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obae-me · 3 years

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Upside Down CH-1

Author’s Note: Hi, yes, hello, welcome to the fic series that no one asked for! Do I have other things I need to finish? Yes! But has this been the only thing on my mind for the past four days? Also yes! For some reason I was incapable of writing anything else! Thanks, brain, for this out of the blue obsession!

Tags: Reverse AU

Word Count: 4587

Next Chapter

Hell Away From Hell

Wrong. You didn’t do anything wrong. It was a mistake. It had to be. Although, with every clink of your restraints, your reality was becoming ever clearer. The chains rattled, echoing down the hall like a set of twisted wind chimes. Ones that sung of your dismal fortune. The demon ahead of you yanked the lead attached to your cuffs, sending you stumbling forward. You bit your lip to keep from cursing. Steading your body, you took their less-than-subtle message and picked up the pace. Keeping your eyes glued towards your destination, your stomach sank to your knees. Why? Why had you been brought to the castle? You hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, not anything to warrant being escorted by the palace guards in chains. And as they led you silently inside, past the polished halls and gaudy antiques, your fate pounded just fervently in your mind as your heart was in your chest.

They were going to present you in front of the prince.

It was torture in and of itself just making it to the throne room. The worst part about it all was your rampant imagination. You could only imagine what type of horrific techniques the prince was aware of. Halting in front of the large double doors, the demon behind you moved to open the entrance. Holding it open, the guard tugging you along guided you in. You managed to take only a few steps inside the room before you were practically thrown inside, your body tumbling over the ground. Both the guards smirked at you, flashing their pointed fangs in their conceited gestures before shutting the door, leaving you alone inside.

“MC.” All the air inside your lungs had conveniently escaped. Lifting your chest off the ground, you tightened your lips as you met his gaze. Those glistening emerald eyes pierced right through you. Quickly, you lowered your eyes, attempting to show as much respect as you could to gain his favor.

“M-my lord.”

The melodic note that left his throat was a mix between a laugh and a coo. “Now, now, none of that groveling. I had you brought here to ask you a favor!” You could hear him stand to his feet, and you watched his shoes approach, clicking against the marbled tile. Then, you felt the smooth skin of his hand caress your right horn. The sudden sensitive feeling had your tail rapidly twitch and tuck under your leg. He pushed your horns back, raising your chin so you could look up at him. His dark hair drifted down across his forehead, curling around his horns that curved above his head like a broken halo, his face soft and inviting, and yet your gut wouldn’t let you believe it. “Please, from now on, just call me Simeon.”

Simeon hummed as he lifted his tea cup to his lips. He had been hospitable enough, but you still couldn’t shake this feeling of unease. Plus...what he had brought you in to ask you was...well, something short of insanity. You continued to rub your wrists where your constraints had been. And as much as the prince of hell apologized for his guard’s brutish behavior, you had a feeling it was purposeful. A message of sorts. Even now, as he had his little servant bring in sweets and tea as sickly sweet as it could get, it all tasted bitter to your tongue. “So let me get this straight,” you started. “You want me to be a member of this…”

The prince tilted his head, eyes practically shining. “Restoration program.”

You cleared your throat after the little scone this blonde demon had given you made your throat run dry. “R-right. And I’m assuming I don’t have a choice in the matter?”

His voice was soft, but the light reflecting off his horns and his fangs suggested another answer. “We all have choices, MC.”

Swallowing your nervousness, you lowered your head again. “But, with all due respect, sir...why? Why a restoration program?”

Another voice chuckled behind your figure. “Because, why not?” You strained your neck, getting a view at the newcomer behind you. White hair, a mischievous smile, and something unknown swimming at the back of those dark eyes. Not only that, but the figure was wearing clothes as pure as clouds, with a certain glow to him.

Simeon stood, hand out to greet this person as if they were an old friend-and for all you knew, they might’ve been. “Solomon, how good to see you.”

The new guest-now known to you as Solomon-beamed. “Likewise. You’re looking well.” He turned, giving you a once-over to take you in before nodding. “And you are MC, yes?”

Glaring, already feeling your skin about to burn, you leaned away from him. “And you’re an angel.” Your distrustful attitude let him frown for just a moment, but whether it was just his angelic nature or his personality, that smile was right back on his face.

“Yes, well, the plan requires an angel, so Simeon personally asked me for my hand in this matter.”

The both of them could tell that you were unbelievably confused, so Simeon gestured for the angel to take a seat at the table. “Luke.” The prince gestured to his small servant, the one who had not only brought you sweets but had taken the liberty to be staring you down the entire time. Finally, he turned his attention away from you. “Please do me a favor and get our new guest some refreshments.” The lesser demon squinted at you, nearly growled at the angel, and then took his leave with rapid little steps. Simeon laughed quietly to himself. “Don’t worry about him, he’s not used to others quite yet. But, MC.” With your name mentioned, you straightened your posture. “I’ve been planning this for quite some time. It’s been a desire of mine to bring the three realms closer together.” You couldn’t help but wonder why, what purpose it served, but you kept your mouth shut. “And while I’ve started to make decent progress fixing the old wounds between the Devildom and Celestial Realm, most of my kingdom and Solomon’s people refuse to make connections with the humans.”

Mortals...even just the mention managed to leave a heavy pit in your stomach. “If I may speak.” You waited for the prince’s go-ahead before speaking your mind. “What would be the point of connecting with the humans? They serve little purpose. They’re either so corrupt they destroy their own kind or they think they’re so pure they isolate themselves or get themselves killed in the name of their twisted justice.” Speaking so passionately against the idea, you didn’t realize your nails had grown into talons, leaving marks in the wooden table. You took a breath, reclaiming your typical form. “They can’t even do themselves any good, what makes you think they’d be good for our realms?”

Solomon, an expression of understanding mixed with pity, bounced a little in his seat. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” He turned his head to Simeon, who was nodding at you with a bit of approval.

“That’s what this plan is all about. Testing them, observing them. We’ll be watching these humans, and at the end of this project, we’ll be able to determine if they’re ready and worthy of being brought together with us.” The ruler crossed one leg over the other, his tone making it sound as it was as simple as eating pie.

Setting down the fork to your pastry, you felt a sense of dread wash over you. “And by we you mean?”

“Why, you and Solomon of course! A demon and an angel, both working together to restore the bond between the human world and ours! The Demonic and Angelic Restoration program! Or D.A.R. -dare- for short.” If it weren’t for the horns, you’d almost think this demon was an angel with the way he eagerly talked about restoring bonds and bettering the nature of the realms. But, then you felt nauseous.

“What...what exactly do you need me to do to help with this...program? And why me?”

It was actually the angel that spoke up. “I’m sure you’re aware of the Morningstars?”

It was such a silly question, you ended up scoffing. “Who doesn’t down here? Those brothers are filled with so much corruption and chaos they end up fueling about half the lesser demons down here...why?”

They both straight up ignored your question and instead asked you some of their own. Simeon leaned forward, looking at you intently. “It took me quite a bit of time to find you MC. Most people don’t know you exist, and those that do hardly know your name. You simply are known to most as Isolation. Is it true that you’ve never made a pact with a human? Rumor is that you even refuse to subsist off their sins. And you’ve never taken a soul? That’s typically unheard of nowadays.”

Shifting in your seat, you gave it to them straight. “It’s true. I do whatever I can to avoid contact. Haven’t even seen a human in the past millennia. Haven’t talked to one in about twice that time.”

Clapping his hands together, Simeon let out an amazed sigh. “Perfect. You will be able to have a fresh eye! A clean slate. An unbiased--well, mostly unbiased opinion. You won’t be tempted to corrupt them, you’ll give me honest answers.”

“Plus,” the angel agreed, “if you have the strength and willpower to live without human sustenance and influence for this long, you probably will have the patience to keep from killing them. If anyone could manage to live with the Morningstars, it would be you, from what I’ve heard.”

You were grateful you had put down your drink a while ago. Your breath caught in your throat. “Wait, excuse me, what did you say? Live...with the…”

“Mr. Morningstar!” A laugh, a handshake, even a pat on the shoulder, it nearly made you ill watching the upcoming king of the Devildom greet a human like this so casually. You couldn’t help but sneak glances at this mortal...one of the Morningstars, the eldest. The one who fueled the most demons without even knowing about it. People down in the Devildom called him by Pride. A human world CEO-whatever that meant. He was powerful, influential, not to mention ridiculously rich. And he’d do whatever it took to keep his status, even at the misfortune of plenty of other people. His suit and posture told you pretty much all you needed to know about him. A fancy well tailored pitch black suit, a striking red tie with a subtle but regal diamond design, diamond cufflinks, the works. It was as if dust and winkles knew to avoid him entirely. His hair was as dark as his suit, save for the ends which were greying. He didn’t seem that old, so you wondered if it was intentional or simply stress. You thought you heard someone say that once, that humans could get grey hair from stress. Did they all possess capabilities to change their hair based on their emotions? That human lady you saw outside the building with the blue hair must’ve been feeling something intense.

“Mr-” The human you had come to see was cut off.

“Please, you know to call me Simeon by now!”

The mortal cleared his throat. “Simeon…” The human glanced at you, and raised his chin as he took Simeon by the shoulders and brought him away from you. If you had been a human, it would’ve been a decent tactic to keep you out of earshot. Unfortunately, you could still hear everything they were saying. “I know you have good standing with the company, and I’m pleased to know you respect and trust me with such a task, but...this is far from business.” You could feel his eyes on you. “I have to respectfully decline your request. I don’t think I can allow them to live with us for a year. You know my family.”

“It would only be for a year, and I know you have plenty of room in that house of yours!” Simeon laughed a bit and then lowered his voice. You could feel the alluring pull of his influence flood the space. The human stiffened, his intuition picking up on a shift in the room. “Besides, Lucifer. You know I wouldn’t ask for a favor like this without some proper and well deserved remuneration. Listen...I happen to have something on the head of that business owner that’s been butting heads with your company. Wouldn’t it be nice to have them completely out of the picture? Not only is that increasing your profit, but if they happen to...I don’t know, completely go bankrupt, that little building of theirs on the corner of Main is some prime real estate.” Reaching into his pocket, Simeon pulled out a small...plastic...rectangle of sorts, with metal on one end. “I got everything right here.” Smiling, one hand firmly against Lucifer’s upper back, he looked him right in the eyes and whispered something you knew would have this human caught. “You can’t let them bother you like this. You need to show them and everyone else who you are, and that you’re not to be messed with.”

It took the mortal a moment of internal struggle. Decline the offer and figure things out himself without assistance? Or swallow the smallest bit of ego for self satisfaction? Either way, this mortal was past helping. Already drowning in pride. Eventually, he gripped the object, tucking it into a pocket beneath his suit jacket. Despite being handed assistance, he still found a way to be demanding. “Alright, but no more than a year, and if I feel like anything is going awry, I’m sending them away. Is it really too unreasonable to just set them up on their own? Surely for you it’s no problem.”

Backing up slightly after his incentive worked, Simeon shook his head. “I would feel endlessly guilty leaving alone, desolate, isolated, after what happened. Poor thing...they haven’t even said a word to me in days.” That last part wasn’t a lie. You’d nearly refused to say anything to him since being dragged to the human world. Prince or no prince. “My poor cousin, suddenly losing all their family like that. It’s tragic, isn’t it? Losing people you love?”

Lucifer, with his arms folded, let his hand tightly grip the fabric of one of his sleeves. His eyes lowered the slightest touch, his jaw tightening. “It...is...I know it all too well.” You caught a hint of some emotion from the mortal.

“Then you know that what would be best for them right now is company. Trust me, I wouldn’t have brought them to you if I didn’t think it would help. Besides, this is a win for all parties involved, right?” Simeon gestured to the gift Lucifer had tucked away, and the last string of resistance had been snipped.

Sighing, the human looked at the luxurious watch on his wrist. “I’ll take them home. Let my brothers know what’s happening. Is it too much to assume they’ll be better behaved with a guest in the house?”

Laughing once more, the prince shrugged. If only Lucifer knew who he was in the presence of. “You’ll all just have to find out!” Patting the other man on the shoulder, Simeon then came over to you with his arms outstretched. “It’s all settled, MC!” He pulled you into a hug, taking the time to speak quietly to you. “Remember to keep your identity a secret. I’ll be checking up on you and Solomon once a month for a report. Keep them safe. Play nice.” He pulled apart, coming around behind you and settling his hands on your shoulders. “And remember, what Mr. Morningstar is doing is unbelievably nice, so make sure to thank him and keep yourself out of trouble.”

You broke your vow of silence out of irritation. “I’m not a child you’re sending away to school. I know how to keep my own head on my shoulders.” You attempted to brush his hands off but the grip was tightened. Swallowing your frustration, you kept yourself from grimacing, looking at the fabled Lucifer Morningstar. “Thank you...for letting me live with you.”

For a human, he had a tenacity for picking up on things. He noticed your lie, giving you a stare down of his own before grabbing his phone. You only recently figured out what those devices were. Simeon had made sure he gifted you one of your own, since apparently it was the main source of communication in this realm. Too strange, but you picked it up fairly quickly. Lucifer just raised his head and pressed his cell against his ear. “Just make sure you refrain from being as irksome as my brothers.” The line he was dialing picked up. “Yes, have a driver prepare to come pick me up. And someone please contact my brothers for me so they know I’m bringing home a...guest.”

It was going to be a long year…

The...metal contraption rumbled, making your head feel light. Without magic to get around, they had to use...these things. The movement slowed till it came to a stop. Looking out the pane of glass, you peered forward to see what the issue was. A big red circular light shone a bright crimson in front of the lane. Was it a threat? If so, why was the world seemingly filled with them? Then the eye turned green and the long carriage rumbled back to life. It was completely different than the last time you had been here.

“Before you even step foot in my home, we need to set some ground rules.” Even just the sound of his voice almost physically rubbed you the wrong way. You bit the inside of your cheek. Play nice, the prince had said. How long could you keep your patience around these mortals? You looked up at him, feeling him stare you down to the corrupt depths of your soul. “Since you’re going to be living with us for so long, you’re going to have to follow the same rules I give my brothers? Understand?”

Was this all worth it? Would having your soul be torn to shreds be that bad? “Yes.”

He nodded, then decided his attention would be better focused towards whatever he had on that electronic device of his. He gave you orders without even looking at you. No wonder all the lesser demons who fawned after him were so pretentious. “No parties. No pets. You can stay up however long you want, but you must be back at the house no later than midnight. You can have your own room but you must keep it clean, don’t expect me to hire a maid for you. You’re responsible for looking after yourself. I might be providing a roof over your head, but anything you need is up to you. You break anything, you’re responsible for replacing it. Just use the basic level of common sense and we should have no trouble. Hopefully the year will be over before we—oh excuse me.” Without another word he picked another call, his third one since you’d been blackmailed into this ride. You just gave a gentle sigh and stared out the window. Just a few days ago you’d still existed in your botherless existence. A personal utopia of your own making. Now you were in this...hell away from hell, the scent of smog and exhaust still burning the inside of your nose.

The rest of the ride was spent with you trying to think of ways to escape this fate, but finding none in sight. You didn’t need to fully see the building to get this overwhelming wave of impurity. The tempting allure of sin. Practically a demon buffet. These morons were just screaming to be killed or worse, eaten. Even just approaching the gate to the driveway, you could see remnants of spirits, demons without full forms clawing at the fence. Wisps of black sinking into their sidewalk. But not even those, you could smell the presence of other lesser demons...but more dangerous ones. Outside the gate were small crowds, not too many, but enough to safely conceal their presence. Photographers, journalists, fans, wherever they were, they were eager to get in. And amongst the rabble stood demons pretending to be mortals in an attempt to sink their fangs into one of the Morningstars. You slunk down in your seat, trying to conceal your presence, but you were sure they’d be able to feel you. The car slipped past all of them, approaching the first set of gates. Whoever was patrolling the vehicle pressed their fingers against a small pad attached to a pillar by the gate. It waited for a moment, then made an affirming noise before the gate swung open. The cries of mortal and hidden demons alike pleading for the smallest sliver of attention from this human made you feel sick.

Despite having nearly ignored you the whole time, Lucifer scoffed. “You’ll get used to it.” The curved metal fence shut behind you, and the sound of the crowd slowly faded as you pulled up in front of the massive house. If anything, it reminded you a little of home. It was an old fashioned looking house, but fanciful nonetheless. With dark stone, piercing towers, arched windows, and an overall gothic aesthetic. You managed to take a moment to breathe. At least there was one silver lining. Lucifer stepped out of the idle vehicle first, paying you no mind as he approached the steps to the door. Slightly panicking, you tried simply pushing the door before noticing the small handle. Pulling it unlocked it, and you rapidly exited, feeling the motion sickness fade with your feet on the ground. You followed the mortal to the door, and was slightly pleased when he put his phone away to open the door, leaving it open for you. Lucifer shut the door, a small high pitched noise ringing through your ears. You turned and watched him mess with a little panel near the door. “Our security is top of the market. I make sure the code is changed every day, so if you’re not inside by midnight, I hope you enjoy camping.”

You were about to speak up about that, but both of you were bombarded with noise. A noise you would later learn to get used to. “Oi! Lucifer!” A bundle of energy came racing down the stairs. Wild hair, dark skin, rings on nearly every finger, you recognized this individual without having to ask his name. You could feel the influence. Greed. Demons almost loved this brother more than Pride, because from what you’d heard, he’d make deals impulsively with demons without knowing their true intentions. As long as money or something expensive was in front of him, he’d jump for anything. It had gotten him in more than enough trouble, and it made him too much of a prime target. At least Lucifer knew how to look over his shoulder. The second brother confronted the eldest. He didn’t even glance at you. “Hey, I need some cash! For some reason my card keeps declining...you can spot me right?”

Lucifer didn’t even hesitate. “No.”

“Eh? Why not?! I did that thing the other day for you, remember?”

“Hm?” Lucifer tilted his head, taking the time to recall-or pretending to. “Which thing would that be? Would it have been before or after you stole and immediately maxed out my card?” Lowering his eyes, the older one gave off a menacing smile.

Mammon took a step back, muttering. “O-oh you found about that, huh?”

The smile turned into a full on yell. “Of course I found out! I got a call from the bank as soon as they saw the purchase! What exactly do you need a golden tiger statue for, Mammon? Seriously, you’re absolutely ridiculous! I returned it by the way, and in the meantime I cancelled all your cards.” Mammon went to open his mouth in anger but didn’t have the chance to say anything. “You can try to find some extra work to pay off all the bills you’ve left me with. And if I think you’re ready, I’ll reopen your accounts in two months.” The effort of shouting sent Pride’s eye twitching. He lifted a hand to press against his forehead, the blood draining from his face. You shifted ever so slightly in your spot and he groaned. “Right, you’re here. Mammon, this is MC.”

Eyebrows raised, he jumped a little when he finally spotted you were in the room. “Wait, wait, wait, that whole thing with someone staying with us for a year wasn’t a joke?”

“No.” Although the slight warble to his voice seemed that that fact was just now settling in. “It wasn’t. And since you’ve so kindly volunteered yourself, you can take their bags and show them to their room.” He simply turned. No welcome, no tour, no warmth in those cold eyes of his.

“Hey! Come back here!” Yet the younger sibling showed no signs of chasing after him. “Lucifer!” His older brother just quickly headed up the stairs and disappeared into the house. Was it really going to require a full year of observation? Just from what you were seeing right now, you wanted nothing to do with humans. Nothing. Mammon ran a hand through his hair, one of his strands getting stuck in one of his rings, but he tugged it out without noticing, like it was a daily occurrence. “I can’t believe this.” You could watch as the anger started to swell within him. “Screw this, I’m out of here!” You were ready for him to leave, to give into his emotions. He had wrapped his hand around the door handle before he stopped. Pausing, he just tutted to himself before shoving his hands in his jacket-pockets, looking in your direction but not fully at you. “You want the guest room we have upstairs or down?” Loud, brash, rude in some ways, but there was a weird sort of innocence about him. You simply shrugged. He nodded, grasping one of your bags suddenly, gesturing you to follow. “I’ll give you the downstairs one. Most of our rooms are on the second floor, so it’s a bit quieter down here, plus it stays cooler.” He led you past the entrance hall and back into the rest of the house. “Plus, it’s easier to sneak out from here, but you didn’t hear that from me. I’m guessing Lucifer gave you the whole rule spiel?”

You restrained the urge to roll your eyes. “Yeah.”

He hissed in air through his teeth. “Sucks, man, are you sure you want to stay here?”

The pain around your wrists was still too prominent. Etched into your skin was a mark, a line of runes and symbols around your wrists. Who knew demons could give temporary pacts to other demons? Simeon ensured you a small fraction of his power, just in case you ran into trouble. But in exchange he had a hold on you, able to summon you to him whenever he needed you. It was your chain keeping you imprisoned here. There was no running. There was no hiding. “I didn’t have a choice.”

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me headcanons #obey me imagines #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me levi #obey me satan #obey me asmo #obey me beel #obey me belphie #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me simeon #obey me solomon #obey me luke

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userdjarin · 3 years

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dusky visor (iii)

the mandalorian x f reader | ao3

↞ pt.2 | masterlist | pt.4 ↠

series rating: explicit

summary: mando had always worked alone. and then he found someone to trust.

injuries, accidents, and amends.

series warnings: domestic fluff, light angst, hurt/comfort, smut, porn with plot, ofc touch-starved din, is it obvious i’m writing for a universe idrk

chapter warnings: descriptions of a wound + blood + injection, mando briefly and accidentally hurts you, uhhh filth, blindfolds, fat meat mando :-), oral sex (m + f receiving), facial, cum-eating, multiple orgasms + overstimulation, mando is insatiable!!

wc: 7.1k

a/n: christ i am so bad at gauging the word count LOL maybe this is too long and winded bc half of this is just one (1) smut sequence :-//

Alright, so, you didn’t get to taste him after all. Having two orgasms meticulously rip through you from head to toe, one after the other, had you spent. Sleep might had even taken you before your head hit the pillow too.

So, you’re regretting it now, after you’ve been left alone all day with nothing to accompany you but your untiring thoughts. You have the kid with you too, of course, but you can only pretend for so long that the two of you are having intelligible conversations when you’re faking all of your comprehension of his huu’s and patoo’s.

After Mando had landed the Razor Crest on some industrial planet this morning, he left to put the newfound credits – courtesy of the departed Calican – to use with some new supplies and munitions. Given the less than amicable reputation of the raiders and pirates that litter this city, he instructed you and the child to stay in the safe seal of the ship while he goes on the search for it alone. So, you’ve taken an occupation in doing some maintenance and cleaning around the Crest, so thoroughly to pass the time that by now, you find yourself methodically polishing between the insignificant crevices of the flight board’s controls.

But even that wasn’t enough to distract you from asking yourself if it—last night—will ever happen again. It couldn’t have been anything more than just two people satiating the starved nature that organically breeds from living in close quarters with no one else but each other.

Right?

But Maker, did you make it so blatant just how starved you were – coming twice, one right after the other. You’re shameless. Maybe it’s good you didn’t have to face Mando today.

The thoughts flee you when you feel the vibrations under your feet that tell you the ramp is lowering. You’ve had all day to prepare on how you’ll act around him once he returns. But now you’re forgetting left from right, let alone whether you decided if it is safer to pretend like nothing happened or to address the bantha in the room right out of the gates.

