwang Ji forming a special security team to ensure extra protection for him and Nara.

Hoseok and Hwang Ji met one night when the latter made a rare appearance at one of his fight clubs on the lookout for new members to recruit to his security newly implemented team.

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[8 Years Ago]

Hoseok had been so cold and his head was pounding. He took a chance entering the illegal fight in the hopes that he would win and earn enough cash for a few nights at a crappy motel and some ramen. Somewhere warm and off the streets, at least. Instead he got his ass beat and now he was freezing, starving and in pain.

He needed to find somewhere to sleep and quick before he froze to death. Maybe he could find an empty train car or something. At this point he didn’t much care. He was used to sleeping in all kinds of places, from abandoned buildings, under bridges, to park benches. He’d been doing it since he aged out of the foster care system and was subsequently forced to leave his foster home two years prior.

Just as he spotted a bridge that he figured could provide enough cover from the harsh winds, a large black car pulled up next to where he stood on the sidewalk. He gripped the straps of his backpack tightly, prepared to make a run for it, as one of the heavily tinted windows rolled down revealing an impeccably dressed middle aged man with kind features and salt and pepper hair.

“Hello, my name is Hwang Ji. Do you mind if we speak for a moment?”

“What for?”

“I have a business proposition for you”

Hoseok looked around realizing there was no one else in sight. He swallowed hard realizing he could be killed or kidnapped right now and no one would be around to see.

Hwang Ji could sense his concern. “Look, it’s nothing weird. I saw you fight and you have potential. I have an offer for you, that’s all”

“Now I know you’re lying. I got my ass handed to me back there. Potential? Are you crazy?”

“Sure you lost, but you have skill and I’d like to offer you the chance to cultivate it.” Hwang Ji countered.

Hoseok still wasn’t sure, rubbing the back of his neck nervously and scraping his foot along the concrete, kicking at rocks that weren’t there.

“Look, you look starved. Let me at least buy you something to eat and you can hear me out. What do you say?”

Hwang Ji took Hoseok to a convenience store around the corner where he bought him some ramen, sausages, kimbap, and a soda. It was all Hoseok would allow as he was still weary of the man and also he didn’t want to feel like he was taking advantage even though he was more hungry than he cared to admit.

He was surprised to see the elder buy and eat the same items as him. He was sure that someone as well dressed and clearly established as him wouldn’t be caught dead eating such cheap food.

As they ate, Hwang Ji explained who he was and what he did as well as what he had in mind for Hoseok. He wanted to train him to become a member of his special security team. And with this offer came free room and board.

Hoseok almost choked when he heard him explain. It sounded too good to be true. Hwang Ji let out a light hearted laugh, patting Hoseok’s back and passing him his soda.

“I’ll tell you what, why don’t you come stay with me and train for a week? And while you’re there you can get some much needed sleep. At the end of the week you can give me your answer.”

Still skeptical but finding the prospect of hot meals and a bed hard to pass up, Hoseok agreed. The week of training and rest came and went, but Hoseok didn’t. He stayed with Hwang Ji, training, and growing ever closer to the man while he climbed his way to the top of his security team.

Now here he was sitting across from the only father he ever had and not regretting for one minute the choice he made that cold night two years ago.

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[Present Day]

She yawned as she made her way down the stairs, the aroma of strong black coffee calling to her like a siren song. All of the boys were already awake and up to their own antics and the kitchen was like a zoo. No, not a zoo because a zoo had some semblance of order. The animals were separated and contained. No, this, this was the jungle. She didn’t mind though. All the chaos reminded her of her days in the E.R. That and she loved the sense of normalcy it brought to the rather grave reason they had all been brought together in the first place.

Watching the boys - her makeshift family - scramble around in their own little worlds, warmed her heart the same way the coffee she sipped seemed to be warming her cold and stiff body, bringing it back to life.

“Morning, noona.” Kihyun greeted, picking up a plate of food from the stove, turning toward Nara to place it in front of her.

“Changkyun will be back soon. Hopefully he will have some intel for us.”

Changkyun had been putting in charge of “extracting” some information out of a lead they had for the whereabouts of her father.

It had been a few weeks now since her father was first kidnapped. She had resigned herself to the fact that it was highly possible that her father was no longer alive. It wouldn’t stop her from doing everything in her power to find him, whether she brought him home alive, or he she had to lay him to rest next to her mother, she would bring him home.