You spin to find the kid’s betrayal, having fallen asleep in his pram that rests on the copilot’s chair. This kriffing green toad was supposed to be your conversation buffer, but a nap must’ve been more stimulating than watching you clean the console like it was a surgery. A defeated sigh deflates your shoulders as you reach to close the pod and let the kid rest, before grudgingly leaving to face the tribulation yourself. You’ll see if Mando needs help putting things away, and to remind him of the leftover nut loaves and meat bricks if he hasn’t eaten yet.

You start with deliberate steps down the ladder. But your landing onto the hull’s bottom is much less so – brash and panicked when you hear the disjointed, modulated breathing and the hefty clunk onto the deck that sounded like the same weight as an armoured Mandalorian.

Composure is held at a great length away when you find him slumped on the floor against the far wall with the cast of net slinging back the mount of storage boxes. The lag in his movement as he removes a pauldron reads like he’s expended, and you suspect he didn’t do himself any favours when he probably forced himself to stock away his purchases before he’d tolerate a collapse.

“Sh-Shit, Mando, are you—what happened?” A gale of flustered words sputters from your lips while you dive to your knees beside him. You’re following suit in helping him rid his other pauldron, unsure exactly why, until your fingers hit a deep-seated feeling of viscid moisture that drains the rest of your extremities of sense and acuity. The dread rears when a reluctant retrieval finds you generous ribbons of red dyeing the length of your fingers and the lustre of the shoulder plate.

“Bounty hu—unters. Group of them. Ambushed m—” A dry pant steals his voice, the blanched tone of it sounding like it hurt to shape each word. “Managed t-to take them all down but—got… one got me.”

Paying caution but wavered by a haste, you wedge a palm behind his back to bunch up a corner of his cape and press it to the general area of the bleeding. “Fuck, h-how bad is it?”

His chest is heaving but he narrowly strains out a word. “Th-the—the…”

“The medpac!” You gasp, adjacent to a tenor of apology for not thinking of it sooner. You clamber over his outstretched legs to bring you closer to the wall of storage, where you plunge an arm into an opening of the mesh to rummage for the kit.

“—the Crest looks spotless,” he rasps to finish, and it didn’t sound comfortable. “Good job.”

You’ve got no capacity to assemble a response, hoping that his apparent indifference means there’s optimism to his situation. But, you’re more grounded in your suspicion otherwise, glimpsing at the exhaustion that dims his movement and renders him near unfamiliar when he works to loosen his cuirass until the plates fall down his frame.

“You were gone all day, but I just thought—” your lumbering clutch retreats from the net with the pack, ungainly with frustration. “—Shit, I should’ve known. Sh-should’ve checked in on you on the commlink.” You don’t waste as you’re hurdling back over to the side of his injury and throwing open the contents of the kit onto the floor. “Why didn’t you say something?”

A broken but amused scoff shudders his chest. “And what—hah, what would you have done? S-s-set out, blaster in hand, to help me face them?”

Mando’s mild taunt brings you to empty a small huff from your throat, not insulted, but staggered he could find any facility to make light of his state right now. While you, on the other hand, have limbs that want to shake like a guarantee that it’s the only thing you know how to do. But you refuse it. Because right now, you need to promise yourself and Mando that you can be of trust and reliance. So, you play along to ground you to that promise.

“Save your breath, Mando.” You’re able to find a jeering edge through the char in your mouth and it nearly startles you. “I’m gonna take a look, okay?”

Mando lets you flatten a hand across his unarmored chest for him to lean forward on so you can inspect his wound. Slowed by a tire, he loosens his neck wrap to undo his cape and free them from obstructing you.

“And—yeah, so what if I showed up, blaster in hand?” you lean into the gentle mischief to comfort you while you’re straightening on your knees to arch over his shoulder and peer down his back. “How hard is it to—to aim and shoot? I bet all that beskar is just to look pretty anyway. F-For show. And—and the kid c-could’ve done his magic hand wave-y thing you’ve told me about.”

You feel Mando’s entertained reply in the scarce humming in his chest on your palm, but you don’t hear it because you’re instead barraged by the acid building behind your airway when you find the slash in his flight suit, the frayed seams of it speckled with a quality of mahogany. The tunic is fucking soaked, you feel, when quivering fingers reach to pull back the teared fabric. And then your stomach is hollowing out at the sight of the thick trickles spilling from the gouge that breaks his skin. It’s tucked under his shoulder blade, like a vibroblade must’ve just missed the armour and dug into his side. It doesn’t look like it got too deep, but the damage made as the dagger shredded its way out in the retrieval is certainly worse. You’re biting your tongue to kill the startled curse from leaving your lips, because you’ll give your fear the power to grow if you speak of it aloud.

You draw back on top of your calves, occupying your hands with the medpac contents so he doesn’t see you shake. “S-sorry, I’ve never administered bacta as an injection before, but—” your breath hitches when you palm the fucking huge syringe, “—but I’ll be careful.”

“No.” Mando doesn’t need more than a single, neat syllable to deliver a weight of finality. His hand overlaps yours that holds the E-bacta shot and urges it back down into the kit. “It’s for—I got that for you and the kid. Maker forbid we’ll ever have to use it. But—save it in case… in case something happens to either of you. Patches—bacta patches will do.” He heaves a low grunt when he reaches for the bandages instead.

You’re rattled by a disbelief that he could even think to debate this. “Mando, it’s a stab wound. Bacta patches a-are for temporary—it won’t be enough!”

“Looks… worse than it is.”

Your face contorts with distress and urgency as you gasp your plea. “Fuck, Mando, you—you’re bleeding out! No time to—” Panicked fingers clasp onto his sleeve to prove your desperation, while you’re thinking about just how much more blood he’s poured by now. “—to argue, so pl-please just let me do this!”

Your heart is pumping so brashly, it drives a pulsing to your furthest extremities, and you could’ve sworn it was drumming a rhythm against the floor underneath you. A cold sweat swamps your skin enough that you feel yourself clammy and nearly sliding atop the metal panels. It drags on for seemingly eternities even more so when Mando’s visor holds on you, so rigid and covert to keep you from knowing if he is steadfast in his decision or if his defence is withering.

And then he grants you the reprieve you so anxiously need. “Don’t… use it all. Just—just a quarter dose.”

The sigh of relief that you let out is the largest give your lungs have felt this entire time and it’s almost blissful. You’ll give him a half dose since he hasn’t seen just how nasty the wound is himself, and you’re not willing to take bets. But you won’t tell him that.

Your grip is strong with an eagerness now as you’re prudently gliding the kit’s pair of shears along his suit, from the hem at his neck into a trail down his chest and another down his back. You peel the trimmed strip back to access his wound and his arm, where you’ll decide on a fleshy area for the jab. You’re bringing the needle there while the adamant need to stop his bleeding, to hear colour return to his voice, to watch verve return to his movements, tunnels your vision. Until the cave of Mando’s palm drapes your hovering wrist.

You peer up at him with a vivid reassurance that displaces the nervous glisten in your eyes. “Qu-quarter dose. I’ll be careful,” you repeat back to him.

“I know.” His calm cadence tells a story of trust where you imagine his gaze couldn’t. It is another concern that he is instead reminding you of. “But… breathe.”

With all of your senses bound to a certain resolve, you hadn’t realized your breaths were at a standstill. But Mando noticed.

He always notices.

You’re nodding as you take his advice, attentively inflating your chest in the same tempo you sink the syringe into his skin. The exhale that grinds out from his modulator sounds even more ragged, like it had sieved through clenched teeth first. And then Mando tips his helmet back against the wall as the tension extinguishes from his muscles when you’re drawing the bacta shot away, half empty. You’re mirroring the same ease as a solace starts a slow bleed throughout your body, ejecting the fretful shivers from your bones.

“Sneaky. That was more than a quarter.”

Stars. Nothing you do ever evades him. You’re quick to move on before your trickery dwells in the air for too long.

“Gonna clean you up now, Mando.”

Still, you find contentment in the fact that his senses must not have been startlingly eroded if he was able to catch your fib. Before the high of the bacta sets in and possibly lures him into a lethargy that will work to your detriment when you alone can’t move his heavy frame around, you carefully help him shift for you to better face the arch of his back. He turns away from you, leaning his uninjured side against the wall instead.

You’re more than vaguely intimidated by the vibrant gash that stares back at you while you’re cleansing it with a basin of water and some towels. But, you try to find soothe in the reminder that in a few hours, it’ll close to a dull ridge of a scar, maybe even more insignificant a few hours after that. E-bacta shots are potent, which is why they’re so rare to come across and why Mando was so insistent on saving it.

You let him recover in the quiet, feeling the delicacy of his uninterrupted breathing under your hand, flattened across his ribs to steady him while another watchfully dabs a cloth at the swaths of red over his skin. You’ve mopped most of the blood off him, and it lets you see him better, feel him deeper.

Mando is hot to the touch. His skin is honey in both sight and texture. Uncovered are the gentle hills and valleys that carve his sturdy arm, leading to the sculpted expanse of his shoulder. Cascading from it are inviting crevices that delectably map out the strong of his back. And just as spellbinding is the climb, where the solid column of his neck boasts as a perfect canvas for the brush of your tongue. You almost hate that it’s an overtaking thought in your mind while he’s tired and weak and hunched over with injury in front of you. But it’s innate when this is the most of him you’ve ever seen – you haven’t even seen his cock yet even though he was filling you with it to the hilt last night. Still, you’re rising to leave and rinse the soiled cloths, and to starve out the thought with distance before the indecent opinions continue.

While dumping the basin of polluted water into the fresher’s sink, you’re reminded that although you’ve cleared the area of his wound, his clothes remain generously stained. “Mando, your flight suit—i-it’s soaked,” you speak over the running stream of the faucet. “Do… d-do you want me to help you out of it?”

You’ve tried your best to strip most of the colour from your voice so that your offer rings as nothing more than medical and aiding, but you’re resenting the reveal in the stutters that splinters your words. And then, it’s something else that worries you instead, when nothing breaks the quiet, still air in reply. A pause this long wasn’t normal for even your reserved Mandalorian shipmate.

“Mando?” you call again to stir his rest, in case he was snoozing, while finding him exactly where you had left him. But then, you’re looking back at the blood-saturated towels that pool in the sink and… he’s bled a lot. Your peer returns to him when this known light-sleeper once again fails to respond. And still has yet to move. Actually, you don’t remember a single shift in his position since you first touched a damp towel to his skin.

Shit. A winded breath is held captive in your throat as you’re hastening back over to him. Maker, you hope he is just resting. But the fear is incessant – were you too late with the bacta injection? Had he bled out beyond repair at that point? Fuck, you should’ve just slammed that shot into him without waiting to argue about it!

You’re kneeling behind him now but you’re quaking too much, unable to steady yourself in order to compare for a rise or fall in his frame that’ll tell you he’s breathing. So, you’re desperate for a more immediate and firm confirmation, and you decide you’ll find it in the dive of two fingers under the bottom ridge of his helmet that’ll comb for a pulse. Your digits are wiggling under the tight hug of beskar, but before you could catch a rhythm, everything spins and a struck to the back of your head rips the air from your lungs.

Doubling vision keeps your sights from settling, but you make out the abyssally black visor that hovers above you and the weight that crushes your chest to keep you fastened to the floor.

This act is foreign. Far from the light touches and soft voices he normally uses towards you. But it’s because your act on him had been just as foreign.

“—t’s me! Mando, i-it’s me!” you cough, you pant, your lungs pulling up and tight as they’re desperate for a breath that seemingly exists an impossible reach away. What you had managed to push out your throat was only a scarce ghost of your voice, but without the time for recovery, you used anything that would’ve been enough to sober him.

“Sh—” he doesn’t waste when he lets the recognition of you wrench himself off your figure, “—Shit.” His reach starts for your shoulder to help you off the ground but recoils away just as quick, averse to startling you further with any more of his sudden movements. “Th-the shot—! It—! It…” The turbulence that filters through his vocoder speaks of unrest and worry and blame – too rattled to find the finishing words.

In his dark, quiet, foggy, drug-induced doze that had muted all concepts of where and when, all he had perceived was the uninvited fidget of his helmet, like it was lifting off his neck. Bacta shots have been known to cloud senses and stimulate a bit of a high, so he perceived a threat before he perceived you. His bounty hunter instincts stole the reins and he reacted how he would to any adversary that had welcomed themselves to the trespass of exposing his face. Except, it was you, not an enemy, that he had forcefully thrown back and pinned to the ground.

“Are you hurt? D-do you need—”

Huffs still erupting from your chest, you instead try to speak with the reach of your hand, urgent to dispel his apprehension and relieved to find that vitality has returned to him. Mando receives you by offering the hook of his elbow for you to latch on, another delving behind your back as they together draw you up into a sit. “Stars, your—” you try to let words fall between each cough until you’ve gathered enough of an unbroken voice, “—your strength is back. Th-that’s go—od.”

“Are you hurt?” he repeats again, his speech low and compacted by the gravity of concern now. The fabric of his gloves scratches your face when his palms swallow the margins of your jaw. He holds you like this for him to study the life in your eyes.

“No—no! Fine! I’m fine!” Having fully caught your breath, you add a vibrancy to your tenor in case your gaze wasn’t convincing enough, and because this intimate act spikes your heartbeat in a way that disarranges your pitch. “Just—just surprised me is all. But I’m fine.” You’re uninclined to mention the muffled panging at the back of your head, but you figure it will subside shortly.

Still, the black of his visor fixing on you tells you he is immeasurably far away from letting go of his blame. “Sorry doesn’t—sorry doesn’t even begin to—”

“It’s okay,” you wrap around his wrists and squeeeze to help your plea, “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

The fever that starts in your chest from interlocking like this is threatening to travel like wildfire. Your eyes catch the trimmed strip of his flight suit that wilts from his arm, before you’re following the contours that shape the unveiled length of it. And then an appetite to see more derails all other thoughts.

Your hands move to scarcely lift one of his palms off your face, only for your fingers to gingerly arch under the hem of his glove before you lag there and glance back at him in request. He wordlessly responds with permission when his hand draws backwards to make the stripping of his glove mutual. You don’t let a second to exist before you’re replacing the naked cave of his grasp with the curve of your cheek. Your face sinks into the delicate hills of it that convince you it’s where you belong.

“You… could never hurt me.” The bleed of his bared warmth across your skin empties a quiet, idyllic sigh from your chest. You have to bite back the purr that nearly falls from the seam of your lips when his fingers curl tighter along your jaw. “I’m glad you’re alright,” your voice dips with soft honey to reassure him.

You’re losing yourself in his rich scent that mutes the border where he ends and you start. It hikes your need for more, and your body acts on its own when it searches for it by abbreviating the gap between your face and his chest. When he doesn’t move away, you allow yourself to close the distance with a bury into the place under his collarbones.

Stars, your self-serving desire certainly erodes any idea of reservation. Though, your face is fitting beautifully in the firm of his chest. But Maker, you’re greedy. You don’t want to stop there. You want skin to skin. You want to taste.

“Mando, I… I want to—”

You don’t finish with words but with action when your fingers clasp around the clipped edge of his tunic that loosely still clings to him. But then his hands are binding both your wrists and you freeze like a caught criminal. The gravel in his next words, though, reads like an invitation.

“Tell me what you want, precious girl.”

Only wisps sieve from your lips, “F-fuck, Mando, I—” The peaking of your appetite puts a fluster in your grapple for words. “I want to—to have you in m-my mouth.”

A ragged breath drones out from his modulator as he releases you, hands dropping into a grasp of your thighs instead like he needs to catch his balance after such lurid verses. It tells you he’s crippled by a craving just as laden. So you take it as permission for your digits to continue its peel of the fabric down his torso, revealing the hills of his clavicle that you trace with delicate kisses. The gorgeous way your lips cushion against his skin is enough to string together a shameless hum from the depths of your throat.

You’re fucking brash, ravenous, because you don’t even realize how low your hands have travelled on their own until his chest puffs and a gritted sigh rips out his voice filter. Only then do you finally feel the friction you yourself put between the wrap of your palm and the length below his abdomen.

Mando has surely found his strength back, given just how quick he stiffens and grows in your grip. You leave no time for deliberation or calculation when you’re tearing his waistband just low enough for you to take him into your hand. Maker, you’re purring when you finally feel the naked heat of his cock. You’re eager to spiral your thumb around the tip while you feverishly size him against your palm.

“F-Fuck.” His daunting girth spills a curse from your lips before you’re able to catch it.

How did he fit all that inside you last night? You’re startled, but more than that, you’re eager to find out for yourself again. The sheer length of him makes your mouth crave to taste him, to stretch around him, to abrade the cap of your throat. And you’ll indulge yourself with just that when you stable yourself on your knees before dipping your head to touch a thick lather of your tongue from the base to the velvet head. His length leans against the flat of your hand as you do so, and feeling him respond with a twitch in your hold swells your craving to take all of him into your mouth. But his ached panting out the vocoder reminds you of another spoil that you’re absolutely yearning for, and it delays you from continuing.

“Mando,” you resurface almost with an impatient gasp, “will you take off your helmet?”

Just so your audacity isn’t dwelling in the air for too long, you show him what you mean when you throw your shirt over your head. A few swift movements has you smoothly trimming across the waist with the heavy-duty shears from the medpac, still nearby and still unpacked. Then, you’re taking the long strip you’ve made yourself and blanketing your eyes with it, taking the dangling ends into a wrap that meets at the back of your head, where you’ll secure the threads with a tight knot. You hope he won’t also make you pathetically explain with words just how needy you are in your wish to hear his raw cadence and unfiltered pleasure when you later push his cock the deepest it’ll go in your mouth.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he is tender in both his timbre and his gesture when he meets you by a delicate touch on your cheek, just under the fabric of the blindfold.

“Y-Yes.” A conservative syllable, yet without your sight, you’re able to hear just how graceless it was in tenfold. “Will—will you take it off?”

And you get your answer when you hear the rim of beskar lightly clunk against the ground. Thrill surfaces on your face as a foolish smile before you’re able to extinguish it. But you’ll make a spectacle of yourself in another way, pumping the length of him as you dip the connect of your lips back down to the tip, now glossed by a film of precum.

You’re thorough in flattening your tongue against the underside of his cock as you slowly take him into the hot bind of your mouth. The slight hop in Mando’s tone tells you he’s rolled his head back, before his lips billow a hiss that is an octave away from an unreserved groan. Indulging in the undressed sound of it urges your thighs to squeeze together, creating a bit of a stammer in your kneel atop the floor panels.

The tease of his taste excites you, so you invite him into a deeper glide along untouched depths of your tongue. You only reach the midpoint of his size before an introduced ache forces your lips to clasp down harder. You gently suck to tauten the wrap of your mouth around him.

"You feel incre—ah—credible. Do—doing s-s-so well," his breath scarcely survives long enough to punctuate his grunt with your name. “Keep g-going.”

Reveling in your earned praise, your lips open again for him to watch when you drag his length back down to the front of your tongue, your mouth coated by the precum trickling from his swollen tip. Your appetite for grinding the edge of your airway overpowers all other sophisticated thoughts, so you’re keen to close right back in. You feel his hand gather your hair to expose the nape of your neck, where he dances two fingers of his other hand along in encouragement.

“S-so beautiful. Y-you’re so beautiful like this, sweet girl.”

Mando’s panting swells and plunges with every slip against your tongue. The stammering lips that spout gruff curses linked by desperate praises make his taste and the accompanying burn at the border of your throat all the more gratifying. You’re addicted to his strangled breaths every time your mouth nearly sheaths him whole. So your bobbing quickens as you’re greedy to hear more of his bliss vocally translate.

Looking at you was a dangerous game – the view of your flushed cheeks that cave to the precise curve of his cock, contorted brows that tremor in rhythm with every dive, and your swollen mouth that brims with an immodest cocktail of your spit and his slickness – all threatening of a climax that would happen too soon.

And you sense it coming too, in both sounds and touch. A primeval grunt slackens his jaw and reels out his throat. A series of twitches course his limbs under the grapple of your palms. It summits your delight and drives your mouth to an unreserved tempo.

But then he pulls you away. Except, you still find yourself lacking the thick taste of his cum. You realize he hadn’t finished in your mouth, hearing him pump his cock with his own fist to release himself elsewhere, so to not smother you with it. And it’s a plot that you refuse.

You rush to join the sleek head of his length with the flat of your outstretched tongue, just in time for one last lurch of his hips to jet out the hot white threads across your mouth. It connects to the peak of your nose and extends as far as speckles in your hair. You can’t help but whine when your tongue swipes to collect the ribbons on your lips, elated that you’ve finally caught his taste. The edge of your finger pushes the rest that dribbles from your chin before you close your mouth to drench the entire cave with it. An indulgent smirk stretches across your face as you eagerly swallow his cum like it’s a meal you’re thankful for.

He sighs with a searing fever at the lurid sight of your saliva mixing with his cum and threading from the blushing pillows of your lips. The expanse of his palm hugs the side of your face to straighten you in your kneel and bring you closer for him to admire. His thumb blots at the light traces that smear a corner of the blindfold.

In case the two of you ever want to use it again.

Mando hums with a low voice that’s thoroughly broken in by the lingers of a turbulent high, “Hmm, pretty thing.” He inches forward and brings nearer the husk of his voice to your ear. “How’s that taste?”

Stars, he’s brash this time.

He lets the pleased grin on your expression answer for you, before he finds out for himself when he closes the distance with a soft kiss that catches some of the sheen on your lips.

Fuck. He just kissed you. He’s been inside you and you’ve just sucked him off like tomorrow wasn’t coming, and all of that had already surged you with an exhaustive elation. But this. Maker, this will stay with you till kingdom come.

“You… treat me so well, precious girl,” his gentle volume fogs along your skin. And you must be so lulled by it, your wits completely surrendered to it, because it escapes your register entirely how he’s already moved you onto your back. You feel a fabric underneath you, which must’ve been the gathering of his discarded cape for you to lie down on it comfortably. He must’ve also stripped off the remaining tatters of his flight suit, because you feel his bare torso stretch against your own when he leans into you from above. His lips delicately ornate your face with butterflies – and it starts a summer in your chest – as he takes a clean cloth from the medpac to dab the rest of the stains on your face.

“I can…” you draw in a breath to hearten your next words, “…treat y-you well when—whenever you want, Mando.”

The tickle of his facial hair hovers in the valley of your neck, and the light rumble you feel vibrate against your skin must’ve been his quiet chuckle.

Fuck, it must be a gorgeous sight. The two of you, half naked and melded together as his unbared face cushions against your most sensitive parts. A sight you can’t see for yourself, but it’s a sacrifice you’re more than willing to make if you can feel and hear the amplified intensity of the rest of it.

You hold a breath captive in your chest as you’re compliant in stretching your arms above your head when Mando glides off your bandeau. You’re shivering against his relished sigh, blushing when he lets himself see you fully now. Quickly, he finds home in your soft mounds with the nip of his tongue and teeth. He loses himself in a gluttonous exchange of hefty breaths and the swift rakes of teeth that teases the peak of your nipple, tugging to lightly swell before soothing over with the lush sweep of his tongue. Frail whimpers rolling from your tongue tells him of how surrendered you are to his sway.

He is uncharacteristically less than coherent when he speaks on how the salt of your skin is an intoxicating flavour for him. And fucking stars, his face and his hands are moving lower. And they’re moving quick. The drifting smell of the slick desire between your thighs enthrals him to an irreversible degree – he’s unable to wait for you to lift your hips when he moves back to tug away every remaining layer that separates you from him.

As soon as your wet cunt is chilled by the cool air kissing it, a pant shivers from your lips. He is eager to feel the thick gloss for himself, the pads of his fingers running a thorough trail that spreads the sheen for you to feel what an indecent mess you’ve made of yourself. “Shi—t, pretty girl, is this—is this all for me?”

You’re unarmed against the hunger in his baritone as a heated rouge unfurls across your face. The reactions torrenting through you makes him realize that his mouth also begs to taste you until you come. So then his hands are meticulous in their need to feel you as he parts your thighs, allowing him to marvel at the sodden anticipation that glistens in between. It draws a gruff hum of greed from the depths of his throat.

Shock rushes you before anything else when his mouth closes in. You’re twitching at the raw and naked contact you’re so desperate for, irrepressible as if to confess to him that he’s robbed your body of autonomy. He is blatant in his muttered praises about your slickness and taste while his lips cycle the capture and release of your folds. Your hands desperately search for something to grasp, and you find it in the tangles of his hair, another on top of his own hand that curls around the swell of your thigh. Then he moves to lap your clit, savouring all of the trickling desire he presses out of you. Your hips become untameable as it grinds along with the thorough pushes and strokes of his wet muscle.

“Fu—Fu—uck, Mando, I—” The barrier of your teeth drives down on your lips to curb the voice that begs to break the still air with a brazen volume. “—So good, it—it’s—too good. I’m—shit, you’re—” An unyielding fever robs you of concrete language and puts a scramble in your thoughts. The floor panels start to take the assault of your hands that are frantic for purchase.

“Sweet thing,” he doesn’t withdraw the slightest, doesn’t interrupt the friction or pace when he hums words into your skin. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

And you can feel it too – the way his mouth moves against you is telling of his gladness that he’s only able to enjoy you like he is right now because of how you’ve helped. Though, you hope the chances of needing to help another wounded Mando again is closer to… never.

A quavering sigh departs you. “—W-worried. You had me s-so worried.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” You can’t see it, but you sense the heat of his unwavering stare on you, like he’s drinking in how your core writhes to meet each of his strokes. “Never again.”

You’re at a lost, air stolen by the shapes he traces against your throbbing clit. He hisses of approval at the painting of pleasure you leave on his tongue, illustrating how much of a pleasured mess he is unraveling you to. He’s still gluttonous in his wish to see how you finish, and it mirrors in the heightening of his rhythm.

Spurs of ecstasy start to unfold between your thighs before it expands like fireworks in a blinding hot scale to the rest of your body. Your hips are rocking and your legs are thrashing, hysterical in your chase for release. And he is holding forfeit far away as he continues with his lapping that doesn’t stray. Shuddering gasps are desperate to soothe your pumping lungs, yet somehow, your speech still fights to cry the most shameless and indecent dialect.

The pressure of something like a stretched coil released into a wild springing begins so slowly evaporate. The drumming settles into a quietly pulsing trance as delight bleeds into your bones and your limbs submit to a wilt.

He is unwasteful, murmuring with satisfaction as he leaves no inch of your cunt unattended. “Look how fucking good you taste,” he gravelly rumbles as he moves off your thighs, only to climb and meet you with the push of his tongue past your lips. Both the taste of him and the taste of your saturation floods your mouth. You’re obsessed with the tender pillows of his kiss, so it feels too soon when he pulls away. Until he brings his lips to the shell of your ear for you to hear the full, rich appetite in his voice. “I’m not done with you yet, pretty girl.”

Your eyes pop open under the blindfold. He wants more? He can keep going? Just how strong was that E-bacta shot?

You’re disoriented, but your hazy figure makes it easy to yield when he nestles his hips deeper between the wedge of your thighs. “St-stars, Mando, you’re insatiable.”

He stops all movement immediately. “S-Sorry, are you—are you tired?” Concern displaces the blaze in his tone.

The apprehension in his words brings you to a breathless laugh. “No, but—”

Well, you were. But you’d be unconvincing even to yourself if you said you weren’t just as needy.

Your hands blindly reach up to find that his chest hovers above yours, propped up by the two palms planted on either side of your head. “Y-your shoulder. Shouldn’t you rest?”

And then he drops to his elbows, his chest dipping to meld against yours as he fixes a gentle kiss on your collarbone. “I don’t even feel it,” his lips are close enough that the sighs in his utterances tickle your neck.

“But I don’t think you should—”

“Quit.” And he’s awfully persuasive when he plunges his thumb into your mouth to shut you up. “Hush, sweet thing. I only want to hear you moaning.” His palm delves between your pelvis and his, showing you how ready he is when he holds his hard length at the breach of your folds. “Do you want that too?”

The pulsing that so quickly swallows you at the tease of it boasts of just how far you exist from declining. You nod, as your mouth is occupied when you suck on his finger to prove of your plea.

“Good.” His hand then moves to land on your waist, possessive as he digs into your skin to steady you there. "Relax, precious girl.” He eases into you. “Just relax.” The delicious stretch stifles you for a second. Then, your fever climbs just as tall as his and your hips push back to meet his forward jolt. "Keep being good for me, hm?" he grunts brokenly.

He lunges into you with an unacquainted vigour, prying your jaw open with a gasp that reels from your throat. His palm travels again into a hook under your thigh for him to throw your leg over his shoulder. He then huffs greedily at the depth he gains and the sounds he earns.

The sheer girth elicits whimpers from you as if you can’t handle it, but it thrills you that he doesn’t refrain from sheathing his entire cock with your walls. His hips drill into you while he drenches your ear in the visceral tremors of his pleased groans, a craving plaguing his every tenor.

But then a raw throbbing drives a soreness to even your furthest extremities when he starts thumbing your swollen clit above his heavying thrusts. Maker, you feel another ferocious high coming again. And it’s going to be thoroughly aching.

You’re frantic as you grapple onto the wrist of his offending hand. “T-too much, M-Mando,” your voice leaves you in fragments.

“You can handle it, can’t you, pretty girl?” He doesn’t interrupt his pushes and his strokes, and you only breathlessly mewl with a jaw that stutters at every meet of his unrelenting lunges. Your legs ache from his durable rhythm. “Come on, let me hear you,” he rasps, and the primal quality of it convinces you.

So euphoria slams down on you and inundates your senses like never before. A sore quality floods you, but you invite it.

His thrusts straying from a familiar tempo and leaning into a disorder tells you he’s veering right into his own unbridled climax. Husky grunts erupt from his chest while he pumps into you as if to chastise your pretty cunt. And your whines soar madly.

He empties into you, and it relaxes and parts your lips with a delirious grin when you feel the warmth in his thick load drenching your quivering walls. Blissful whispers of how you’ll never ever know a cock as good as his falls from the plump of your lips.

You’re both exhausted. You’ve both exhausted each other out. A drowsy haze is quickly diminishing any consciousness that still exists between the two of you. He drops his full weight into a rest on your chest, while your limbs are lazy in their wrap around his frame.

He’s muttering something about sleep, but you’re already beating him to it, surrendering to a slumber that builds upon the darkness already existing behind the blindfold. The last ghost of a thought that grazes your dying awareness is something along the lines of a tease about his behaviour tonight, and its relationship with the half dose you gave him. But you’re completely adrift before you’re able to refine it any further.

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nincompoopydoo · 3 years

Text

DEBRIS AND MISERY

CURIOUS MINDS THINK ALIKE ; PART 5 / ?

PAIRING: Loki Laufeyson x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.1k SUMMARY: Through guessing games and walking on eggshells, it’s you and Loki that dance the strange choreography of two curious minds trying to figure out the other. A/N: Slow moving chapter! If any of you speak Norwegian and know that sentence is wrong, please tell me! I took a risk, not sure if it's worth it. Anyways, I promise there’s more stuff coming in the next chapters. Tell me anything about this chapter, what you love, what you hate. Enjoy xo gif from this gifset by@marvelheroes WARNINGS: Swearing? More paperwork. support my writing through ko-fi💖 MASTERPOST ; MASTERLIST

The narration of Miss Minutes accompanying the grainy animated graphics of a training video on how, why, and when a branch of a timeline is reset seems to be the source of Loki’s absentmindedness. If he is typically referred to as outrageously and mostly unnecessarily communicative, it is his mind that beats his mouth—the tumult of his thoughts is loud and overwhelming like the people who amass at taverns every evening to drink themselves silly whilst singing jolly drinking songs until the wee hours of the morning. Except, his thoughts are far from jolly. He, mastermind of language and a silver-tongue, has no words of any language to describe the complexity of his mind with accuracy.

Kraftig regn som faller i en fossende elv.

Like heavy rain falling on a cascading river. Water from the sky on water streaming through the ground—thunderous raindrops from above against the river that strikes every rock of every winding turn.

Those were the words of his mother.

Maybe, that’s how his mind should be described.

It’s the mechanical creaks of spinning wheels against the polished floor that pulls him out of his thoughts and finds that he had been staring blankly at a page of men riding jet skis of a magazine he'd nipped from the stack of junk on Mobius’ desk for the last minute or hour. A second or a day? He isn’t sure.

Time works differently at the TVA.

“Hey Casey,” he hears you chime, the cart squeaks as it pulls to a halt. “Do you have a paperweight or something I could use?”

There’s a sound of rummaging as the clerk searches the drawers. Loki restrains the urge to look.

“Uh, yeah...Here.”

“Thanks.”

Probably an infinity stone.

The clerk then wheels by, pushing the evidence cart as he casts a cautious glance his way.

Right. He did threaten to gut him like a fish earlier on although the threat was not as deadly as he intended but proved to be surprisingly effective. Yet, Casey is probably the type to be afraid of his own shadow, he would comply with any sort of threat even if it isn't death.

Pathetic. But amusing.

The training video continues to play in the background, and Miss Minutes’ stupidly charming and cheery voice is starting to sound like gibberish to him. At this rate, it’s white noise to him—attention elsewhere but somewhat listening to a certain extent. He loves multi-tasking and isn’t afraid to admit he’s great at it though it likely plays a huge factor in contributing to the uproar of his brain. It’s why he doesn’t get any sleep for most nights.

There’s just...so much to think about.

And now, it’s filled with the reminder of how you met another version of him. Somewhere. Sometime. An inferior Loki, obviously.

Suddenly, the jet ski magazine becomes less interesting, his mind fleeting.

Discreetly, he spins in his swivel chair and sees you through inked writings and diagrams on the glass partition of your cubicle. Your coat’s discarded, and you have your sleeves rolled up, looking less formal, less tense than before. Yet, still as fierce with that constant scowl of your brows. He watches you bring your fingers to scratch the left side of your cheek and notices a vague resemblance of a fading scar.

He hadn’t seen that before.

The glowing orange hue of the soul stone sits idly on top of a stack of papers beside you.

Loki makes some sort of contemptuous noise in his mind at the sight.

The TVA is a strange place. The thought of a cosmic organization that overlooks all of the time doesn’t make it any less weird and neither do the uniforms—dull color combinations and collars that never seem to end. And the Time-Keepers, well, he isn’t sure what to make of that. Things are a little too straightforward, too simple for handling such a complex matter of the universe—Time. It doesn't make sense.

You spark his curiosity. You had a connection with him. Another Loki trusted you to a certain extent. He wonders what makes you so special, that Mobius was willing to try everything to convince you to help.

He also wonders what your name is.

The clearing of his throat comes off as a sudden and disruptive sound that resonates clearly through the somewhat silent environment of the office floor. A subtle way to gaining your attention although it's proving ineffective. You continue to flip through documents, scribbling notes on a notepad.

He wheels his chair closer to you. For a moment, he catches sight of a white mug amongst the mess. It says, 'Rocket scientist at work.' There’s no way a person as intimidating as you have that kind of mug.

He clears his throat once more.

Still nothing. It’s like he doesn't exist to you.

Then, he notes your vague attempt to fight down a growing smile.

Oh. Oh. You—

Hm.

He scooches closer and taps on the glass partition a little too aggressively.

“I know you can hear me.”

His tone comes out in a sing-song manner. Finally, your eyes turn up to meet his. They are different from when you first saw him emerged into the hallway. Less angry and shocked. Now, you just look unimpressed.

Loki somehow thinks it’s a great idea to charm his way to you.

A grin finds his way to his lips, curving widely with oozing allure.

Or so he thinks.

“Pardon me, but I believe we haven’t properly met and I didn’t catch your name earlier on.”

You don’t say anything, only blink in response.

Tough crowd.

Loki shifts in his seat.

“...What is your name?”

He articulates his words with care, and he doesn’t know why he finds it a need to tread lightly around you. Like with a touch, you will transform into a fiery beast from his childhood nightmares and eat him alive.

You and Mobius are polar opposites—personality-wise. It’s a wonder how the two of you get along.

Do you scare him? No. Definitely not.

Do you intimidate him? Perhaps. But, he will never admit it.

Maybe it’s the way you’re gazing at him with that constant, deafening deadpan look.

Then, you finally give him an answer.

“Agent.”

And with that, you're back to scribbling notes on a notepad.

Agent.

Loki scoffs silently to himself.

Well, that turned out to be completely pointless.

He turns his back to you, returning to scanning through Mobius' jet ski magazine within his grasp.

Loki doesn’t see how you’re now staring at the back of his figure, tapping your pen against the notepad absentmindedly.

Curious minds think alike.

You needed a change of scenery.

With all the noise of the muffling narration of the training videos from Mobius’ desk, you began to feel like you forgot how to do your job. The only job you were created for. The disturbance seems to be putting your brain into a frenzy and it’s preventing you from getting your head straight on report protocols. Trying to think of better words to describe the things you’ve seen on Sakaar that weren’t words that meant trash and didn’t end up sounding unintentionally sexual, is where you draw the line.

Times are hard for the variant turned analyst.

The archives are serene amid your solitude. Extensive tables hidden between shelves of identical-looking binders that expanded throughout the hundreds of floors of the building. The spot that overlooks the three looming statues of the Time-Keepers is your favorite. The occasional swish of a passing elevator calms your nerves from all the frustration and pressure ever since you were released from your arrest. You’re just happy to be somewhere familiar although it’s not home.

Although all distractions are gone, you manage to find new ones as you gaze at the glowing ‘357’ signage from across the building as you decide to let your thoughts run for just a little while. You feel like you’re looking through foggy glasses and your brain feels like it’s about to shut down any moment.

Dream away the pain, then.

Then, you hear a voice from afar. Two voices. It’s Mobius; you’ll recognize that quintessential Texan accent anywhere from the times he would rave about a new jet ski magazine he’d found on a mission...something along those lines.

Much to your chagrin, you also hear Loki with that irritatingly posh accent of his.

You should probably move somewhere else. Run and hide before you're being pulled even more into this mess because you know Mobius is trying to get you to spend as much time with the variant turned analyst to gain trust.

You’re still not sure how it’s helping with his case. Loki has better trust in Mobius than you as far as you’re concerned.

Before you could even gather the mess of your files, the two men you’ve been trying to escape are already by the desk you’re sitting at. You suddenly notice the stack of files on the other end of the desk, not remembering seeing the archivist putting that there.

Crap.

“Let me park ya at this desk and don’t be afraid to really lean into this work...”

You look like a deer caught in the headlights, signaling to Mobius that you really don’t want to share a desk with Loki. He continues to speak to him, ignoring your silent plea. Then, he gestures to the seat across from you.

There’s still time to leave.

Mobius addresses you with the stretch of his pointer finger.

“You, keep an eye on him. I’m gonna get a snack.”

Well, too late.

With a turn of a heel, you and Loki watch him walk away and pass neverending shelves of the archives. Once again, the two of you are left alone in the silence and the white noise of the TVA.

You meet each other's eyes at the same time, struck with the thought that you and he will probably be seeing each other a lot until the Loki variant is arrested. Plus, you’re tired of giving him the cold shoulder although you believe he deserves it.

This is a different Loki. The one who’s still power-hungry. The one who still wants to rule.

Time to start fresh.

You notice he now wears a jacket, a color somewhere between green, grey, and brown with a striking image of the TVA’s official badge above his chest. The lapels of his jacket jut out in an attempt to replicate his sense of pride and confidence.

He must have been on a trip with Mobius to the Renaissance Faire in Wisconsin, 1985. Oh, how you would kill to tag along. Everyone who knows you knows about your obsession with Earth’s music pop culture, specifically the 1980s. It explains the cassettes you have lying around. Your apartment has more of it.

Unfortunately, you're grounded. That's reality.

Thus, you decide that Loki deserves a second chance because he’s also somehow looking at you for some kind of approval. You’re starting to wonder if this is the same Loki that was tapping aggressively on your cubicle earlier on.

With an open palm, you gesture to the empty seat surrounded by stacks of binders and folders. It's the first time he has experienced some kind of acknowledgment of his presence that you weren’t ranting or screaming about. Oddly calm. Oddly inviting. Momentarily, he shifts in his stance, eyes darting between a fading figure of Mobius rounding the corner and to the seat, across from you.

The air is tense. However, still breathable.

Loki slides into the seat, legs shifting under the desk as it brushes against your by accident. You shoot him a pointed look, and he responds with a coy expression, blinking at you innocently. It’s mischievous.

Classic Loki.

You turn back to your case file, ignoring the way his gaze seems to burn holes into the side of your face for a fleeting moment before flipping a binder open from the stack to his left.

You snore when you sleep.

Loki wouldn’t describe it as a snore; it's more of a wheeze. Soft and subtle but it’s there, cutting through the ambiance of the archives, drifting and resonating in his ears. Through turning pages, uttering words to himself for his amusement, and having an irritating lady shush him for that, he realized how it became a lot quieter. The grazing sound of pen furiously scribbling words onto the yellow notepad has stopped.

Then, he hears it. Your pathetic snores. Your cheek is unceremoniously pressed against the back of your hand while the other holds the orange pen that’s still pinned down on the paper, mid-scrawl. The tip of the ballpoint pen sits idly, halfway through the curved stroke of the last letter of the word, ‘debris.’ He cranes his neck, face tilting in an attempt to read the chicken scratchings of your handwriting.

0132: L1190 hauls me through the time door and I miserably land on Sakaar, the planet of wastelands and debris.

You are quite...miserable. In a comical way. And he knows how much you hated your time on Sakaar—Mobius warned him of your apparent irritation in reminiscent of being stranded and then having to resume paperwork immediately. He wonders if he, too, is the reason for another boiling rage.

Apparently, you were pardoned on behalf of not only Mobius but the Time-Keepers as well.

You, an agent, are recognized by the holy and almighty Time-Keepers.

You, an agent, who sleeps with your mouth agape.

The statues of the TVA’s creators loom over him like they’re watching his every step. Every movement. Every lingering thought. Right now, he has the urge to uncover, perhaps deduce, the holes within this whole mess. In a carefully calculated and discrete movement, he reaches to prod you on the forearm. You don’t move.

He prods you again.

You still don’t move.

Now, Loki is trying to chat up the archivist who watches him through narrowed eyes, glasses framing the austere and rigid structure of her face, in favor of files that turn out to be classified.

Classified, classified, classified. Only able to gain access to his own file.

His journey from the desk proved to be useless and unproductive although the much-needed stretch somehow made it a little worthwhile.

When he returns, you're surprisingly still asleep, brow twitching and lips still parted.

Aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on him?

The pen you held has now left your grasp, rolled over to his stack of binders. He notices the words inscribed on it, ‘Mars is there, waiting to be reached.'

Through your fury and chaos, he knows there’s a part of you that feels, a part of you that loves. And you love everything about the Midgardians’ space program. It's shown in the way you cling to collected memorabilia.

There are dark circles that adorn your shut eyes, barely hidden under your lashes. You’re exhausted, fractured.

Loki is having a difficult time trying to suppress how he likes the way the frizz of your hair glows against the glowing table lamps from the desk behind you. You’re raw, flaws presented on a silver platter for everyone to see. Maybe, that’s the reason why you entice him the way you do.

He’s staring. Right. Back to work.

Loki returns to running through neverending case files, engrossed in the pixelated monochrome images that accompany the monospace typeface of endless reports.

Then, he sees it.

‘Destruction of Asgard’ in big, bold, and red letters. It glares at him sharply, images of his once divine home of Asgard, crumbling at the feet of Surtur. Buildings, people, engulfed in the flames of the fire demon. The prophecy of the end, Ragnarok—it was meant to be.

His home, it still was. Although an untrue Asgardian.

He knows how it ends. He knows he dies. He wishes his true self, the one on the Sacred Timeline, could have done more.

He doesn’t realize the forming tears that linger. He doesn’t realize that in the sense of premonition, you’ve awakened. He doesn’t realize that even with sleepy eyes, you notice the grief that glints in his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

With three words, you’ve struck him with those eyes that seemed all-knowing. You see through the facade he has created, sealing the true nature of what is truly a child that is afraid of his destiny and to lose all he had ever known. His mother, father, and brother. His people. You see through it all.

You know that face. You’d seen it on Sakaar when he sat at the doorstep of your makeshift home, watching the splintered moon drift through the star-lit sky. You’d seen it in yourself through the dusty reflection of the screen of the tempad.

He longs for home. He longs for family.

For a moment, Loki sees Frigga in your eyes.

Then, his world shifts, hauling him back to reality. It’s you who’s across his way, not his mother. Loki blinks, partly to get his head straight with the excuse to blink away the sting in his eye. He shifts in his seat, rolling his neck and squares his shoulders.

“Yes. I’m alright. It’s just...”

Trailing off, he clears his throat. You follow his gaze and from your spot, you catch sight of those deafening crimson letters. Maybe, it was the spur of the moment. You blame your drowsy state, but there’s a growing warmth that spreads across your chest from the pit of your stomach. It’s subtle, a spark, but evident. Before you know it, you’re uttering words that leave your lips faster than your brain could perceive.

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t know when was the last time you said those words and meant it. Loki doesn’t know when was the last time he’d ever heard those words addressed to him, spoken from the lips of a stranger. Until now.

You mean it. He sees it in the curve of your brows.

Loki swallows, nodding curtly. For the first time, he has nothing to say. And as quickly as the moment comes, he brushes it off and so do you. Whatever is reminiscent of a residing unknown feeling, bubbling within, has disappeared.

He sees your hand reach for the pen and for a while, he thinks you’re about to reach for his arm.

But no, you’re back to scrawling notes on the paper and he’s back to studying useless documents.

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to fall back into your normal antics as you find yourself chasing after Loki, who abruptly left the desk with wide eyes.

Curious minds think alike. Mostly.

TAGLIST:

@lareinedususpense

@poubxlle

@mystoragehatesme

@the-maroon-panda

#loki #loki x reader #loki laufeyson x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson x you #loki imagine #loki laufeyson imagine #loki series #sylvie #mobius x reader

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imalwaystiredzzz · 3 years

Text

C2: Sisyphus happy. Yan Zhongli x Reader

Warning: Yandere behavior, unhealthy relationships

< Sisyphus happy. chapters >

“Perhaps you would fear if you saw me, and love is all I ask. There is a necessity that keeps me hidden now. Only believe.” - Cupid and Psyche ══════════════════════════════════

You have a dream; heavy and looming as you carry a boulder on your fragile back. It dares to crush you under its weight, while you trudge up a steep path towards the peak of this mountain. The sun glares with its heat like a guard set to watch your endless labor, sweat trickles down like rain on your skin as you pray for water.