At the same time, Changkyun, not paying attention, slid through the kitchen in his socks in a mockery of the famous scene from “Risky Business”, coming to a stop at the end of the kitchen island.

“Yah! You scared the shit out of me!” Kihyun shouted at the younger.

“I am frighteningly handsome, aren’t I” Changkyun said, placing his hands up to his face and dramatically fluttering his eyelashes.

Nara did her best to hide the smirk on her face behind her coffee cup as she took another sip.

“Do you ever chill?”

“No, not really.” he shrugged.

Kihyun rolled his eyes. “Sit. Eat.”

“Yes, ma’am, I-I mean mom, I-I mean........no mom sounds about right”

Shaking her head and smirking once again, Nara finally accepted the plate and thanked Kihyun, and plopped down at an empty spot across from Minhyuk and Jooheon. Minhyuk was busy trying to spoon feed Jooheon his breakfast and the latter was engrossed in some game on his phone and growing evermore annoyed with his clingy, yet well-meaning boyfriend.

“Minhyuk please, I can’t think straight when you’re this close.”

“Oh please, Heonie. Thinking straight is the last thing anyone is asking you to do. Speaking of which, did you get my note?”

“You mean the one you left taped to my forehead? Yea, I got it.”

Everyone snickered at this little exchange as Jooheon just rolled his eyes.

“Pft really Minhyuk? Subtle, really subtle.” Hyungwon snorted.

“I am the master of subtlety, okay?”

“Oh please, you’re practically bioluminescent.”

No one could bicker better than Hyungwon and Kihyun which is why they were appropriately dubbed Tom & Jerry. But Minhyuk and Hyungwon were a close second. Hyungwon was always the first one to pick on Minhyuk and the open manner in which he chose to show his love for Jooheon. Part of Nara believed it was due to his own inability to accept his feelings for Changkyun and in turn he took that frustration out on Minhyuk for being so openly in love and happy.

Nara had confronted Hyungwon about his seemingly suppressed feelings a while back but was met with more resistance and denial.

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[2 Weeks Earlier]

“Are you ever going to tell him?”

Nara was sitting next to Hyungwon who was supposed to be watching the movie he picked out but was instead staring intently at a sleeping Changkyun.

Everyone else had either dozed off already or was out for the evening so Nara felt herself asking again when her first attempt was met with silence.

She nudged him, “Hyungwon?”

“Huh? What?” he asked coming out of his own thoughts.

“Are you ever going to tell Changkyun that you love him?”

“Pft, w-what?”

He swallowed nervously not making eye contact with her.

“I…I mean I-I’m I d-don’t. I mean w-what?”

“Its okay, I won’t tell anyone,” she reassured him. “But you should tell him.”

“Hah, yea that’s not going to happen,” he laughed half-heartedly. “And neither is this” he said gesturing between the two of them. “This little heart to heart or whatever just happened between us won’t happen again either. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Oh yes of course. I wouldn’t dare jeopardize your reputation.” Nara quipped sarcastically, standing from her spot on the couch and ruffled Hyungwon’s hair much to his disdain.

“Night, Wonnie.”

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[Present Day]

Back in the present, Minhyuk easily blew off Hyungwon’s snarky remarks and was quickly back to pestering his boyfriend about his note.

“So babe, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“About my noooooooote!”

“No Minhyuk, I don’t want to.”

“Pleeeeeease? It’s just a pasta dinner. I just want to go on a date with you. Please it will be romantic.”

“For the last time Minhyuk, if it was just dinner I wouldn’t care, but I’ve told you over and over again that sharing a piece of spaghetti like two stray dogs isn’t romantic and I won’t do it.”

“You never let me have anything!”

“Why? Why do you want this so bad?”

“Because I’m here, I’m queer, and I want pasta so give it to me!”

A chorus of laughter broke out among the eight of them. One laugh stood out louder and unfamiliar from the rest. They all turned their heads to see Hoseok doubled over the counter and laughing to his heart’s content.