The relief comes in the form of waking from this endless dream.

Breath. Breath. Breath. You breath as if your lungs were crushed and you had drowned in earth, wondering why the familiar pain of doing so was gone. “Slowly,” smooth like velvet and deep that it reverberates to your being, your dear husband hushes next to you observing for any hint - even a twitch - that you might need help.

“I felt like I had a really long dream,” you say, sitting up from the warm sheets of your shared bed.

“Care to tell me what it is about?” He is the epitome of patience practiced and perfected, waiting for your reply; though try as you might to remember what it was, the dream had long slipped from your mind like sand held between cupped hands, flowing and flowing until nothing is left.

“Have I been asleep long?” Voice groggy and eyes a bit blinded by the light, small hands felt the sheets on his side, the warmth and ghost of his form long gone, your dutiful husband, always awake and dressed before you even rouse from slumber.

Zhongli leans toward you, his gloved fingers graze your cheeks with tenderness only to tuck a strand behind your ear and it is warm as the morning sun that rises on your window. “It’s alright, I know that you need rest after our move.”

You blush, heart soaring like a pure maiden in love with her suitor even though it is none other than your husband who gives you his full attention. It’s supposed to be endearing. It is endearing. Yet there is an ache at the back of your head, that something is amiss.

His fingers, barely touching your skin, made you think of claws, long and sharp, shining with polish. You brush it aside, under the bed long forgotten in the dark, while you would begin your routine.

You could say that a day does not begin when you wake, rather it is when you make his tea.

He once told you that brewing is an art no less than painting or writing, it is not a matter of simply sprinkling leaves on a clay pot. It is a meditation and a ceremony practiced to bring forth a harmony of earth and water.

You take his words to heart. You take almost all his words to heart and memorize them the way he recites poems to you before bed. You command air to bring forth an aroma that allures the butterflies and with practiced elegance, you hold the Yixing teapot to pour him his cup while Zhongli is nothing but a spectator to this show.

There are no words exchanged before he sips. It is a little game between you and him, a show of trust you would like to think. Even the heavens could not imagine Zhongli take abhorrent food, not even for his wife.

He is nothing but an expert, listing the leaves you secretly used and the flavor in full detail like a practiced line from a play. You’d wager that had he been blessed to borne out of better parents, had he been blessed with a better standing rather than a son of a merchant who had a herbalist like you for a wife, he would have stood as the finest in a world of history and art with those deft amber eyes that miss nothing.

Not even the way you look as he leaves through that door with a kiss.

A kiss of parting as you wave him goodbye, the wind whispering that this is not your simple husband, who goes down the mountain to sell herbs and trade merchandise in the city. He is your foreign husband, who disappears from your presence and hides a secret deeper than the mines the humans could hope to till.

But who is to listen to the wind? Zhongli tells you that it is nothing but your active imagination and you are nothing but (Y/n) (l/n), a herbalist, who belongs to the soil.

This thought repeats in your head like a broken record and rings in your ear.

It is spring now, you remember looking up and thanking the clouds and the lush leaves of the tree that hide the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. The grass was evergreen and the wind smell of the oncoming summer heat, fragrant with flowers that bloom in the wild.

In spring, he tells you that a gardener is happy for the harvest is abundant and the lands teems with life. In spring, you should be happy.

The plants are alive and they grow easy, they are not shriveled by the summer heat nor do they hide under the ground because of the winter. The flowers and herbs bloom, almost too perfectly as if the little pots were visited by the dendro archcon themselves in your sleep.

You are (Y/n) (l/n). In spring, you should be alive.

Yet cannot help but notice the absence of the worms nor ants that you once complained about. Once upon a time, you would be maneuvering them all throughout the day away from the lush green leaves and bountiful earth. And sometimes your imagination would play tricks and whispers of their avoidance.

“What cruel little pest,” you tell the soil while planting new seeds until the sun goes down and hides from the skies, when you light the lamps in the house, but most especially by the door, red and glowing like a star against the vast darkness of this lonely mountain.

Hoping, praying that this simple light will lead him back, if he might ever be lost in the shadows in the road.

Even before he walks through the door, your ears are listening to the whispers of the air that carries his footsteps as it taps the ground so when he opens the door, you are there with a warm welcoming smile and a kiss to his cheeks, heart calm as you know he is safe and he is here. He is home.

You should laugh, really. Your husband who has mapped this mountain like the back of his hand would never be lost but the anxiousness of it never fades. A perpetual worrier, he would call you with eyes lost, staring at yet never really seeing. You know that he has his moments, he doesn’t mean to show, it is fleeting as it comes and no more than a blink of an eye hence you blink and pretend that you don’t see and lead him by the hand to the table neatly set and filled with warm food.

You dine as he talks about the people he has met and worked with in the city, how the land has begun to thrive and the mora flowing. He tells you of a harbor, where boats are ever growing in size as the days go by and the merchants travelling to do business within it. As far as you can remember, there was never dinner where Zhongli does not talk endlessly about the city - always proud yet humble like a poem, you would think that he talks about it like a child of his own.

“I wonder when will I see the lights of the city from here.” You don’t know what compelled you to say this, maybe it was the stories that he never ceased to tell, maybe it was the lantern that still hung lit outside and darkness that encloses it like a sky with a single star. He pauses, struck and still as a statue, he looks at you in a way that you have never seen before.

This smile is is not warm as the morning sun when you wake; it is not tight and constricted when he leaves; nor is it practiced the way it would fall so easily on his visage like a mask; rather this smile dims the glow in his amber eyes and wrinkles the skin akin to sadness and guilt held back.

He reaches for your hand on the other side of the table and kisses it, tenderly, gently as if you are glass that would break with a tap and this is his silent promise that you feel would never come to fruition, “Maybe one day when you are feeling better.”

The routine ends when your dear husband leads you to bed, the fire closed and you are both in the dark. Tonight he kisses you with unhinged passion, holding unto your small form against him like you were about to disappear into thin air and he is a stone cage.

“Is it so selfish of me to keep you by my side and never want to let go?”

He asked barely a whisper above your skin, like a prayer to a god that never answers while the only thing on your heart was pity for your dear husband’s deep sadness, who was an embodiment tragedy that could make you cry.

Had you been born with a stronger body, maybe then you could promise him tomorrow and the rest of your days yet you are nothing but ephemeral so you don’t speak; simply hold his arms, firm and hard under your touch briefly wondering why you thought of scales, mighty and solid as the unblemished core lapis from deep underneath. Under your fingertips he is foreign yet familiar, in every wrong and right way possible. “You have enraptured me, body and soul. I will always love you, even after I have long passed”

“Is that what it means to love”

“That is what it means to be human.”

You fall asleep, long before he does. He holds your hand, tightly.

Step by step by step. An endless walk as you contemplate: why? What sin so great that you have committed for this to be an equal torture. And yet even as millennium of wondering have passed you don’t know, rather you’ve forgotten, memories and thoughts lost in the pain that seeps into the bone, desert in your throat and the eyes that cannot see the peak of this mountain you climb.

#TiredZ Sisyphus happy #yandere zhongli #zhongli x reader #zhongli x you #zhongli x y/n #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact #genshin imagines #geshin impact #yandere zhongli x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin x you

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freshouttaparsnips · 3 years

Photo

All he knew was that, somehow, someway, he’d messed this up. And he and Sans were going to pay for it.

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have a new chapter of Little Fangs because im letting Fate decide what i write today lol

tw for medical experimentation on young children

read chapter 15 on Ao3

or read it below!

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It wasn’t more than two weeks later that Sans had started to climb the sides of the furniture in the back room, standing shakily on his feet before toppling back onto his sacrum more than a few times. In the beginning Papyrus had felt afraid that he’d actually hurt himself, but he quickly figured out that while Sans might cry out and sniffle a little, he was more shocked at the fall than hurt.

It was relieving; Papyrus never wanted to see Sans hurt again. Once had always been enough. The sickness had been enough.

No, these days there was very little here in the safety of their little space that Papyrus would actually consider dangerous, at least in terms of anything in it. Outside, outside there were plenty of dangers, and that was why for the most part they stayed here, in the warmth.

Grillby had continued helping him with his letters, teaching him the sounds, and the differences between the big versus the small versions. It was strange, wingdings didn’t behave quite the same way, and hands certainly didn’t seem to either. But he was built to learn quickly, so learn he did.

Withing those two weeks he’d mastered writing them, and had figured out the sounds of most of the big letters. Grillby had seemed impassive about the entire thing, a little withdrawn but his flames curled at the edges when Papyrus finally sounded out a word in his book. Papyrus took that as the praise he assumed it was, feeling that strange warmth deep in his chest that always came when Grillby brought them a special new food, or sat with them before bed, reading one of the bigger books.

The stories in them were hilariously made up, but they still entranced Papyrus and Sans both… even when Sans became uninterested and started chewing on the crayons.

He could imagine the Surface, feeling the wind on his bones, challenging the bright ball of fire in the sky, holding Sans as they traversed into the great unknown. And of course Grillby would be there, nothing was ever going to happen to Grillby. Flames lived a long time, Grillby had told him so. There was nothing to worry about.

They’d been sitting in the bar one day, Grillby having closed down to clean everything, Papyrus helping by polishing the bar top and the chairs. They worked in silence, only speaking up to ask for a new rag, or to mention a spot the other had missed, but after a long time, Grillby finally spoke up.

“So what were the gray drawings about.”

Papyrus stopped, glancing up at a curious looking flame with wide eyes.

“Which ones?” he asked, hoping to buy a little time, but Grillby saw right through it.

“The ones you won’t let your brother see. The ones with the metal bars.”

Papyrus swallowed, breath picking up a little, even as he began cleaning the bar top again, this time with a little more vigor. “That’s where we lived. It was dark, nasty. I took Sans and left.”

There was a dubious silence from across the room, but Papyrus ignored it. It didn’t matter where they’d come from, not anymore. The doctors had all died, disappeared for good, he’d made sure of that.

Showing him the Void Machine and where it was in the Lab was perhaps the kindest thing the one doctor had done for him. It still weighed on Papyrus’ soul that he hadn’t made it.

Grillby hummed to himself finally, sitting in a bar stool to watch Papyrus scrub an old stain from the top. “Are you sure that’s all? It looked depressing as all hell.”

Papyrus grimaced, remembering the nights he held Sans close in the darkness, only to wait for the lights to turn on and a new “hell” to start each morning. “Yes, that was all. It wasn’t safe. I took Sans and left. That’s it.”

Grillby was silent once more, seemingly considering that. Then, he stood, coming around the bar top to kneel next to Papyrus.

Papyrus’ hands were trembling as Grillby took hold of them, gently turning them over to reveal the tiny, crack surrounded holes where the plate had been.

“It’s okay to lie about it.” Grillby said carefully, calmly. “But if you need something done about any of it, please tell me. I’m never letting anyone hurt either of you again, you know that.”

Papyrus nodded slowly, looking anywhere but Grillby’s face. He didn’t want to see the possible concern there, or, more likely, the anger.

It was slight, but Papyrus could hear how angry Grillby was, the heat of his body more than it usually was. Enough to light up the whole room without the lights, and it was terrifying because he didn’t know who that anger was for.

It could have been for the people who took Sans and brought him back to Papyrus shaking and crying, new holes in his arms, shoving him at Papyrus with a warning to get him to stop bawling.

But it could have been at Papyrus for allowing it to happen in the first place. It could have been because Papyrus was unwilling to talk about it, no matter how raw the pure horror deep in his soul felt every time he remembered pushing the button on the Void Machine that would send it into overdrive.

So, in a last moment, split decision, Papyrus blurted out, “You don’t have anything to worry about.”

Grillby stared at him, no emotion really easily seen. “What do you mean?”

Papyrus cringed into himself a little, but still answered. “They’re all dead. The lab is empty, I made sure.” Forcing himself to look up at Grillby, he continued. “So there’s nothing to worry about.”

Grillby’s flame went near blue for a moment, before he gently put his hands on Papyrus’ shoulders, squeezing softly. “Thank you. Go in the back with your brother, I’ll be right back with lunch.”

Papyrus nodded, more than willing to leave and hide in the back room until the roiling fear that sat in his stomach subsided.

He didn’t see when Grillby’s flames when bright white, his breathing erratic as he headed outside. He didn’t hear the crackling of the fire that Grillby wrought on the trees behind his bar, or the melting of snow under the intense heat.

All he knew was that, somehow, someway, he’d messed this up. And he and Sans were going to pay for it.

#fresh writes #undertale #babybones #dadby #underfell papyrus #underfell sans #underfell grillby #angst #hurt/comfort #medical experimentation #unethical experimentation

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alphabravocharliedelta · 3 years

Text

Therefore I Am | Russell Adler x Bell!Reader II

Series: Call of Duty: Black Ops Cold War

Therefore I Am | Russell Adler x Bell!Reader

Chapter II

Word Count: 3400+

[Chapter I] [Chapter III]

Summary: [Y/N] “Bell” [L/N] was content with dying. Shot by the person whom they admired and left to die, the world was now left in the hands of the team they once thought as family. However, it seems that fate had other plans in mind…

Content Warning: mature content, gore, vulgar language, blood, injuries

Notes: Thank you so much for your comments on the previous chapters! I can’t respond to them but reading them is very heartwarming. This chapter’s a bit short, and if your wondering as to why I chose a certain character over the other, it’s just of preference. Besides, they need more appreciation :)

[Y/N] “Bell” [L/N]

July, 1983

North-West, Soviet Union

The weeks passed without anything new. The weeks eventually turned to a month.

It was during July 1983 that everything changed.

4th of July, actually.

Even if rations were running low, you all managed to pull through eating crackers and pulling eggs from nests. There were a few starving nights, but efforts would often be rewarded through some animal caught in one of the traps.

Today, everything started off as normal. It was usually dark out when you woke up, so you had the daily program of watching the sun rise as you did laps. You engaged in your daily routine of exercise, before spending some time alone at the makeshift practice range. Majority of the time you lay on the ground, staring at the bluish white sky above while trying to wind down from your work out. The snow has long stopped, humidity starting to move in.

Afterwards you walked around the facility until Vadim requested you to check the animal traps on the west side of the base. No strange activity like usual, and the traps were either bare or activated, but with nothing inside. The wildlife around were beginning to play it safe and smart— The bait was always missing now. You covered them with a bunch of twigs and old leaves, making sure it was obvious enough for the group to notice.

You returned to see Artyom working on his new weapon: a bow. He managed to find some old logs previously, in which he spent the next few weeks hacking at it and carving it into shape. It was nearly finished now.

"Nice craftmanship," you remark. The bow was fairly nice and sleek, a light yellowish tan with brown streaks. It was a bit shiny too, which you could only assume he polished with some oil.

"I used to help do woodwork with my wife before the war started," Artyom describes. "Making tables and furniture."

“That so?”

“Yeah. Good business. Handcrafted and original design, you won’t find it elsewhere.”

Vadim strides in mid-conversation, holding a large hare by the ears. A rifle hung over his shoulder. "Got a big one!" he exclaims proudly.

If there was one thing about the seasons changing, at least it brought some more animals around. Even if the animals were getting smarter, there would be at least one unfortunate soul that would be caught.

Vadim headed over to the kitchen area to prepare it for cooking. You watched Artyom test the strength of his bow by pulling the string back, and making any adjustments.

Having nothing else to do, went over to the computer that sat in the corner of the room. It was dingy and yellowing with age already, most likely one of the earlier models that was released. It was surprising to learn that it was still connected to the database, all info easily accessible to you with just a tap of a few keys. The password was no problem for you, as some forgetful person decided to write an obvious hint on a yellow post-it.

The terminal mainly consisted of daily updates, a few logs written by Anton himself. The logs went all the way back, more than a year ago. It was a tad boring, as it mainly talked about the same topic: mission reports, suspicious activity, intercepted communications. Reading through it only reminded you of the time you went to Ukraine with Woods, only to discover about Operation Greenlight. Then it went all downhill from there.

The recorded conversation between Black and Hudson was here as well. Hearing how easily they spoke about it, despite literally placing bombs around Europe as a defensive mechanism was astonishing. You skimmed through other calls, much of them not really catching your attention.

If there was one thing that you didn’t like about this lifestyle currently, it was the days were mundane. You couldn’t even comprehend that you lived at an abandoned base for two years. Even if you wanted to take a joy ride around, any modes of transportation were destroyed when the base was attacked, and there was no way of salvaging any parts.

0000

Night time eventually came after spending your time breezing through the database. Dinner was small, and it would probably be another day or two before any of you could eat again in order to ration. You stared at the ceiling of your white room, following the grooves with your eyes until the lights were shut off. Diverting your attention elsewhere, you started listening to the noise of water dripping from outside the hallway and counted each drop, hoping to lull yourself to sleep.

You were about to hit the two-hundred mark but a loud crash made you lose count.

Shooting up from bed, you sat in the darkness waiting for any other noise to follow up.

It’s probably nothing.

That's what you told yourself, and yet there was an unsettling feeling that you couldn't shake. Your instincts were telling you to get off your ass and investigate it. But you were out in the middle of nowhere at an old, barely operable military base with four Soviets. No one came then, so what are the chances they would come now?

For fucks sake...!

You stood up, running your hand against the wall. You felt around until you found your knife and flashlight. Flicking it on, a bright beam came from the end of it, temporarily blinding you.

Letting your eyes adjust, you decided against getting suited up and left the room. The beams of your flashlight stretched until the end of the highway, dust particles floating around. Whatever made the noise wasn't nearby. If it was an animal, and you highly doubted it, it would have left by now.

Rounding the corner there was no one, and the walk to the meeting hall was dead silent. Mikhail and them must have heard the noise as well unless they were heavy sleepers. So where were they?

You went to flick on the lights, only to remember that it was past eleven. Everything else was running fine.

"Guys?" you called out in a hushed tone.

Hearing no response, you didn't linger any longer than you needed to. Shining the light into every passing room didn't reveal anything either, and everyone else had yet to make their entrance. It was probably safe to assume that they were well asleep by now and slept through the noise. But now that you were up, you couldn't fall asleep easily without knowing what caused the noise.

The base was rather big, and would take more than three hours to go through every room. Storage, cafeteria, the main terminal…

You were about to call the quits until you crashed into someone as you turned the corner. The flashlight fell to the floor, and you dived to get it.

“Fucking bastard–”

“Vadim?”

“Quiet!”

Vadim grabs your shoulders, shuffling you back into the direction you came from. You aimed your flashlight at him, and saw that he was clutching at his side, blood seeping through his fingers. He leaned against the wall, trying to keep himself up but struggling to do so.

“Shit, what happened?!”

Unable to stand up any longer, he slipped onto the floor with his back to the wall before he could answer your question. In a rush, you set the flashlight down, ripped off the bottom part of your shirt and placed it over his wound while applying pressure. The warmth of blood quickly seeped through; it was deep. It was only then that you realized that he had way more lacerations than you initially thought: one in the shoulder, leg, and arm. How he even managed to get away, you didn’t even know.

"They came back to clean up their mess," Vadim croaks. You looked up at him and already saw his eyes were beginning to lose the life in them. He already lost too much blood. "They, they got Artyom… We tried to get to the escape route, but they cut us off... I don’t even know what Mikhail was even thinking–"

The sound of distant footsteps echoed from down the corridor.

Vadim grabs your arm. “You need to go.”

Uncertainty raced through your mind. The footsteps were getting closer. “I can’t just–”

“You need to go!” he repeats, mustering up any strength to push you away. “Don’t waste your time on me!”

You gulped, seeing the desperation on his face. He was clinging to life, using his final bated breaths to tell you this, and in the end, there was nothing else left for you to do.

“Thank you... for everything.”

Taking a final look at Vadim, you decided to follow his wishes, and left him. You could hear him cock back a pistol behind you, yelling cuss words and calling out to the intruders.

It was probably best to better arm yourself with something other than a knife, so you made your way to the armory. Though it was quite the distance, you luckily didn't encounter anyone on the way there. The sounds of gunfire would echo out occasionally, and you hoped that everyone was alright.

Before you could turn the corner of the hallway leading to the armory, something flashed just right at the edge of your peripherals. Glancing, you saw a tiny red dot dancing along the floor and walls.

Shit!

You flicked off your flashlight.

There were two of them.

To make things worse, they weren't talking. No communication between them whatsoever. It was dead quiet and you could hear your heart beating in your ears. Whoever they were, they were professionals. Or maybe they were dumb. You hoped it was the latter.

Without a weapon, you had no chance of winning. Sure, you had a knife, but against two? It was possible if they were slow to respond, though you highly doubted it. You had to separate them.

Tracing back your steps you decided to head to the control room.

It was circular in shape. The terminals inside followed the shape of the room, curving around the center floor. They were on standby, light brown next blinking repeatedly, just waiting for a password.

Keeping a low profile, you searched around for something distracting. There was a little panel on the wall, and on it was a giant red button. A glass pane covered it.

Well damn.

Biting your lip, you winded up your fist and twisted your body. You took a deep breath before letting your waist unwind itself. Your knuckles met the glass, the shards digging into your skin as the button sunk onto itself.

"Fuck!" you couldn't help but yell, pulling your hand out as red began to trail down your arm.

Sirens began to go off, lights beginning to flash. The screens around you began to blink rapidly with the words "emergency" in Russian. An irritable sound of high pitched wailing came from above as bright neon red covered the room.

While things weren't going to plan, at least their attention was drawn to you instead of Mikhail, Artyom, and Anton.

As a matter of fact, where were they?

You didn’t even have time to think as a sudden spray of bullets came, shattering the glass windows. Ducking for cover, your breath hitched as you heard the door get kicked open.

With the loud siren masking their footsteps, and only a knife to your name, you were trapped.

Taking a peep around the corner, you could see two armed large figures situating themselves deeper in the room, parting and circling around the terminals. You couldn't make out their faces very well.

At least there were two– you could handle them. Maybe take one as a body shield, threaten to cut their throat.

There was a faint sheen of red on your left, and you found a pair of boots right next to your hand. Before they could even react, you sprung up violently and threw yourself at them.

You flipped the knife in your hand, making sure it was pointed downward.

Using every ounce of your strength in the attempt to make your knife plunge into the intruder's chest, and they in turn tried their best to prevent you from doing so.

Your grip on the handle was incredibly tight, to a point you were beginning to feel light headed and your chest beginning to constrict as the scar you bear stretched out. You could tell that they were stronger than you in terms of strength, so you needed to get this over with quickly.

Just when you were about to push your weight onto the knife, you saw it.

The siren lights momentarily illuminated their face, and you felt all feeling leave your body. You forgot to breathe, and your grip lessened on the handle. This couldn’t be happening. It’s been two years.

But there was no mistaking it. Those piercing grey-bluish eyes belong to someone all too familiar.

Lazar.

Eleazar Azoulay.

“Bell?” he whispered in disbelief, and his grip on you lessened significantly. You couldn’t see his expression, but his voice was enough. It was him.

You choked up as he said your name. Your nickname almost sounded foreign. Lazar must have seen your face at the same time you saw his.

Before you could respond, something blunt and heavy hit you square on your temple, knocking you off. Alarms were ringing inside your head, telling you to run as far as possible. You could already hear that man's voice at the depths of your mind.

"Woods, wait!" you heard Lazar cry out in warning.

You didn't waste a second getting back on your feet, diving behind a control panel as a torrent of bullets rained on the spot you were at just mere seconds ago.

You couldn't stop yourself from hyperventilating, and your hands began shaking. Balling them into a fist, you punched the ground as fear began to take over you. Fuck!

Somehow, you managed to get a good grip on your knife, holding it with your fingertips before chucking it around the corner from your hiding spot. You heard it collide with something metallic, and you took the opportunity to dash towards the door.

Bullets trailed right behind you, one even grazing your shoulder just as you made it out. You ran down the hall, trying to remember where the exit was. The only advantage you had was the lack of lighting, and your knowledge of the facility's layout, and yet you failed to clear your mind.

After a few tight turns, you tackled the emergency exit door open. You didn't stop for a moment, continuing to run off into the forest that was located on top of a small hill. The snow left indents of your shoes as you rushed to get away, but there was no time to spare to cover them.

Just what were you supposed to do in a situation like this?

Hiding behind a tree, it took a bit for your body to cooperate. Your thoughts were racing at an uncontrollable rate.

You always thought the first emotion you would feel was anger if you somehow encountered your former team again. You ran the scenarios through your head, thinking of every possible outcome, but this seemed to be the most unlikely route to have taken.

Rather than anger, you were scared.

What would they do to you when they found you? You were supposed to be dead. Were you going to kill them? No, you couldn't do that…

Right?

In the end, you wanted to shut your eyes, cover your ears, and wish everything else away. You had nothing to defend yourself, and you couldn't bring yourself to surrender.

You couldn't do anything.

Your military training felt useless in this scenario, and your mind was slowly turning against you. The voices sounded like they were getting closer, but you couldn't tell if they were auditory hallucinations or the genuine voices of the people you had cared for.

Cold wind nipped at the open wound on your forehead, and you could feel the trail of blood that ran down your face drying up.

The sound of a branch breaking went off nearby.

Painfully, you held your breath, and tried to concentrate your thoughts on your surroundings. You forced your hand to stop shaking by grasping your wrist. You listened to everything that could exist, whether it be the cold breeze blowing through, or the slightest movement of a leaf.

Surely enough, you heard the sound of something heavy closing itself onto your position. It was on your right.

Taking a peek from the corner of your eye, you could see a red laser pointing at the ground near you, before it disappeared. The presence was right there.

They knew where you were.

Preparing yourself, you took a silent deep breath, and pulled your legs closer. The sound of a single bell chime went off in your head. You had to be doing something right.

Counting down their footsteps, they were just a pace away.

You bolted out from behind the tree, tackling the person closest to you. They swore in surprise as you both rolled down a short distance.

It was Adler.

A sudden rage overtook you.

The man behind everything, the one who made these voices in your head.

You couldn't see his eyes behind the fucking glasses. Why did he always wear those fucking shades?

You were frustrated. You could have helped them. You could have told them about Duga, but you told them about Solovetsky instead. Your loyalty was to the US at that point, their morals and vision of the greater good heavily instilled on you. It may have been fake, but you eventually sympathized with it. You were even part of the team that prevented the nukes, and this was the "thanks" you get?

“We’ve got a job to do.”

Something inside you snapped, your fear turning into something incomprehensible. You weren’t mad or frightened; it felt like an unearthly force had taken control of your body, and you were just watching it play out in front of your eyes.

Kill him.

Wresting the gun away from him, you tossed it away before positioning yourself on top, making sure he couldn't get up. With your left hand you grabbed his collar. As for your right fist, you didn't hesitate to bring down your fist onto him.

His aviators broke right at the bridge of his nose.

"Bell-"

You didn't give him a second to speak. Pulling back your fist, you delivered another punch. Adler had an iron grip on your left wrist, trying to pry it away, but you didn't budge.

“The red door.”

Where was it?

"The CIA reinvented you, Bell."

"Bell, stop!"

Where was the damn door?

“Why?!” you screamed, tugging Adler at the collar with both hands. Your throat felt raw and dry as emotions began to well up, your thoughts becoming incoherent the longer you stared at his bloody face. “You left me!”

Adler fully understood the words you spoke, and it tugged at his heartstrings.

Your voice cracked as you cried, and tears were running down your face. You truly did think you had a connection with him, working side by side with a man that had your back in the most dire of situations. He fully expected this kind of reunion, but he had long convinced himself that you had actually died on the cliffside. Adler couldn’t even bring himself to fight back against you, agony written all over your face as you confronted him. He took the punches, wishing that it would at least give you some solace.

You were peeled off of him by Woods, whose arms were wrapped around your neck and waist, restricting your movement. You flailed your legs around, just trying to hit something, anything. But Woods' hold on you was too strong, and moving too much would choke yourself unconscious. Instead, you watched as Adler helped himself upward, wiping the blood from his nose away.

Adler rolled his neck a couple of times, and gave up on wiping away the blood on his face. He spat out some substance onto the ground as he reached for the radio, an audible click coming from it. "Sims, get ready. We're heading to exfil."

You could sense him looking at you, but you were unable to decipher his visage amidst the darkness.

"We secured the package."

#russell adler #russell adler x reader #russell adler x bell #cod black ops cold war #black ops cold war #call of duty #bo:cw #text #bell #call of duty x reader #call of duty imagine #fanfic #abcd briefing

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shield-agent78 · 3 years

Text

Winter’s Lessons: Trip~ Ch. 2

Pairing: Bucky x Reader, Clint x OFC (platonic), Clint x Bucky (platonic), Steve x Bucky (platonic), Reader x Steve (platonic), OFC/Laura x Reader (platonic) Sam x Bucky (platonic), Natasha x Bucky (platonic)

Series Warnings: language, mentions of sex, anguish, fluff, children with disabilities, mentions of autism, a little sass, cocky Bucky, playful teasing, dirty talk, eventually smut, slow burn

Rating: R/Mature

Story Summary: You’re a school teacher for students with special needs who is passionate about her job but has neglected taking time out for herself. He is handsome, cocky and an Avenger. What happens when a newfound relationship just might turn out to be exactly what you both need?

Word Count: 1241

Square Filled: slow burn for Marvel Fluff Bingo, blue for BBB Flash Bingo Card #1

A/N: Thank you to my beta @mindingmyownbusiness Dividers created by @firefly-graphics

Dedicated to: @one-crazy-writer @averyrogers83

Chapter 1

The Autumn wind rustles the golden hued leaves upon the trees near the school yard as you pull your jacket closer around you and try to juggle your bag while unlocking the car door. You fall into the seat exhausted from the day giving a little sigh of relief. Laura piles into the passenger side. “You know, if I didn’t know better I would think today was Halloween as excited as the class was.” You hum in agreement pulling out of the drive.

“All I know is that I need a break and to see my boyfriend,” you giggle. It had been four weeks since you had seen Buck and even though you talked almost daily or even facetimed it wasn’t the same.

Laura gives you a teasing smile. “You know, I don’t think I have ever seen you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like a giggling school girl.” You give her a sideways glance as your phone rings playing a familiar tone. “Oh, and speaking of Greek god, look who’s calling.”

“Don’t you dare…” you tell her as you answer.

“Hello.”

“Hi Darlin’, how are you?”

“Hey, Barnes! I’m great, how are you?” Laura yells into the speaker. Your face goes red. Bucky snickers at her and you let out a frustrated growl.

“I’m good. How’s my girl today? Are you keeping her out of trouble?” He teases.

“You know I am, besides we are….”

“You do realize he called to talk to me.” Bucky lets out a loud chuckle.

“Fine. Fine. Have your man. Hey Barnes, do you have any single friends you can hook me up with?” Laura continues ignoring you.

“That can be arranged, Laura.” You can tell Bucky is smiling and enjoying teasing you. “In fact, I was calling to talk to you two about . . .”

A female voice breaks into the conversation behind him “Bucky, come on I need you to help me with this….” This new strange voice catches you off guard, sending your mind into a tailspin. It drips with seduction and intrigue. You grip the steering wheel of your car tighter, your knuckles almost turning white.

“Sure, Doll,” he answers, sending nervous energy down your spine. Your whole body tenses and Laura can tell. She gives you a concerned glance. Who in the hell is this? Why is he calling her Doll? What is she to him? No, he is not like your ex, he is not a cheat. Your thoughts continue to run wild as you pull over onto the curb in front of the coffee shop to let Laura out. In fact, you forget that he is still on the line and has been talking to you, until you hear him call your name.

“Y/N, so what do you think, can you come?”

“I’m ugh sorry, what? I ugh guess I spaced out for a moment.”

“I asked if you would be my date for this Halloween party on Friday.” You hear the female voice again and Bucky’s muffled response that he was coming.

“I don’t know if I can…” you say bluntly.

“What? Why?” Bucky’s voice is laced with mild concern now as Laura motions to you to call her later as she gets out of the car. She knows your past and how badly you got burnt.

“I just….”

“Come on James..” you hear the unknown voice say again and now you blood runs cold.

“In a moment, Doll.”

“Who is that?” You snap.

“Y/n? What’s wrong? Talk to me.” He commands in a crisp tone.

“Just let’s talk about it later, James.” His given name stings him like venom as it rolls off your tongue. “Besides, doesn't your ‘Doll’ need you?” Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh as he runs his flesh fingers through his hair. He looks over at Natasha who is waiting on him so they can start the debrief about an upcoming mission. She raises an impatient eyebrow at him. “Go, I’m sure whoever needs your attention is more important than I am right now.”

“Fine.” He answers in a crisp tone ending the call. You look down at your shaking hands as the phone call ends. You pull away headed toward your apartment with tears in your eyes and old memories from your past haunting your mind.

“What’s wrong?” Nat questions as Bucky shoves the phone into his pocket.

“I don’t fucking know. But I would really like to know what the hell is wrong with my girlfriend,” he answers angrily as he pushes the double glass doors to the conference room open with a muffled bang.

Two hours later another punching bag was demolished, it’s contents scattered on the dark polished wood floors. Bucky walks over and picks up another bag to hang it onto the hook. However, when he turns back around Sam is standing in his way his hands shoved into his jean pockets. Clint is leaning against the door, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“What did that bag ever do to you Tin-Man?” Sam jokes trying to lighten the mood.

“Fuck off.”

“Hey now, I came to help you. So drop the bag and sit your ass down.” Bucky squints his eyes at him and than glances towards Clint who is not moving.

“Do what he says, Buck. We know you are not ok so stop trying to bullshit a bullshitter.”

Bucky sits down on the bench in front of the wall looking between the two men again. He knows his friends won’t let this go until they have their say or he gets the argument with y/n off his chest. “So, first fight huh?” Sam asks with a small chuckle. Bucky responds with an angry glare. “I take that as a yes. So let me guess, she heard Natasha over the phone and didn’t know who she was?” Bucky shifts looking at the balls of his feet then back up. “I’m right!” Sam claps his hands in response. “Easy fix man, tell her that she is your co-worker. I’m sure she has heard of Tasha before and…”

“Then why did she get so mad about it?” He snaps unwrapping the blue boxing tape off his hands.

“I don’t know. Maybe it's a past relationship thing. Maybe she had a bad day. But I think you need to ask her instead of taking it out on a defenseless bag.” Bucky rubs his aching head. “Another thing to consider is what you called Nat,” Sam trails off.

“What do you mean, what I called Nat?”

“You call her Doll right? It’s a pet name for a girlfriend or lover right? Well, some women may think….”

“So what? I called Tasha “Doll”. It's not like we are screwing. WE haven’t been together in years.” Buck responds angrily cutting Sam off. Clint walks over towards the two men.

“No one is saying that. What we are saying is that y/n likes you and you like her. More than any woman you’ve dated in a long time, she makes you happy. Work it out. Tell her about Tasha.”

“I don’t want to fuck this up…” Buck grumbles.

“Then talk to y/n,” Sam states bluntly. Bucky gets up and grabs his satchel.

"Doll is for your current lover not past you dumbass and who calls them doll anyway. Where are you going?” Clint questions as Buck pushes the gym doors open.

“To talk things out with my real Doll.”

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duchesschameleon · 3 years

Text

what if - chapter 4

summary: a long lost letter leads to an adventure in Italy for three people who find love and healing along the way. a letters to juliet au

pairing: Aaron Hotchner x GN!Reader words: 1841 a/n: alright, getting into some of the meat of the story! this one is longer and the original chapter 4 was so long I broke it up so now there is a planned nine chapters for this fic. chapter 5 is written and will be queued up for sunday’s post, but as my parents are visiting, chapter 6 might be delayed. I’ll try my best not to but no promises. a huge thank you to @qvid-pro-qvo for the beta!

what if masterlist

The next day, there’s less tension between you and Aaron. He’s more amenable to talking to you and even smiles at you in the rearview mirror of the car. There’s a smile on your face as you write in your notebook, keeping track of the Carolyn’s you visit and adding to your story. The radio’s on and once Dave had found a station he liked, he forbade Aaron from changing it. Not that he’s listening to the music. He talks over the music, filling the car with stories from his summer spent with Carolyn, the afternoons they spent together in the fields and the nights spent walking through the trees in the moonlight.

You smile wistfully as you listen to the adventures - and troubles - Dave and Carolyn had gotten into. Aaron even quirks his lips in a ghost of a smile. It’s a small thing, something you would have missed a few days ago but now find yourself noticing it. Even catching his eyes a few times in the rearview mirror.

So far, the Carolyn’s are proving to be a bust, no one Dave recognizes. The map you’d marked up with all their locations is spread out on the hood of the car and you and Aaron are leaning over it, trying to agree on where to go next.

“That one’s isolated! If we go there, we’re done for the day,” you argue.

“Exactly. One more for the day and then back to the hotel,” Aaron says, crossing his arms over his chest. You shake your head at him, trying to avoid looking at his forearms. The bands of muscles spanning his forearms are flexed and on display in his polo shirt, they keep catching your eye and you just turn back to the map.

“It’s early afternoon. We cannot just visit one more Carolyn, even with driving time that’s leaving too much on the table.”

“We’ll get those two tomorrow morning, they head out towards some of the others,” Aaron points out. You scrunch your eyebrows, bending closer to the map.

Shit, he’s right. You sigh and stand up. “Fine, we’ll do one more today.” Aaron just quirks his lips into one of his smiles, and you huff out a breath and fold up the map. Dave chuckles as he watches the two of you, Aaron smirking as he puts his sunglasses back on and you grumbling.

Choosing to visit only one more Carolyn Bartolini turns out to be a smart idea for many reasons. The one on the way back to Siena takes a bit to find. Since it turns out to not be a simple house, but a whole estate. There’s a winding drive to the large house that is surrounded by land, hosting gardens and crops.

“Look at that, Dave,” Aaron says, looking around as he drives down towards the house, “you may have gone from a girl who worked in the fields to a woman who owns them. And you got to skip all the messy bits in the middle.”

“Life is the messy bits,” Dave scoffs, hitting Aaron on the shoulder. Aaron clears his throat, looking a little sheepish and you smile softly, silently agreeing with Dave. The messy bits, the adventures, they made life interesting. You look out the window, heart squeezing with the missing presence of your partner.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts as the car turns off, shaking your head and taking a steadying breath. You and Aaron trail behind Dave, letting him do the talking. The person who answers the door beckons the three of you inside, leading you towards the garden and Carolyn. The garden is lush and gorgeous, filled with flowers and perfectly trimmed hedges. You walk along the hedges, letting Dave and Carolyn talk. You can overhear their conversation, talking about that summer Dave spent in Italy and Carolyn answering his questions, but you can tell that this isn’t the right Carolyn. Her answers aren’t right, not specific enough, and you can hear the disappointment seeping into Dave’s voice. But Carolyn keeps talking and responding, obviously trying to impress Dave.

You make your way back towards where Aaron is standing and cross your arms over your chest. Dave’s words from the car are still rattling around in your head and pulling your thoughts towards your partner, the messy bits of life you’d shared and the adventures you’d promised to share. You turn your attention to where Carolyn is fawning over a melancholy looking Dave, trying to impress him. It's not an unfamiliar scene at this point, Dave can apparently charm any woman, even if she’s not the one he’s looking for.

“I wish I was your Carolyn, I would have enjoyed a life with you,” she’s telling Dave as they walk over to you and Aaron, “but I also would not have let you go in the first place.” Dave smiles at her and you all say goodbye.

As you walk back to the car, step in step with Dave, you smile and ask, “What is it with you and Italian women? They just fall at your feet.” Dave chuckles and you catch Aaron’s quirk of a smile, happy you managed to make both men happy for a moment.

By the time you get back to the hotel, all three of you are exhausted. Aaron walks with Dave to his room, wanting to make sure he’s alright and bring him anything he might need. You head back to your room alone, already planning on spending the evening writing. There’s a good amount in your notebook and you want to start getting it into a document. You might even reach back out to your old boss, talk about coming back to work in a different capacity once you return to New York and feel ready.

You settle at the desk in your room, laptop out and booting up, and feel yourself get pulled into the rhythm of writing an article. The notes and thoughts in your notebook aren’t terrible, but polishing them into a more cohesive story fills your evening and you look up at one point for a break and realize it’s nearly dinner time. There’s a simple room service menu you order from before sitting back down in front of your laptop to continue working. The knock on the door announcing the arrival of your food pulls you from your trance. As the hotel employee wheels the cart out of your room, you hear a knock on the doorframe.

Aaron’s voice is calling your name and when you peak your head around the wall to the door, you see him holding the door open. “Oh, come in,” you tell him, standing up from the desk chair.

“Well, I was going to ask you if you wanted to get dinner, but you seem to already have that figured out,” Aaron points out.

“Yeah, I’ve been working on the story and didn’t want to stop so-”

“Can I read it?”

You blink at him. “Uh. No, not yet. It’s not ready.”

Aaron takes a step towards you. “Come on, just a little bit. I want to make sure you’re telling the story right. That I’m being portrayed accurately.”

“Trust me, you’re being portrayed accurately. No worries there.”

Aaron huffs out a breath and shoves his hands into his pockets, raising his eyebrows at you. “Oh really?”

“Yes, really,” you laugh. You push off from the desk and grab Aaron by the shoulders, turning him towards the door. “Now leave me be so I can work in peace.”

He says your name, almost in a whine and you roll your eyes, opening the door. “Out. Goodnight Aaron.”

“Just one paragraph, please,” he protests as you shove him out of your room.

“Goodnight Aaron,” you say with a tone of finality.

“Goodnight,” he says, the door swinging shut in his face. You settle back in at the desk, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

The next morning, you search the patio for Aaron and Dave. They tend to beat you to breakfast and you figure today is no different. But you can’t find them anywhere so you simply grab yourself some food and sit at a table, facing the entrance to the breakfast area. You keep an eye out for them as you fix yourself a cup of coffee and pick at the pastry you’d gotten, pouring over your notebook.

“Ah, good morning.” You look up to see Aaron standing by the table. You smile, tapping your pen against your cheek.

“Morning,” you say as he sits down. There’s a comfortable silence as Aaron pours himself coffee and you concentrate on your notebook. It's still just the two of you at the table after a few minutes. “Where’s Dave?” you ask, eyes still scanning the pages of your notebook.

“He said he wanted to sleep in today.”

Your head snaps up and you look at Aaron. “Is he okay?” You can hear the slight panic in your voice, mind already racing with where the closest pharmacy is and what could possibly be wrong.

Aaron says your name, eyes locking on yours and cutting through your worry. “He’s fine, just tired,” he assures you. You let out a breath, nodding. “So he’s going to lie in for the morning. I was thinking about, uh, going into Siena and seeing the sights. Since we’re here you know.” He shrugs, glancing over to you.

“Yeah, that sounds like a great idea.” You turn back to your notebook, plans for working on your story filling your thoughts. Aaron lets out a soft scoff and you look up at him, confused. “What, it is a good idea! You should go explore. I’ll stay here and work on my story.”

Aaron looks out towards the city, his thumb running over his other fingers, nerves coursing through him. “Right, work on your story,” he mutters. “Of course.”

You look up at him, taking in his pose, how tense he looks. Quickly, you glance at your notebook and think it over in your head. You’d gotten a lot of work done the night before, the story was coming together quite nicely. Taking time away from it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. And the way Aaron’s holding himself, the way he was talking, it’s almost as if he wants you to come with him. You shake that thought, thinking of how callous and rude he’s been to you this entire trip, how dismissive he was of the entire plan to find Carolyn. But, you are here in Siena. Adventures in Italy, you hear your partner whisper, as if their voice had been carried by the breeze.

You sigh and place your pen in between the pages of your notebook, saving your place. “Since we’re here,” you say grabbing Aaron’s attention, “we might as well explore.” He flashes you one of his small smiles and you return it, before putting your notebook in your bag and standing up. “C’mon Aaron, show me the sights.”

taglist: @qvid-pro-qvo @averyhotchner @kelstark @hurricanejjareau @oreogutz @whentheautumnleavesfall

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #gender neutral reader #criminal minds #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #letters to juliet #letters to juliet au #my writing #fic stuff #what if tag #charlie rambles

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lixie-lovie · 3 years

Text

{ Mysterious Stranger | Skz }

h.hyunjin x Reader

Chapter 1: The Letter

Genre: Dark!au, Thriller-ish, Fantasy!au

Warnings: Small mention of blood, but otherwise none!

Word Count: 2.3k

Note: I am kinda sorta really excited about writing this story and although this is only the first chapter I hope whoever reads this enjoys! Not a very long chapter, but I should be posting more regularly! (hopefully lol) This is definitely different to anything I have ever worked on, so feedback is super appreciated! <3

Chapter Song: d.r.e.a.m. - ab6ix

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I came rushing down the stairway into the subway stumbling over my own feet in the low light. I was trying hard not to drop the bags of groceries I was carrying and also not miss my train. Breathing heavy, I took a quick moment to stop at the bottom of the stairs to listen intently for the incoming train. I quickly brushed my hair out of my face with my one free hand as I looked around and took in my surroundings. I noticed there was only one other person seemingly waiting for this late night train ride. As I slowly shuffled my heavy bag higher on my hip I felt my brow start to sweat even though the chill of the night air was enough to fog my breath as my breathing became shallow. I felt my eyes unconsciously glancing back at the tall man shrouded in darkness a few times only to notice him already facing my direction.

Strange, I thought as he wasn’t looking towards the train or even the clock on the far wall. Rather, I could almost make out a dull glow coming from the piercing eyes glaring in my direction from under the man's black hood. It felt as though his stare could cut me in half. By now I was too aware of how slowly the time was moving and how vulnerable I must seem in such a hurry with so many things preoccupying my hands. I began to shuffle my feet nervously and grip the straps of my bags tighter. My eyes darted to the clock, the mysterious stranger, and then the nearest exit repeating this pattern more times than I could count. I knew I couldn’t run, I had nowhere to go and no time to wait for another train. My mother was poor and sick and needed these groceries and the medicine I had picked up only minutes before running my way into this predicament. I found my thoughts drifting as I locked eyes with the man. There suddenly was a rumbling moving through the heels of my feet that rattled the key-chains connected to my bag, startling me to notice the train was quickly approaching. This notified me that I would have to find a way past this wall of a man.