They were all shocked. They couldn’t recall the last time they had seen Hoseok laugh, like genuinely and wholeheartedly laugh. Some weren’t sure they ever had. And here he was laughing unabashedly, tears breaking at the creases of his eyes. The sound and sight was undeniably beautiful and they all soaked it up before breaking into another mess of giggles and smiles along with him.

Hyunwoo circled his arm around Nara as she watched her favorite people laughing and being momentarily carefree. He said he couldn’t remember a time in recent years that he’s heard his best friend laugh that way.

“It’s because of you, you know.”

“He hasn’t laughed like this since you left.”

He squeezed Nara’s shoulder and quietly made his way to the stove for a second helping of the breakfast Kihyun had made them, leaving Nara alone with her thoughts.

Thinking of what Hyunwoo said and seeing the smiling faces of the boys around her, she couldn’t help but think that in that exact moment, despite all the danger, and trials to come, she swore she wouldn’t mind staying this way, in this place, with these boys forever.

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Nara and Hoseok had just finished another grueling training session, and were currently sitting across from each other on the mat, each chugging a bottle of water, breaths beginning to even out. Hoseok was the first to break the silence.

“I’m sorry I hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Nara was taken aback. She wasn’t sure where this sudden confession was coming from. She looked into Hoseok’s eyes full of sincerity and fought the urge to waiver from her hurt and just forgive him already.

“So why did you?”

She took another sip from her bottle and averted her eyes from the overwhelming emotion in his.

“It’s complicated. But it was what was best for you.”

She huffed. ‘Not this again’, she thought, standing from her spot.

“Right, this again. If you aren’t going to be honest with me Hoseok, then shove your apologies up your ass!”

Hoseok scrambled to his feet.

“Wait! Nara you don’t understand.”

She had already turned her back and was heading toward the door.

“Of course I don’t understand!” - she turned to him abruptly - “because you never tell me anything, never explain anything.”

“Nara, please.”

“Save it, Hoseok. Unless you’re going to tell me why you ended it all those years ago, the real reason, then just save it.”

His next words were hushed as his head hung low, but not low enough for Nara to miss the tears fall from his eyes.

“It never would have worked. I-i have darkness inside of me. I eventually bring down everyone I love. I didn’t want to do that to you.”

“Please, Hoseok” - she stepped closer to him - “we all have darkness and demons, but maybe if you had given us a chance, our demons could have been friends. I don’t know why you think you have to hide yourself from me.”

“You were going to give up your future for me. I couldn’t let that happen. Saving you from myself was the best thing I knew to do for you. No matter how much it killed me to do it.”

“That would have been my decision, not yours, mine.”

“You should have run from me the moment we met, but you didn’t and I wasn’t strong enough to resist my feelings for you, I’m sorry. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish that I was someone different, someone better, and that we had met some other way. Then maybe it could have worked.”

Nara’s heart broke again, this time for Hoseok. How could he not see how amazing he was. He had a past, yes, but hell who didn’t? He was a good person, the best person she knew other than her father. It shattered her to see the turmoil in his eyes and realize that he only believed the worst about himself. All she wanted was to show him exactly how she saw him.

“For fucks sake, Hoseok stop talking about yourself like that. It’s not true.”

“What difference does it make? It is what it is and I’m not telling you any of this to make you care about me, but - -”

“But I do care. I fucking love you, Hoseok. Every part of me loves you, can’t you see that?”

He stumbled.

“Y-you still love me?”

He had never expected to hear those words from her again. He couldn’t believe it. After everything he had done to her, she still loved him?

“Of course I do.”

She closed the distance between them. She pressed a hand to his cheek mirroring the night they broke up and Hoseok instinctively leaned into her touch like not a day had passed.

“I never stopped.”

It wasn’t clear who made the first move, but in an instant, their lips were sealed to each others in a frantic kiss. The conversation wasn’t over, but at the moment neither of them could find the right words to express the rush of emotion surging through them, and instead they let their bodies speak for them.

They communicated through kisses and flushed skin, tight embraces, and passionate sighs. There would be time to talk about everything again after, but right now they both needed this, needed the wordless conversation happening between their bodies and the sweet release of years worth of unspoken feelings and pain.

#monsta x #wonho #wonho fanfic #monsta x fanfic #mafia au #monsta x angst #wonho angst #shownu #minhyuk #kihyun #hyungwon #jooheon #changkyun #ot7 fanfic

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