As the light from the train rounded the corner, my eyes darted swiftly back to the man and noted the sleek, black line of ink spreading from under his right eye down his cheek and under the collar of his blank, torn black hoodie. He removed his hands from his pockets and just before the doors to the train opened I saw a glint of light reflect off of something in his hand. Something metal, I concluded as I took swift steps in a wide arch to reach the doors of the train as they opened for me, hopefully welcoming me to their grimy state and the undeniable safety of other people. My heels clicked loudly in my ears as my breathing became labored and I could feel the bread in my grocery bag slowly mushing between the tightened grip of my freezing fingertips. Just as I approached the door to the train I heard a loud ring and they opened for me, welcoming me to the few straggling, tired people occupying the area. Then, suddenly, I felt a rough, calloused hand wrap around my delicate wrist, pulling me roughly backwards. I gasped harshly and spun around only to be face to face with the man himself. His hood was down and his long, blonde hair stood out in the dim train light and my eyes went wide as I felt something cold and metallic be pressed harshly into my palm.

“It all starts now.” The man said in a gruff, tense voice as he released my wrist and pushed me harshly through the now closing train doors. I looked down as I saw his hood quickly fly back over his head and his body seemingly disappear into the shadows. My eyes darted down to the object in my grip and in my hand sat a dagger. A small and intricate dagger that was sharp enough that just from my rough grip a small line of blood from my palm was now sitting upon its blade. I noticed an engraving on the hilt of the blade, the same words the strange man had uttered to me before and got lost in thought while looking at the way my reflection was looking back at me in the polished silver metal shining in my hand. DING! Suddenly, we were stopping again and my mothers face flashed in my mind as I cursed to myself lowly and slipped the blade into the pocket of my bag while rushing to my mothers. Sadly, now I was late and unable to rid myself of the curiosity handed to me just moments prior.

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All I could hear over the bustling traffic while crossing the street to my mother’s tiny, antique apartment was the deep thrumming of my own heightened heartbeat and the sound of my feet pounding on the pavement as I rushed, already late to bring my mother the things I had gotten from the store.

I slowed my pace as I approached the door and quickly began rummaging through my bag looking for the spare key. As I was continuing my search I allowed my thoughts to drift back to the man I had just encountered and the odd experience, wondering if the situation had even occurred or was just a figment of the imagination of my overworked and tired mind. As my hands fumbled around until they found the next pocket on my bag I bit my lip in anticipation of getting a glimpse of the strange dagger again. Once my hand felt the dagger, still lying on it’s side, gleaming in the dim blue-ish light of the streetlamp behind me I let out a breath of relief. I then realized the keys were lying with the dagger and quickly reached for them. As I finally grasped the cool metal key between my fingertips there was a sudden crash that sounded from inside the apartment. I whipped my head up at the unexpected commotion and rushed to get the door unlocked.

My hands shook as I turned the ornate silver handle. I took a few cautious steps into the house and called out to my mother. When there was no response I began moving more hastily, ducking my head into every doorway possible looking for my mother. I finally reached the living room last. My movements became more and more rushed the longer I couldn’t find my mother. That was, until I took my first few steps into the living room only to hear a sharp cracking noise come from under my feet. I quickly looked to the floor as I heard more scraping and crackling coming from the movement of my shoes. “Broken glass?” I questioned no one in particular, “What the hell?”

My eyes slowly trailed up the length of the floor in front of me as I noted that the whole floor was littered with broken glass. I called out for my mother as I quickly began to take hurried, albeit significantly lighter, steps forward until I noticed the large window, that used to rest peacefully on the far side of the room, shattered. All that was left of the once protection from the outside were a few dangling, cracked pieces of the weathered glass and the now torn white curtains flowing from the chilly breeze outside. I gasped and rushed to the window to inspect, but when I looked around there was nothing unusual to take in besides the window itself. I then turned to quickly search the room for what could have caused the shattering of the window or a clue as to where my sickly mother could be. It wasn’t until I found myself approaching my mother’s rocking chair that I really noticed something off.

There, on the old, worn wooden chair, slowly rocking in the wind, sat a fairly small eggshell white envelope with a blood red wax seal pressing it closed. I furrowed my brow as I reached out to examine it, but as I scanned the chair again in the closer proximity I noticed the small trail of bloody fingerprints, still wet. I gasped harshly and looked over my shoulder quickly before grabbing the envelope and turning to pull my phone out of my bag. I quickly searched for the right person’s contact and dialed. Pressing the phone to my ear, I swiftly did another sweep of the house to make sure there was nothing I missed and made a b-line for the front door. As I made it out of the house the person on the other end finally picked up.

“Seungmin! Thank you for picking up.” I breathed out, relieved. “I need you to come pick me up. Something’s happened.”

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An hour later I was seated at my favorite late night diner fiddling with the straw of my vanilla milkshake while Seungmin was tiredly rubbing his eyes talking to the grandmotherly waitress with the white hair and kind smile that had known us both since our first visit here around the age of six. Seungmin was still in his too large white t-shirt and blue and grey checkered pajama pants with more than averagely fluffy hair from being woken up after working a long shift this weekend. I had never seen Seungmin at work, but I knew whatever the job was it had to be tiring as he was always working long shifts at random hours and constantly had new bumps and bruises that he rarely ever told me about unless I asked. He said he does odd jobs for different contractors and I never had the heart seeing his too tired face to question it much.

Because of the unknowns of his work and his constant sleeping when he was off, it had become mutually known that I wouldn’t be the one to contact him unless the situation is dire. On a normal occasion he would send me one text to let me know he was alive, I would respond asking if he needs groceries again, and his next message would be hours or days later once he had rested and received word of his next job to let me know when he was free to take me to lunch and then scurry off to at each new opportunity. However, recently those unprompted lunch dates have been slim to none, as have his days off, so he came quickly to my call, knowing it must be something extremely important if I would willingly ask him to be out of bed on a day off.

He smiled at me softly for a moment before turning to yawn into his hand while using his free one to make a small circular motion towards me that I interpreted as “go on, tell me what’s wrong.” At this, I sighed deeply and reached down by my ankle to grab my discarded bag. I pondered for a moment on telling him about the experience with the man at the subway station, but my pressing anxieties and worries about my mother spurred me to grab the letter, not the dagger, to hurriedly pull out. I flipped it over in my hands under the table for a moment while explaining what occurred at my mother’s house up until finding the chair. As I got to explaining what I found Seungmin was seemingly no longer tired and instead shoveling his food into his mouth swiftly while looking past me, seemingly in thought with the way his brows furrowed deeply. My gaze became more concerned as I raked my eyes over his face and I bit my lip as I pulled the envelope containing the letter out for him to see. As I handed it to him I noticed his hands were shaking and I assumed it was for the same reason as mine, out of worry for my mother. He swiftly opened the envelope and read the big bold letters printed there. Then, more surprisingly, his eyes drifted back to the envelope itself as he quickly drew it back towards his face before turning it over. Upon notice of the ornate wax seal that sat there he gasped and threw his hands down against the table, rattling the silverware and dishes loudly and jarring me out of my curious state, making me yelp softly. He then moved his gaze to bore into mine before saying something that left me further confused.

“We have to go. Now. They know where you are.” He said this soft and sternly, whipping his head around to see who else was in the diner. I don’t remember anyone but us entering or leaving. He grabbed my bag quickly, shoving the envelope inside before throwing some money onto the table, leaving a little extra tip (so kind even in such a panic, I noted). He then reached for my wrist and began to pull me towards the exit. In such a panicked and hurried state I didn’t dare defy him and only tried my best to keep up with his quick pace. However, the concern and rising uneasiness in my chest didn’t stop my head from turning ever so slightly to eye whoever might have been dining with us so late tonight. What I saw left me gasping harshly for air and stumbling over my feet to try and remain balanced.

Sitting there, staring right into my eyes, in the same outfit I had seen him in before was the man. The mysterious stranger. He sat silently with his black hood resting over his head twirling a blade much like the one lying in the beat up bag on Seungmin’s shoulder and as Seungmin was rounding the corner, with me in tow, I thought I had caught a flash of teeth, what could have been a grimace or a smile.

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#stray kids #skz #hyunjinau #hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #seungmin #dangerous!au #mysterious stranger #straykids x reader #thrillerau #chapter 01 #erika posting again? never heard of her lol #my finger slipped oops

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lifeofkaze · 3 years

Text

An Art of Balance #29

Orion Amari x MC

A/N: Julian Bennett belongs to the wonderful @slytherindisaster

Word Count: ~ 3.300

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Chapter 29: Unbalanced

With the school year drawing to an end, the amount of attention spent in Professor Binns’s classes had dwindled even further. Half of the students enduring the dull droning of the ghost alongside Orion were asleep, the other was using the time to catch up on neglected assignments, so they could spend their afternoon outside. For all that Binns cared, they could have chucked their inkwells through the classroom.

Like the rest of the students, Orion’s mind was anywhere but on the Witch Trials of 1692. He was bent over a piece of parchment, drawing and crossing out lines and circles as he tried to come up with a decent match plan. The last game of the season was only a few days away and he still didn’t have the slightest idea how to let his team play against Gryffindor. He had been trying to think of something for the last two weeks, but nothing good would come to him.

The Gryffindor team was known for their speed and dexterity, both qualities combined in their seeker and captain, Charlie Weasley. Orion had either watched or participated in every game Charlie had played since he had joined his House team and he knew raw talent when he saw it. When Charlie set eyes on the Snitch, he was always the one to catch it, no exceptions so far. They would have to make sure to keep him out of the game as well as possible.

Having an idea about what strategy Charlie was going for would have helped Orion design an appropriate counterpart, but the Gryffindors had taken care. As of late, they had started training at odd hours, often at the break of dawn or just before sunset, so no one would watch their manoeuvres.

Being friends not only with their captain but some other players as well, Lizzie usually could provide at least some insight into the Gryffindor team’s plans; but since she and Charlie had stopped speaking to each other, she was as clueless as the rest of them.

Maybe Orion’s own strategy would have come easier to him had he known how to incorporate the newly changed dynamic in their own team into his thoughts. But the way Lizzie, Skye and himself were working together these days still felt foreign to him.

He knew Skye and Lizzie were practising on their own a lot; as a result, their playstyle had become attuned to each other and they had developed some new moves that only worked between the two of them. They did include Orion in their manoeuvres of course, but the perfect balance between them had shifted.

Tearing his eyes away from the playbook he was writing in, Murphy looked over at Orion's notes sceptically. “I hate to break this to you, but with that strategy your chances of winning against Gryffindor sink to a discouraging 22.4 % at best.” He tilted his head and squeezed his eyes as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. “If I interpret it correctly, that is… is that even a strategy chart?”

“Our thoughts need room to unfold before they can evolve into ideas,” Orion explained airily, although he knew full well his work certainly wasn’t what he would call productive. “It is no good judging a diamond before it is cut and polished. However, true wisdom only comes to those who know how to listen, so if you have any idea how to improve our odds, I’m all ears.“

Murphy chuckled at Orion’s long-winded admittance of being stuck. “Let me finish the design of my new move and I’ll think of something.” He snorted as he glanced at the confusing array of lines and arrows once again. “Anything’s better than that.”

With a sigh of relief Orion dropped his quill and let his gaze wander out of the window towards the Quidditch pitch. It was good to know Murphy was too involved with their team’s success to let them down; not that he would have anyway. Even though their philosophies couldn’t have been more different, both of them knew the other would always have their backs, no matter if it was about Quidditch or anything else.

But even with Murphy’s brilliant mind on the matter, he knew the best strategy was no use without a well-balanced team to carry it out. And balance was something not only his team, but he himself was seriously lacking these days.

Orion was still pondering on this when the class was dismissed what felt like hours later. When they emerged from the dingy classroom, he was surprised to find Skye waiting for them in the corridor. When she spotted Orion and Murphy, she pushed herself off the wall she had been leaning against and made her way over to them.

“According to my notes, you are supposed to have Divination right now,” Murphy greeted her with a surprised voice. “Was class cancelled? I did see Professor Trewlaney at breakfast and lunch though, if she didn’t fall ill in between lunch and now - which, by the way, only is 12.5 % likely - I’d say you’re skipping class. Which is not good, Skye,” he added reproachfully. “You might get removed from the team if you’re caught.”

Skye didn’t seem fazed by his concerns and merely shrugged them off. “Don’t worry, I told Trelawney I feel burdened by the stars and some other nonsense I came up with. She felt very sorry for me and let me go to ‘find respite from the grim fate that’s awaiting me’,” she snorted and rolled her eyes. “Getting out of this class is way too easy if you ask me.”

Orion wasn’t happy with her heedless attitude either. Skye being careless about attending her classes was the last thing he needed right now. “You shouldn’t risk the privileges we hold so readily,” he scolded her mildly. “Unfortunately, our team is not prepared to meet Gryffindor eye to eye on the pitch as of yet. You getting banned from Quidditch for unnecessarily missing classes would be a harsh blow to our team.”

Skye’s expression had turned serious. “I wouldn’t call it unnecessary; the team is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.” She fell in step beside them as they made their way to the dungeons; they had Potions scheduled next. “We have to do something to get everyone back on track, and fast; the match’s almost here and we’re in a damn sorry state right now.”

Orion sighed. “I understand and appreciate your concerns about the balance of our team; I share them as well. But the fragile unison between all of us is a delicate matter; one wrong step could make everything worse and easily lead us from the way to our goal onto the one headed for failure.”

Skye huffed incredulously. “Worse? Wake up, Orion; it’s never been worse since the early days before Lizzie joined the team.”

“I actually have to agree with Skye here,” Murphy chimed in. “Looking at the numbers alone, the Hufflepuff team is stronger than ever.

As always when he was delving into his statistics, his grey eyes lit up with excitement. “The precision of your Seeker improved by 44.2 % compared to when she started out on the team six years ago. Everett and Judith only miss 5.6 % of their shots and our Keeper deflects 68.9 % of all attempts on his goalposts, 72.6 % on a good day. But you Chasers… ,” he trailed off for a moment and then shrugged. “Well, I hate to say it, but it’s only you guys that are lacking in performance at the moment.”

“Cheers for stating the obvious, McNully,” Skye muttered glumly.

“My pleasure; the physical abilities to win the match are there, but the sideshows going on are distracting the whole team. Like this, the chances of a Cup dressed in yellow and gold diminish to 23.6 %; and as impartial as I am, I really don’t like that,” he couldn’t help but add.

“You’re right,” Orion conceded. “The Chasers are the weak link in the chain holding us together. You and Lizzie balance each other well, but between the three of us, we lack the harmony we used to share before… well, you know,” he trailed off; he generally tried to avoid speaking openly about what had happened between him and Lizzie a few weeks ago. He could push the thought into the back of his mind when he focused on something else, but it would resurface every now and again. Orion had tried to let it go many times, but so far his attempts had been unsuccessful; thinking about it still hurt.

“Agreed, it’s because of you and Lizzie,” Skye mercilessly brought the subject up again. “Stop talking around it. She always knew best how to showcase our playstyles at the same time.”

“She has a point,” Murphy surprisingly agreed. “Lizzie’s style of playing Chaser is the most balanced out of the three of you, for lack of a better word.” He laughed lightly at the thought of anyone being more balanced than the Hufflepuff captain. “She is a perfect mixture of Skye’s overly rash and aggressive offensive and your more cautious, tactical approach.”

Skye looked at Murphy for a moment, trying to decide whether he had insulted her or not. She let it pass, however. “Whatever McNully said, this is exactly why I’m here. We have to do something about this whole situation with you guys or we might as well hand the lions the cup without much bother.”

Orion didn’t answer her; the prospect of Skye meddling in his business was not a thought he found reassuring. He brushed his hair out of his face before fiddling with the tie of his uniform; it suddenly felt even more suffocating than usual.

“Sometimes the ventures that are seemingly the easiest to undertake turn out to be the most complicated ones,” Orion conceded; he knew Skye easily lost her patience and let a topic drop if he wasn’t getting straight to the point, but not this time.

“That’s nonsense,” she snorted. “The way I see it, you need to man up and Jameson needs a kick in her pretty behind to get her to stop moping.”

Both Murphy and Orion were silent; even for Skye, her words were unusually straightforward.

She waved her hand impatiently. “Don’t look at me like that, you know I’m right.”

Lowering her voice a bit, she looked down at her feet. “Seriously, I can’t stand her being so sad all the time; none of you deserves this. And besides,” she quickly added in an attempt to play over her genuine concern for her friends, “if we don’t get that bloody trophy this year I’m going to lose it, let me tell you!”

They had reached Snape’s classroom where most of the Hufflepuffs and Slytherins were already waiting for the class to begin. Skye turned to leave for their Common Room until her next class would start, but not without looking back over her shoulder one last time.

“I’m serious, captain. Fix things with her or I will do it for you, one way or another.”

Skye’s words never really left Orion for the next couple of days. They would pop up in his mind in regular intervals, making it almost impossible for him to focus on one thing for a longer period of time.

For one, he really didn’t want Skye to interfere and he knew she absolutely would; although she would never admit it, it was clear to see that he wasn’t the only one concerned about Lizzie. And while he knew Skye was invested, her approach was seldomly a gentle one. He shuddered at the thought of what she might come up with.

But what was even more than that, he knew that she was right.

He and Lizzie hadn’t spoken alone since their meeting on the stands, when she had told him about her decision. As much as it had pained him and still did, he had respected her choice, and left her alone; there was no need to hurt both of them any more than necessary.

Orion was reluctant to break the fragile peace between them but Skye had a point; if they didn’t manage to find some form of common ground, their prospects of winning against Gryffindor were anything but promising. He knew confronting her would reopen both their wounds they had worked so hard to patch up these last few weeks, but what he felt personally didn’t matter in that instance. He was the captain of his team and had to put their shared goals first.

Just as he had feared, fixing things with Lizzie was a thing easier said than done. She was hard to catch these days, especially for him. Ever since the Slytherin match Lizzie had made sure to keep a low profile. Always being involved with some friend group or another, more often than not right in the middle of the action, she kept to herself and spent most of her time somewhere on the Grounds, her dorm or the library; neither place was particularly suited to have a serious conversation.

It wasn’t until their last official practise before the final game of the season that Orion finally managed to get hold of her. Everyone but Lizzie, Skye, Murphy and himself had already left the changing room as they packed their things to return to the castle.

Skye gave Orion a pointed glance and nodded in Lizzie’s direction; she had her back to them as she was stowing away her Comet for the evening. Murphy was still pondering the final details of their strategy he had just presented to them; he looked up in surprise as Skye grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the tent.

Lizzie raised her head at the commotion to find herself alone with Orion. She immediately tensed and quickly secured the holdings of her broom before starting off towards the exit herself.

Orion reached to stop her instinctively. “Wait up, I need to talk to you for a moment.”

When he touched her arm, however, she flinched from his touch and he immediately pulled back; that certainly hadn’t been the best start.

Lizzie took a step back from him so she was out of his reach. He noticed how her shoulders tensed further as she looked at him, meeting his eyes only briefly.

“What can I help you with?”

Her tone was very formal; Orion knew it was her way of keeping more than just physical distance from him. He hated having to make her talk to him this way when she clearly didn’t want to; but the wellbeing of their team was his responsibility, so he ignored the sting he felt at her reaction and gave her a small smile.

“Our final match is nearly here and it is my duty as captain to make sure every member of our team is feeling balanced,” he explained. He knew she didn’t buy it by the way she was raising her eyebrows doubtfully. Even now, she could read him like a book.

“We haven’t talked for weeks now,” he admitted softly, “I wanted to know if you’re alright.”

For a short moment, he saw a trace of uncertainty flicker across her face before she regained control over her expression again. Her eyes dropped and she shuffled her feet uncomfortably.

“Is this about my performance today?” she asked contritely. “I know I’m not in the best state right now, I’ll do my best and be ready in time for the match, don’t worry.”

Orion shook his head. “No, you were doing a good job. While your way of playing seems to have changed, I welcome the newfound harmony between you and Skye. It is plain to see that your hearts are beating to the same rhythm when you are flying next to each other.” He tilted his head sideways, trying to catch her eyes that were still fixed on the ground. “But no chord is complete without all of its notes; if one is missing, the sound rings hollow. Like in a musical chord, there are three of us Chasers; and where you are one with Skye, the bond we shared is all but gone.”

Lizzie’s shoulders slumped and she sighed deeply. “I know,” she muttered and bit her lip. “I’m working on it, okay?”

They both knew that finding a common place, where they weren’t fazed by neither what was in their past nor what might have been in their future was an almost impossible feat. But for the sake of their team, they had to try.

“If I may offer my advice, I’d tell you to focus on what’s imminent instead of tearing yourself apart over something you cannot change anymore. Concentrate on the match; when we’re on the pitch, nothing else counts.” He smiled softly and a little bit sadder than he had meant to. “Leave what’s past in the past.”

She chuckled wryly. “You make that sound a lot easier than it actually is, Captain.”

Orion’s smile widened the slightest bit upon hearing her using her nickname for him. “I know that, Chaser,” he couldn’t help but play along, ”just remember, I told you time and time again, that whatever happens, I’m still your friend and I always will be. If it helps you overcome your difficulties, forget everything that happened this year; push it to the back of your mind where it won’t dampen your spirit anymore. Imagine we are the same we were when the year began.”

“Are we though?” she asked silently. “But what if I don’t want that?”

Raising her eyes, Lizzie finally met his gaze without shying away. She searched his face for any sign, any giveaway whether pretending like nothing had changed was what he himself wanted or not. She hadn’t looked at him that intensely since they had parted on the stands back in March; he felt the butterflies dancing in his stomach as his heart rate was speeding up.

Orion hesitated for a second when he raised his hand to touch her. This time, she didn’t flinch when he put his hand on her shoulder. He tried to not let the contact between them exceed the encouraging gesture of a team captain to another player, but he couldn’t ignore the tingles spreading from his palm into the rest of his body.

He tried to shake the feeling off by concentrating on what he had to say. “Listen up, Chaser; my advice as your captain is, take your struggle with you into the air. Use it, let it fuel your fire, because no one I know burns as brightly as you do. Ignite your fire again, so everyone else can see that it is unmatched.”

The corners of Lizzie’s mouth quirked up as her smile, that had been sad before, widened. Her eyes were sparkling again as her fighting spirit was returning to her. “Thank you, Captain, I’ll do everything I can not to let you down. There’s still a lot on my mind, but you’re right; on the pitch, nothing matters but the game and we’ll show Gryffindor how it's played.”

Orion was glad to see a bit of the Lizzie he knew shining through again. “Exactly,” he grinned as his lips curved into a lopsided smile. “Go now, find your focus and clean your slate; because it is only with an unburdened mind that we can win.”

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #quidditch #orion amari #skye parkin #murphy mcnully #lizzie jameson #aob #art of balance #the quidditch squad

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ricaffeine · 4 years

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𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 | 𝐓𝐰𝐨

an: in conclusion i suck at writing, this took far too long to write and i'm not impressed. fingers crossed that the next chapter will make up for it 🖤

leave a comment! i'd appreciate it a lot :))

CHAPTER THREE

The doors creaked open, screeching into the frosty silent of the night, before snapping loudly against the wall. In contrast of the dark night, the full moon shined proudly, its light gently twinkled through the glass ceiling of the room.

Followed by were firm footsteps, shoe soles tapped against the hardwood floor and fainted into the distant. He collapsed onto his arm chair, a sigh of relief washing over as he shifted his weight back.

A knock was heard twice, followed by a steady pace of footsteps that visited the room. Kangtae averted his vision to the man– no, the ghost. Polished in his neat blue uniform, reflecting against the moonlight was a silver half-moon shaped pin tucked above his chest.

"Mr. Moon, you're back." His voice emitted softly as he stopped right in front of the desk- exactly four feet away– accompanying in this hotel for over seventy years– the longest person aside from Kangtae yet to stay, he had his own merits. Jin Hyun paused reluctantly, his wrinkles creasing from concern, eyes wide alert. "What happened to your hand?"

At first a bit muddled, but realization crept after him and Kangtae sighed. Glancing at his blood-clothed hand– scenarios of red winded up in his head. "Ah.. this?"

That impulsive woman.

"Just some accident." His reply was simple– like the man he was and unlike the moon guest house's previous owner, he was, you can say, far less complicated.

Kangtae peeled at his clothed hand, anticipating as the blood wrenched skin morphed back to what was before, clean flesh took back its place. "Where's Manager Lee?"

He then reached for his whiskey decanter, filling up a quarter of the lowball glass. "Isn't she back yet?"

Jinhyun hesitated. "About that, I'm afraid to tell you that there had been a major issue regarding your latest purchase. But do not worry sir, Manager Lee will inform you once she has discussed with the–"

"Tell her to take the day off tomorrow." Kangtae spoke and sipped his glass, embracing the scorching burn that drained down his chest. "I'll manage it myself."

Although struck in confusion, the old spirit knew better than to question his boss's command. Jinhyun nodded reluctantly, made sure he would address the message to the mortal being.

"It's the full moon today, so I think we are expecting many guests."

Kangtae drained his glass and set it back on the table, jaw clenched at the comment– though it was swiftly masked away with his poker face. "Open for business, but don't accept the ones whose death were so gruesome. They're a pain in the ass."

Suppressing the urge to tell him that discriminations shouldn't be allowed, instead Jinhyun bowed, no interest to provoke any further into his bitterness. "I will take special care, so they won't get in your way."

He left with another steady bow, footsteps fell into the distant and Kangtae picked on the red stained cloth that layed flat on his desk. A blue flame lit up on its end, he watched waves of blue consumed all of it, before golden ashes swirled and vanished into thin air.

One speck however, did not follow and he reached out, trapping it between his pincers.

"Ko Munyeong, what should I do with you?"

Munyeong slapped her phone shut.

Frustration built up like a ticking bomb as she threw it behind her. It landed with a loud thud, but she could care less. Yesterday's event had bittered her enough and Sangin's repeating missed calls since 6 a.m. weren't brightening her mood any better. Tires screeched against the waxed floor as she struck a sharp turn into the parking slot, the reserved for CEO sign knocked into nowhere.

In her new prized possession, Munyeong stomped through the building, brave less employees– who ever barely had the guts to look at her on a usual day, shuddered twice as much–

"Good morning Ms. Ko!" The tiny body wiggled its way to block her off. A weary smile is served from Sangin's pesky assistant.

"Move aside."

Seungjae shuffled, hands suspiciously frantic as she spoke. "Mr. Lee just informed me that he will be here soon–"

Munyeong hissed. "And?"

"..And that you should go wait in his office." She finished meekly, unsure of her tone.

"Why would I wait there?" She pointed her finger foward. "The meeting room is right here."

Not intrigued for her reply, Munyeong nagged the girl's shoulder, rather she'd figure it out herself.

"Move."

She strolled across, then paused within her pace, eyes captivated by a figure. Leaning onto the metal rail, Prada purse dangling in the air, she hummed in her own favor.

Ah. Him again.

"What a sight." Munyeong said as she stepped down in her extravagant red mini dress, ballooned sleeves cuffed tight at her wrists, a plunging neckline where she proudly presents her new gold necklace. True to her words, he appeared just as fine. Black slacks– which to her favor, did an incredible job in displaying his godly thighs. Cuffed sleeves of his button up accentuated his broad broad shoulders, and the spectacular waistcoat that hugged his chest.

"You look more dashing in these clothes."

The man teared his eyes away from The Witch's Rose– another of her cash-claiming pieces. A work of watercolors and actual blood splayed onto the canvas, everyone who has seen it ends up in complete awe.

However his gaze was not purely admiration, rather laced with criticism– certainly something she never enjoyed from anyone. But there are some exceptions for some specific people, aren't they?

"I thought you were different, but I was obviously wrong." She crossed her arms. "How much did he offer you?"

His voice was rough, almost coarse even. "If you can't talk politely, at least try to not be so cryptic."

"Ah. Look at you talking so casually."

Munyeong raised her chin and barged into his space, weaklings would have already shown signs of discomfort, but surprisingly he was remarkably unbothered. She dragged a finger along his shoulder, the curve of his skin firm beneath her touch, and tapped his bicep. "I practically stabbed you."

He swiveled around, this time his body directly faced hers. "What about it?"

"How much did Mr. Lee offer you to compensate and make sure your mouth stays shut?"

A short spur of silence fell before he let out an cocky ahh. "I'm guessing that method always works."

Her smile dropped. "Verbal consolation is bullshit, money is best."

"You really think so?"

She shrugged. "Then what do you want?" Eyes wide as she suggested. "Sex?"

In a swift moment he had drowned closer to her. His gaze burned at her, brushing at her lips and froze. "Is it worth that much?"

Admittedly he was good at getting on her nerves. Too good, though she'd never lose to anyone, including him. Munyeong let out a scoff.

"If you're not here for money nor sex, then what do you want?

He cocked his head slightly, his prominent eyes playing innocent and for a second Munyeong forgot that they were bickering. "A refund?"

A snap back to reality, her face laced with confusion. "What refund?"

He dodged her question and looked over her shoulder. "Ah. There it comes."

She turned around to see a Sangin entering with a box of not-so-secret cash in his hands.

"Good afternoon Mr. Moon Kangtae. I deeply apologize for what happened, what can we do–"

As usual, meetings with her always began with Sangin's devastated face– knowing all the trouble she is going to cost him– but today it did seem particularly worse.

Kantae lifted his hand, as if it was a sign to stop. "Let's cut to the chase– I want my money back."

Sangin's smile dropped, though immediately replaced by his appealing mask. "Yes, I understand–"

Kangtae stared at Munyeong, a smirk rising on the corner of his lips. "Including our little incident, I say it'd be 11 million."

Tragically, Munyeong had not noticed by the consequence of the appalling numbers. She snapped at the man to her side. "What the hell is he talking about?"

Sangin sighed. "Munyeong-ah, you see.. your little smashing session. It had wrecked The Nightmare Garden, therefore, we will have to repay our client. Mr. Kangtae is here to–"

Client?

Her eyes shot at him again, impossibly wider. "What do you mean client? Then who was that snobby lady?"

"Ms. Lee is my representative." Kangtae stepped in. "But it doesn't matter. The fact that you jeopardized my painting with that cheap wine-"

"I'm not giving up my money!"

"Well, there's nothing you can do." He smiled– devilishly and yes Munyeong would kill to wipe it off his charming face.

"You'll be hearing from my lawyers in a few days." Kangtae reached for his box of honey money, which was sheepishly handed from Sangin. "Until then, I'll take this."

With another amused– and irritatingly handsome smile, and piles of cash he headed off. Left in silence was a raging pit of fire and its hopeless manager.

Three hours and seven corspe employees later, Munyeong crumbled the paper cup in her hand. Furious was an understatement. How could she give her money back to him? She was set, eyes on her prize but just like a fucking clownery it vanished into thin air.

"Aish Moon Kangtae, that bastard." Munyeong trampled at the crumbled trash, letting out on a slice of her frustration. It was his choice to interfere with her, no one forced him to.

"Oh my my, you're a such a pretty girl." A squeaky voice giggled, penetrating into her quiet atmosphere.

She glanced at the lady, head to toe. Dressed in a horrifying shade of hot pink. Her frail grey hair was topped by a floppy hat- also in the same absurd color. She seemed to fond pearls, as it was accented everywhere, including on wrinkly her fingers where she had slotted a card in between. "Mr. Kangtae had asked me to pass this to you."

Her high-pitched voice rang like bells as she added. "He also said that he'd be willing to compromise, if' you go visit his hotel."

Munyeong raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

With a delighted smile, the lady nodded along and Munyeong promptly snatched it, ambiguous eyes interpreted onto the cursive blue lettering.

"Hotel.. Blue Moon?"

A condescending smile played on her lips. More so amused by the piece of paper and unaware of the soft breeze that swept past her.

Fine. If he wants to play with her, she'll play with him.

#it's okay to not be okay #psycho but it's okay #iotnbo #pbio fic #kdrama #kim soohyun #seo yeaji #hotel moon light #hotel blue moon #moon kang tae #moon gang tae #ko mun yeong #사이코지만괜찮아 #호텔 델루나

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luna-redamancy · 4 years

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You Always Find Your Way {Final Chapter - 13}

Series Masterlist

A/N: Thank you all who kept reading the series, it was wonderful to write. I hope you all enjoy the ending. I was planning on destroying some hearts today by making the ending sad but I decided against it!

Previous Chapter

“Destroy it!” Sam shouted, eyes filled with anguish as he looked between the golden ring and his beloved friend. “Throw it in the fire!” He commanded. Mount Doom was bubbing, lava bursting through the surface, a lake of destruction below him.

Frodo looked down, his eyes glazed over as if he was in a trance, a distant whispering filling his ear as he clutched the ring closer. “What’re you waiting for? Just let it go, Frodo!” Sam pleaded, watching as Frodo’s face twisted into a sickened desire.

“No.” He called out to Sam, ripping the chain off his neck. “The Ring is mine,” Frodo smirked, slipping the ring onto his finger.

“No…” Sam dropped to his knees, tears filling his vision as his heart clenched. All hope was lost. Gollum crept up behind Sam, a rock firmly in hand as he looked for the Ring. Smacking Sam upside the head with it, Gollum paid his unconscious body no mind as he looked for the other Hobbit.

Frodo’s footsteps lined the dirt, giving away his location despite the invisibility the ring granted him. Gollum snarled, throwing the rock and leaping onto Frodo’s shoulders.

Frodo gasped, trying to fight him off, struggling to maintain his balance with the weight on his shoulders. Gollum grabbed Frodo’s finger, his jaws latching around the finger that claimed his precious.

Frodo cried out, falling to the floor, clutching his finger to his chest as Gollum screeched with insane glee. Holding it up to the light, Gollum tattered toward the edge of the ledge, a grin on his face.

Frodo lunged for Gollum, eyes still swirling with madness as the two fell off the ledge.

“No!” Sam shouted, finally awake and aware of what was going on. Gollum sunk into the lava, holding the ring protectively to his chest as he met his fate.

Diving toward the ledge, Sam searched wildly for Frodo, relief filling him as he saw Frodo grasping onto the rockface. “Give me your hand!” He shouted, reaching for Frodo to pull him up.

Frodo looked up at Sam, eyes filled with regret and despair. “Take my hand!” Sam commanded again, his eyes filling with tears at the thought of losing his closest companion.

Frodo swung his bleeding hand towards Sam, trying to swing his entire body to help him grasp onto Sam’s hand. Missing it, Frodo swung back down, smacking into the rockface. “No!” Sam shouted, watching as Frodo looked up at him with desperation on his face.

“Don’t you let go, Mr.Frodo! Reach!” Sam gasped out, determination on his features as Frodo swung himself upward once again.

Grasping Frodo’s hand, Sam pulled him to the top of the ledge.

Below them, the ring flickered and glowed, the magic disappearing from it as it sunk beneath the surface of the lava.

The mountain began to erupt, lava pouring out of it as Sam and Frodo leaped onto a high rock to avoid suffering the same fate as Gollum.

Frodo looked to Sam, his eyes clear of all madness. “It’s done…” Sam turned to look at Frodo, “It’s done.” Frodo repeated again.

“Yes, Mr. Frodo… It’s all over now,”

Down a lonely hallway sat the room, guarded by a deep green door carven intricately and decorated with golden accents. The room had tall windows that once decorated everything in golden light but covered by thick curtains, leaving everything in darkness.

Thranduil sat on the floor, his back pressed against the stone wall as he analyzed everything in the room. Your old combs, your crown, a chest of your clothes, your favorite books, your favorite blankets.

Thranduil’s eyes were red, face blotchy from hours of mourning as he secluded himself in a safe space. A space that took away his hurt, you took away his hurt.

The silence surrounding him is familiar, a deep pang in his chest as he couldn’t stop himself from clutching onto your old portrait, pressing his forehead against yours.

Memories flashed through his mind causing him to shut his eyes and a whimper to pour out of him again. You were lost. Dead? Never returning? He couldn’t tell.

“Come on now,” Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you looped your arms around his neck. “I think you’ve worked enough for tonight,” You cooed as you tried to coax him out of his office. He chuckled, moving to give your lips a kiss.

“Oh no no no, you aren’t getting any love from me until you come to bed,” You finally gave an ultimatum, knowing he wouldn’t leave until the early hours of the morning if you didn’t get him out of there now.

“Alright alright,” He pushed himself out of his chair, his back cracking as he stood straight. Wincing at the sound, you shook your head. “What would you ever do without me,” You teased.

Brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, Thranduil pecked your forehead. “I would suffer tremendously.”

And suffering tremendously he was.

Alvina groaned, her body sore as she woke up next to a roaring river. “No…. No way…” She felt tears of relief as she stared up at the familiar trees of the greenwood. “I’m home…” She whispered as she laughed, “Vala… Please let (Y/n) be home as well…” She mentally prayed as she thought of the only reason she was able to come home.

Standing up, Alvina wiped her dirty hands on her leggings, walking the path that she knew like the back of her hand. Up near the river bend lay a small cabin.

Flicking her tongue out to wet her lips nervously, she clenched her fists as she walked up to the cabin door, smiling when she saw their plants were still in good shape. “After all this time,” She nearly whimpered as she saw them flourishing.

“Oh my stars… You’re alive!?” Daenys called out, coming back around from their garden at the back of the cabin.

“I’m alive…” Alvina gave a watery smile, tears rolling down her cheeks once more as Daenys pulled her into an embrace. “I missed you so much,” Daenys hiccuped, gripping onto Alvina for dear life. “I’m never leaving ever again,” Aliva vowed as the two clung to each other.

“Someone get King Thranduil,” The Captain of the Guard commanded, worryingly watching the Queen be carried to the medical wing.

“He’s been in that storage room for days, I doubt he’ll come out.” One of the guards reminded the Captain.

“I’m sure he will come out now if you tell him his wife has returned, and news of Sauron’s defeation has arrived. Legolas is coming home.” The guard dutifully nodded their head, slipping down the abandoned hallway passages to knock on the polished door.

“What is it?”

“My King, Queen (Y/n) has returned and is in the medical wing,”

“Don’t you lie to me.” Thranduil hissed, throwing one of your old boots at the door. “I am no fool, she hasn’t returned. I will not fall for tricks.”

The sheets were crisp, the light making them hurt your eyes when you opened them. Grunting you turned your head to shield yourself from the unpleasantry of waking up, your head throbbing from when you got literally dropped into the middle of the throne room.

“You’re awake!” The elf-maid exclaimed, excitement filling her voice.

“That I am,” You responded rubbing the bump on your head. “Where’s Thranduil?” You questioned, worry filling you when you noticed there was no trace of him even visiting you. Usually he would be by your side until you awoke, something had to have happened.

“.... King Thranduil hasn’t left the old storage room since you disappeared, My Queen” The elf-maid bowed her head, while your mouth dropped in shock.

“Did someone tell him where I was?”

“Yes, My Queen.”

The realization hit you like a ton of bricks. You were here. And he simply didn’t care.

Nodding, you sat up. “Thank you,” You mumbled as you began to pull the blankets off of you.

“M-My Queen, leaving the medical wing isn’t wise, you could faint--”

“I have a few words for my husband.” Your voice was cold as you pulled on a robe hanging on the back of the door, covering your medical dress. Ignoring her small protests, you slipped out of the room.

Marching down the familiar hallway, you ignored the throbbing in the back of your head as you shoved open the door, not bothering to knock.

Sitting in a corner, sat your husband.

“I’ve been through hell and back, trying to get back to you, and you can’t even bother to see if I’m okay?” Your words were laced with venom as you fought the tears wanting to build in your eyes. He was a mess. Hair greased to his scalp, his clothes obviously hadn’t been changed in days, his face sunken from lack of sunlight and meals.

“You aren’t real…” His voice was hoarse. “A trick, that’s all you are,” He glared at you but you could see the tears building in his eyes.

“I am real, and I am here.” You stepped closer to him, not liking the way he flinched at your approach. As if you were death itself coming to take him away.

“I woke up and you were gone, vanished in the wind like a ghost from my dreams. Tell me, my love, how can I truly know that you aren’t a figment of my imagination?”

“If I had a choice I would have never been taken away in the first place, my love, you know this,” The venom in your voice disappeared, only now laced with hurt. He thinks you left him on purpose.

Thranduil wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“I can’t…” Thranduil whimpered, continuing to wipe his face as tears cascaded down his cheeks and onto the floor. “I can’t keep ruining myself by attaching to you.”

Tears were now slipping down your face. “Then maybe I should go…” You mumbled, now realizing how much hurt your absence put on him. When you vanished the first time, you were blissfully unaware of the damage your absence caused, heck you didn’t even remember him until a week after you arrived back in Middle-Earth.

Thranduil’s eyes snapped up, “No, you can’t go.”

You shook your head, a bittersweet smile on your face. You could taste the salt that your tears left on your lips as you took a step back.

“You said it yourself… You can’t keep ruining yourself... “

“Without you, I am in ruins.” Thranduil declared as you moved to exit the room. The walls feel like they were closing in, a suffocating sensation in your chest.

“Please stay,” His voice was above a whisper, and at that moment you decided. You couldn’t deny him.

Turning around you watched as he shakily rose to his feet, obviously weak from malnourishment.

Pulling you into his arms, a piece of him felt whole again as he held you in his arms.

“You always find your way back to me,” Thranduil whispered against your hairline as you hugged him tighter.

“Always.”

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unstoppableforcce · 3 years

Text

golden

CHAPTER ONE: simplicity

pairing: Poe Dameron x oc! Anya

next part | masterlist | oc art

a/n: this is set before the Force Awakens and is a rewrite and expansion of one of my first fics. it’s a big one, this part is 6.7k which might be the longest thing i’ve ever written lol, but i love my oc and the relationships and the plot of this, i hope yall do too bc i can’t wait to write more!!!

He had forgotten how beautiful the galaxy could be.

Before him, through the clear windshield of the dilapidated transport ship, laid an expanse of towering mountains of green, thick like the jungles of Yavin IV he knew so well, and vast like the breath of the galaxy he was only beginning to familiarize himself with. In the valleys that sat between the intimidating heights of the jungle were ponds and lakes, illuminated by the contrast of their soft pink hue and the sunlight from three suns beating down on them overhead. And within each jaw-dropping landscape they flew over, the lanky jungle trees stretched high and interwoven with each other and the depths of the gentle pink lakes, he caught glimpses of the hidden civilization.

Stone buildings of dark brown granite hidden beneath the twisted green vines and thick, overgrown tree trunks, windows of reflective glass cascading like waterfalls built back into the shape of the mountains. From as high as they were, flying above in the shaky transport ship, he could make out the movement of the people through the trees and on wooden crescent boats out in the milky pink water of the lake, working as the suns bore down on their backs.

Flying in his X-wing, he had mission objectives and responsibilities. He travelled from point A to point B and never lingered in one place for longer than he needed to, not with the First Order patrols cracking down across the galaxy. He couldn’t remember the last time he had travelled so slow, the last time he got to truly see the colors of the universe around him which normally passed in hyperspeed blurs.

He had forgotten how beautiful the galaxy could be.

“Wow…” the awe fell from his lips unconsciously as his eyes stayed wide, scanning the horizon not only out of necessity given their flight path, but because he couldn’t look anywhere else. The D’Qar jungle was said to be beautiful, as beautiful as this, but for the past months he had been tasked with growing their new base there, he saw the inside of buildings and the burn of haunting fluorescent lights more than he did the real greenery and sunlight.

It was… breathtaking to say the least.

“I thought I misremembered,” the calm and collected voice of the General sounded off over his shoulder as he slowed his speed to navigate a lofty bit of cloud cover that surrounded the tops of the mountainous valleys he navigated between. “I convinced myself somehow that no place in the galaxy could be as beautiful as I remembered but I was wrong.”

He couldn’t blame her. If he wasn’t seeing it with his own eyes as his hands gripped tight to the controls of the ship, he wasn’t sure he would have believed it either.

Waterfalls of the lightest pink hue, the sparkling of the natural granite deposits in the rock which shined equally as bright as the city construction as they continued over it, the polished rock made into skyscrapers which rivaled the surrounding mountains in height, the natural overgrowth of green vines and thick canopy tree tops… the more he saw, the more Poe found himself overwhelmed by the beauty.

“How far until the palace?” He hummed with a brief quirk of his jaw back over his shoulder to Leia as his eyes stayed trained on the intricate habitational design and fields woven between towering structures which shadowed over smaller homes which led to more fields and rivers, rocks and jungle.

“Not far, it’s impossible to miss.”

It hadn’t made sense at that moment, but he refrained from asking her to expand, trusting that whatever she meant would be clear to him as they kept going. Within the following minute, his trust proved itself.

The nose of the ship lifted slightly to get them over a particularly tall mountain top, and as the clouds cleared away while he nosed back into the valley below, he found the most gorgeous architectural and natural displays he had ever laid his eyes on. Built, like the hidden structures he had seen earlier, into the most commanding mountain of sparkling brown granite in the landscape before him, the palace was a delicate, yet proud masterpiece with spires as high as the clouds and a bustling marketplace pouring out the front of it, spilling towards the shore of the pink ocean before it.

Banners of colors brighter than he even knew existed fluttered in the wind coming in off the coast throughout the marketplace, and as he brought the ship in to a stop at the surrounding rim of the mountain above the palace’s top spires where all the other ships sat, he began to notice the vibrant crowd which flowed from the boats in the water all the way through the palace gates. He loved his home with all his heart, but this was the most beautiful place in the galaxy. It had to be.

He and Leia quickly unloaded from the non-descript ship, and Poe made sure to leave his blaster secure in the cockpit as Leia had instructed him earlier, taking only his jacket and communicator with him. A jacket he quickly realized he would not be needing as the two of them stepped out amongst the ships atop the mountain and felt the overwhelming heat from the suns above them.

“Don’t be too in awe, we are here for a reason.” He glanced back from where he stood near the edge of the flattened mountain top to see Leia stood as regal as ever with her hands linked behind her back and her stare that of a careful mother. “An important reason,” she minded once more and he had no choice but to nod.

As he reluctantly pulled away from teh edge and joined her at her side while they drew closer to the nearby lift and the mindlessly chatting guards stood around it, he couldn’t help but voice the one thought he couldn’t get out of his mind,“I can’t imagine a place like this ever allying with the First Order.”

With a voice lowered closer to that of a whisper while they passed the guards, Leia carefully minded him again, “There is a complicated history to Haiki, as beautiful as it is.”

“All the briefing memo said was that they were great allies during the war, pacifists, but great allies.” He responded in an equally hushed tone until the doors to their lift shut and they began descending deep into the dark, sparkling rock. “You said their leader was a friend.”

“Their King and Queen were friends of mine while I was still living on Alderaan and fighting with the rebellion, unfortunately the queen died shortly after the Empire fell and their king has been sick for almost as long.” She explained as the thick walls of granite passed quickly by them as they continued to descend.

“Who are we here to meet with then?”

The lift came to a stop at the bottom and the doors opened to a dense crowd of people, all dressed in vibrant colors of thick woven fabric, skin decorated with thick strokes of black ink in intricate designs that varied from body to body. But as much as Poe wished to step forward and immerse himself into the lively crowd of the market, Leia’s firm grip on the elbow of his jacket pulled him in the opposite direction, towards an open doorway outlined by beautiful branches and bright flowers as her words quickly pulled him back to the reality of their mission there.

“We’re meeting with the Princess,” Leia answered as they continued down the hall illuminated by windows which brought cascades of bright light into the halls as they travelled in a direction which seemed to Poe as if it were going deeper into the rock of the mountain. “I’ve met her before, but she was young, now she runs the whole planet and, from what I can tell, is not as eager about our alliance as her parents were.”

“You think she’s fielding threats from the First Order? You said they were pacifists--”

“It’s not about weapons or defense, it’s about supplies.” Leia sighed as the two of them came to a halt in the middle of the hallway, allowing the few locals who were walking behind them to pass in front and leave them alone with the bright sunlight. “We need their support, the medicine they create, the food they grow… If we don’t get it, I don’t know how much longer we can survive.”

Poe nodded, his overgrown curls bouncing with the nod of his head as he glanced around the empty hall and began pulling his jacket off his already sweat-slicked back.

He knew they were there for support, but the briefing memo had been vague on purpose. No one else could know they were there, no one could know why they were there. If there was a leak, if the First Order somehow found out that the Resistance was reliant on Hakian support to survive, they’d decimate the entire planet, strip mine them for their resources and slaughter their peaceful population.

He trusted their people, and he knew Leia did too, but he also understood why he had to be kept in the dark until now. This was just too important.

“When we get in to see her, you’ll call her only ‘princess’ or ‘dekka’, never by her first name unless she gives you permission. And make sure you keep your distance, be respectful,” Leia warned as they slowly began walking again, turning a corner and entering another well-lit hall still travelling deeper into the mountain it seemed. “They are sticklers for tradition here and we can’t afford to play around.”

“What does ‘dekka’ mean?”

“Respected one.” She answered quickly, keeping her voice close to him as another person came into view at the end of the hall.

The man towered just like the mountains they flew through did, taller than any human man Poe had seen in person, nearly wookie height if he was being honest. But there was nothing intimidating about him, he merely flashed a bright smile and opened his arms in a welcoming stance.

“Princess Leia, it is an honor to see you again.” The man bellowed out, meeting them at the end of the hall where it let out into a gorgeous room of tall ceilings and windows that stretched from the polished granite floor all the way up to the tallest rafters of twisted vine and tree root, letting in an electric amount of natural light.

Leia quickly unlinked her hands from behind her back and wrapped them around the man, who stood at nearly twice her height, in a solid embrace. “Elias, it’s an honor to see you as well.”

“I had no idea you were coming, whatever can I help you with?” His thick accent continued to cut through the air, louder than Leia could muster by several dozen decibels. His command over the basic language wasn’t too strong, but he certainly made up for his shortcomings with heart and confidence.

However, no amount of strength of heart could overwrite the confusion outlined by his words, leaving an unsettling feeling in Poe’s gut. Judging by the slight deflation in Leia’s commanding stance, it was clear he wasn’t the only one.

“No idea…” Leia chuckled nervously, trailing off with a brief shake of her braids. “We were meant to meet with Dekka Anya-Va, is she not here?”

Elias’ chuckle was equally as unsettled, something was wrong.

“She hasn’t been in all day,” he added as another rough chuckle escaped his lips, “I didn’t know she had schedule, she didn’t tell me…”

Seven hours. That’s how far away Haiki was from D’Qar when travelling as fast as possible in the only non-resistance ship available, an old, deteriorating transport ship. He spent seven hours behind the controls on a trembling, shaking ship, and the Princess they were supposed to be meeting with to secure necessary supplies for the resistance was not there? Was this some kind of joke?

If it was, he didn’t find it very funny.

Leia glanced back over her shoulder, finding the waiting confusion that covered Poe’s face and turned back to Elias wearing a very similar look. “She hasn’t been in at all?”

“She’s been… cutting me off, isolating herself from her advisors… I don’t know…” He stuttered over each and every word, clearly pulling them from a particularly painful place in his chest.

And on any other day, Poe might have cared about the way the towering man’s intimidating voice trembled in his explanation. The overwhelmingly empathetic heart that beat steadily in his chest was accustomed to feeling for anyone from anywhere across the galaxy, but in this moment, the weight of the resistance was too apparent on his shoulders.

If Leia said they needed this Princess to save the resistance, then that was that. They needed this Princess, and hearing that she was circumventing her advisors as much as she was avoiding their meeting only increased the nerves in his unsettled stomach.

“You are welcome to wait for her in the throne room, I will send her your way whenever I find her…” Elias made a desperate attempt to relight the smile that had fallen from Leia’s diplomatic lips, but it only succeeded somewhat, as much as Leia could muster, feeling the same weight that Poe felt sitting heavy on her shoulders.

“Thank you, Elias.” Leia bowed her head, and Elias quickly did the same.

But the second Leia turned away from him and began nudging Poe back in the direction they came from, her diplomatic disposition fell away, returning her harsh, commanding stare.

“She’s avoiding us?” Poe was quick to question as their pace hastened back down the brightly illuminated halls leading back to the busy marketplace.

Leia shook her head, keeping her voice low as the two of them walked, shoulder to shoulder. “Remember when you asked if I thought she was fielding First Order threats already? I think we just got our answer.”

“What do we do?”

As the two of them entered back out into the dense crowd of the marketplace, Leia gave a brief shrug, still tugging him along with her as she fought against the flow of tattooed people. “Now, we have to find her.”

“Do you know where to look?”

The stare Leia gave him was one he was all too familiar with. It was the same look he got when he asked questions about procedure he already knew the answer to, the same look he got when he asked questions he knew she wouldn’t answer. It was a look that meant one thing. The simplest answer, the easier answer, the obvious one that was punching him directly in the face, was the answer he should be looking for.

And with Leia, when it came to asking if she knew anything, the answer was without a doubt, a resounding ‘yes’.

Following the banners, each one a color more vibrant than the last, Leia continued to push him through the marketplace. As they exited the front gate of the palace, the market grew impossibly larger and the crowd more dense, every soul moving with a specific purpose, from stall to stall with shoulders carrying heavy bags and faces bright with electric smiles.

Poe couldn’t remember the last time he saw so many smiles in such a densely packed region.

The sun was beating down hot on his back, slicking his curls to his forehead in a light coating of sweat, but everyone around him seemed oblivious to it, either too distracted by the spices piled high in the booths, wafting a plethora of new scents around the beautiful square, or the swaths of fabrics covered in intricate stitches and designs. Was this what life was like where the war didn’t touch?

People could walk around, fully immersed in their own vibrant culture wearing smiles brighter than the multiple suns which hung above them, seemingly without a care in the world when it came to the slaughtering and genocide happening around the galaxy at the hands of the First Order? Did they even know?

Did the parents who let their kids run around with tightly woven baskets piled high with spiky blue fruit even know about the children across the galaxy who were stolen from their families and conscripted as nameless troopers? Did the elderly who sat off to the side even know that just last week, a village of respected elders on Nantoo were mowed down indiscriminately by First Order officers looking to set up base on their sacred land? Did any of them even know about the war?

If he lived here, maybe he could understand it. Maybe…

But Stars, was ignorance really bliss when millions were being slaughtered?

“I knew she’d be here…” Leia sighed, pulling Poe’s attention back to her pursuit as the market began to thin out closer to the pink translucent shore packed with crescent shaped boats of dark wood unloading at the docks. He didn’t know where to let his stare fall however, the water immediately took his attention, but as Leia kept walking, he fought to both find her stare and follow it in the same direction.

The shore wasn’t packed, but there were just enough bodies to keep him guessing even as he followed Leia’s focus. Where was she looking--

He found her.

Nothing had changed, he still didn’t know exactly where Leia’s stare was directed nor did he have any verbal confirmation that he was looking in the right direction, but he was sure of himself, overwhelmingly sure of himself as his stare landed on the detailed tattoos that covered the back of the lone woman sat on the damp shore, isolated from the crowd.

The thin interwoven fabric of the maroon dress that cascaded down her form was exquisite in it’s intricately stitched details, but nothing compared to the thick, jet black ink stripes that crested over her back and arms, the extent of the skin he could see from the angle they were approaching with. Everyone he had seen so far on this planet had some form of similar markings, be it extensive designs sprawling up their arms or small delicate images drawn on their hands or necks, but none compared to what he saw on her skin.

It was like the dark ink was woven around her, like a vine crawling it’s way up a tree. Or maybe more aptly, it was a web, drawn by a diligent insect or maybe even claw marks from a creature, thick where the wounds ran the deepest and thin at the start and ends of each mark.

Haiku itself was one of the most beautiful planets in the galaxy, but the woman before him was more beautiful than even that.

It took an elbow in the side from Leia to snap him back to reality.

“Why don’t you let me do most of the talking, yeah?” She countered, a knowing quirk to her brow as she nudged him again with her elbow.

He wanted to argue back but Leia had already begun walking ahead of him and the second he moved to catch up, a large guard stepped up to block their path.

This man was tall, like Elias back in the palace was, but he didn’t wear his intimidating height the same way. He was much broader in the shoulders, much wider in his stance, effectively blocking any line of sight either Poe or Leia had towards the princess. Yet unlike Elias, there was no friendly greeting, no real acknowledgement at all besides his narrowed scowl down towards the two of them.

For a planet of self-proclaimed pacifists, Poe wasn’t really feeling at peace.

Not until the soft hum of her voice flowed in from the gentle lull of the shore. “It’s alright, Xia, let them through.”

The wall of a man quickly stepped aside on her orders, revealing the exhausted collapse of her shoulders while she began to pull herself back up to her feet. The languid pull of her muscles was obvious with the delicate cut of the maroon dress across her skin, which contrasted the blood color of the fabric with a dark brown glow, not unlike the sparkle of the magnificent granite mountains under the overhead suns.

“Dekka Anya-Va…” Leia addressed carefully but was quickly cut off by the return of her coarse hum of a voice.

“I was hoping by not being at the palace that you would get the impression I didn’t want to meet with you,” her accent was thick, much like Elias’s but her comfort with the language was much more evident as it flowed much smoother from her lips despite the natural raspiness to her tone. It was a mesmerizing sound, complemented by the dulcet tone of the gentle waves, making it something he could easily get lost in if it wasn’t for his ability to still hear the words for what they were.

Condescending. Nearly mocking if he was being honest. It just didn’t sit well with him, not when directed towards Leia.

“We got the impression, we just ignored it,” Leia countered, pushing her careful tone to the side in favor of the tone she used when addressing her Commanders, a tone that commanded respect, even if the Princess seemed too aloof to provide it.

She let out a rugged chuckle at that, jagged at the edges where it seemed to have fought through her throat and out from her perfectly shaped lips. “We…” she hummed, “I wasn’t aware you were bringing friends.”

The pointed tips of her words were sent like daggers with her stare as she turned from Leia to where Poe stood right beside her, hands linked behind his back and still holding his jacket in a tight grip. But as personal an assault it seemed, when he opened his lips to respond, Leia was quick to cut him off.

“I--”

“This is my pilot, Commander Dameron.”

As unamused as the princess seemed to be, she still did a lot of stone-faced laughter, and that theme held true as her stare held on Poe’s furrowed and focused face. “Does the Commander have a first name?”

With a quick glance to Leia, then back to the Princess, he finally spoke for himself, answering “Poe,” simply.

He didn’t know what he thought throwing his name into the conversation would add, but he couldn’t determine any reason why not to add it, not until the Princess turned her stare back to Leia and shuddered her shoulders back into a steady stance with her chin raised. “Would you mind telling Poe he can go wait by your ship, I don’t imagine it will be a long conversation.”

There it was again. Aloof, condescending, mocking even. Poe couldn’t stand it.

“Excuse me--”

“Actually, Dekka Va, I brought him so he could join our talks,” Leia explained, one of her hands shooting up quickly to keep him in place by her side as she felt the heat of his temper rise with her words.

“He doesn’t seem like he’d be much for conversation.”

He realized his natural disposition may not have been the most diplomatic, he also realized that hot-headed and cocky weren’t necessarily the best qualities for negotiating delicate alliances, but if she was allowed to talk to him with the tone she was taking, he was having a hard time understanding why Leia was keeping him silent. Why even bring him along?

It was infuriating. She was infuriating. She wouldn’t meet them in the palace, she was hiding on the beach, she was biting back with each and every one of her responses. He understood the alliance between her planet and the resistance was important, he really did, but why in the kriff was he even there--

“Dekka Anya-Va, I assure you, Poe is one of my most trusted Commanders and when our discussion eventually turns to shipment methods, he is the only one I trust for routes and numbers--” Leia began, still holding her hand out carefully in front of Poe only to drop it the second the Princess shrugged her shoulders and cut her off the same way she had been cutting Poe off.

“There will be no shipment discussions.”

“Dekka--”

“I apologize for avoiding the meeting, but it wasn’t accidental, I truly have no interest in meeting with you, General.” She continued, using the brief second they stood silent and frozen in shock to navigate around them and back towards the market.

Leia was the first to break out of it, Poe trailing behind, but he still remained quiet, holding back his boiling temper as the General continued to argue.

“It’s a rather important conversation that we need to have.”

The princess continued forward as if she barely noticed them following, and as the density of the market's population began to increase the closer they moved to the palace, she made no move to slow her careful and practiced step through the crowd to accommodate their trailing. Again, condescending and aloof.

Leia broke his train of thought again as she fought with a quickened pace to find her way to her side and continue her argument just within range of Poe’s ears. “A face-to-face meeting will allow us to discuss our deal more intimately, take away any fears you may have and--”

If she cut Leia off one more time, it wouldn’t matter that she was the most respected being on this planet, Poe wasn’t going to be able to keep quiet for much longer.

“I’m not afraid of anything, General.”

Before either Leia or Poe, with his temper steadily boiling over, could mount another argument, the princess pulled one of her guards aside, retrieving a small pouch of golden coins from him and turning back to the stall that had caught her eye in the first place. It was the stall they had passed earlier, filled with children and the spiky blue fruits which had caught his eye as he thought about the rest of the galaxy.

And it was exactly where the princess was kneeling down.

Her rough tone of voice, coated in it’s natural raspiness, flowed out much easier in her native tongue as she let a genuine smile take over her lips. The kids running the booth were bouncing out of their boots as she lowered herself to their level, and their excitement only grew as they began talking to one another in the Hakian language. It would have been heartwarming if Poe weren’t so frustrated.

He didn’t understand what they were saying and it was clear as he glanced toward Leia and saw her focused brow that she didn’t understand the words being spoken either, but from the shared interactions, he had a pretty decent idea what was transpiring.

She asked a question, the kids nervously responded, shaking their heads and trying to offer their product for free before she convinced them to accept her coin. Again, a heartwarming display that he didn’t have time for.

The sun was hot, boiling hot down the back of his neck, and the anger bubbling from within his chest was heating him up from the inside out, making the whole experience ten times worse. He didn’t need to see any heartwarming display, he needed to say something, and he was becoming increasingly overwhelmed with the feeling that when he did, things wouldn’t go well.

Yet the moment seemed to be drawing closer and closer as the Princess stood back to full height with a bag full of the spiky fruit, passing her coins back to her guard. He was ready to open his mouth, to unload on her with the same hot-headed cockiness that Leia feared he would lead with, but he was again denied the chance as she silenced him by turning her back to the two of them and reentering the crowd, heading back towards the palace.

It wasn’t until they were down an isolated hallway of the palace that she turned back, opening the bag of fruit and pulling three of the spiked fruit out easily.

“Dekka--” Leia tried, but the princess silenced her, sticking one of the fruits into her hand before carelessly tossing one in Poe’s direction.

She was making a point, and they had no choice but to stand there and take it.

“This is Mewe, one of our planet’s sweetest fruits,” she hummed, holding up one of her own and turning it gently for them to admire even if all Poe could manage was a subtle roll of his eyes. “They cannot grow anywhere else, they require massive amounts of sunlight, and they are one of the most versatile fruits that exist anywhere in the galaxy, edible on their own, full of health, easily fermented, their juice can soothe sore throats and upset stomachs...”

Puncturing the tough, spiky skin with one of her nails, the vibrant teal juices began to drain quickly out of the shell, too quick for even her quick mouth to catch as she brought the fruit to her lips. The following bite she took was effortless following her brief struggle with the dripping juices, and as much as Poe hated whatever point she was trying to make with this display, as Leia followed her lead and took a bite, he had no choice but to do the same.

And as desperate as he was to stay boiling with anger when he looked at her, even with teal juices dripping down around the corner of her mouth, his mind was flooded with a delicious distraction the second his tongue touched the inner meat of the vibrant fruit. It wasn’t enough for Haiki to be the most beautiful planet in the galaxy, nor was it enough for her to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in person, they also needed to have the most overwhelming natural fruits.

Each hesitant chew he took sparked flavors across his tongue, wild, exotic, unlike anything he had ever tasted before. It wasn’t just that his diet had consisted of bland ration packs for the past few years, the taste was truly sweeter and more complex than anything he had ever had on his tongue.

As much as he hated giving her the satisfaction, while he looked up from the greenish inside of the skin to find her careful stare, he could see that he was doing little to hide his overwhelming satisfaction with the flavor given her increasingly smug smirk.

“Haiki is a special place, I don’t think you realize that.” The Princess continued carefully, shifting her stare back to Leia directly.

“We do, Dekka, however--”

“I don’t think you do.” She was quick to counter. “You would have me pledge my sponsorship to your futile movement and sacrifice my planet and the millions of souls who live here to the wrath of the First Order with nothing to offer me in return. You must think my planet worthless.”

Leia shook her head, taking a brief second to swallow the rest of the fruit she held in her mouth and regain her composure in order to fight back, “We can offer your planet protection from the First Order--”

“Because that worked so well for Alderaan, Raysho, Cardota and Courtsilius?” Again, the princess, without hesitation, cut her off. And this time, Poe was done holding his tongue, the heat finally sending his anger boiling over.

“And pledging your allegiance to a sociopathic regime of murderers is preferable?”

It was exactly what Leia had feared. It was the exact reason she had tried so hard to keep him quiet. Not because she feared he would shoot and miss, but because of his tone.

Each word drenched in a level of disrespect he hadn’t earned with her, stepping over a line he didn’t even realize, but one Leia couldn’t help him back from, even as she reached up to grab hold of him to prevent his anger from carrying him closer to the Princess and making things worse.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my planet.” She held her stance even as Poe stepped up, making no move but the slight uptick of her chin as he got closer. “As a peaceful planet, we have no options to arm ourselves outside of diplomacy and the First Order is being far more convincing.”

“Whatever they’ve said is lies, you can’t seriously consider trusting them.” He spoke like a man with no knowledge of his actions, entirely oblivious to the way her guard tightened their stances the closer he got, too blinded by his anger as she continued to argue back against him.

“Because the resistance has never lied to us? Because you can be trusted implicitly on your word?”

With another step forward, eliminating any space between the two of them, Poe effectively cut Leia and her futile attempts to get him to back down out of the conversation. “What have they promised you? Safety? Isolation from the war? It’s only a matter of time before they are enslaving your people and stealing your resources--”

“They’ve promised me protection and have been nothing but cordial, unlike you and your failing resistance.” She scoffed, shaking her small bun of greying hair enough to let loose a few strands as she refused to back down. “So you’d do best to mind yourself before you overstep a boundary you can’t walk back from.”

There was a sense of finality to her tone as she ended her sentence, one Leia picked up on immediately, but even as she moved to grab more forcefully at Poe’s arm to pull him back to reality, he continued to fight his way out of it. Hot-headed, stubborn, cocky. She should have known better than to bring him along. She should have known things would go the way they were going.

“You want me to play nice? People are dying.”

Everything that happened next happened all too fast. The words came spewing from Poe’s lips and as the Princess turned away, no longer requiring herself to be subject to his cruel intonation, he reached out and grabbed her arm before he could be stopped.

In the back of his mind, he could still hear the echoing warning Leia had provided him, telling him to keep his distance and speak with nothing but respect, but the flashes of war echoing in his head and the fire burning in his chest were crackling too loud for anything else to matter. A part of him knew it was out of line, that same part of him was begging for him to stop, and yet his hand still found the smooth, tattooed skin of her forearm, holding her in place as she moved to turn away in frustration.

Leia took a strong hold on the sweat-soaked back of his shirt and yanked him back, but the damage had already been done. “Stand down, Dameron,” she tried out but by the time he released her arm, the guards had already descended upon him, gripping him by each arm and kicking the backs of his legs in to drop him to his knees.

“I think the damage has been done, General.” Her voice was firm in her resolve and equally firm as her language switched and her tongue released a flurry of orders towards the guards who held the stubborn, fighting Dameron on his knees.

“What the kriff-- I barely touched her--” He fought as their grips grew tighter, forcing him frozen where they held him.

Leia tried again, this time not to hold Poe back but to carefully convince the princess, “Dekka Anya-Va, please…”

But her mind was made up and nothing either of them could do would change that.

“We’ll let him think himself over with a sleep in our cells,” she explained to Leia as her stare then fell back to the squirming form of the curly haired and now defenseless pilot. “You can leave with him in the morning.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“No, but it seems you might be.” The rough, raspiness to her tone which had been so distracting as it filtered out her accent shifted to something nearly playful, as if the whole display before her was amusing. He was being restrained by a towering guard of thick muscle on each side and she had the audacity to chuckle so plainly in his face, only making him fight more even if he knew it was futile.

Leia stepped forward carefully towards the princess but before she could muster any last defense, the princess gave a wave of her hand and the guards, with shoulders wide in intimidating bulk, heaved the fighting pilot to his feet and began backing him up, dragging him in the opposite direction.

“Dekka Anya-Va, let me apologize for his actions--”

“Mensha?” Her raspy voice interrupted the General before any real defense could leave her lips, ushering a young maid out from the small crowd which gathered around the display. “Please escort the General to a room where she can wait, give her anything she needs.”

“Dekka Anya-Va--”

“I’m not my mother, General, the sooner you learn that, the better for all of us involved.”

The long walk back into the depths of the granite palace was all too lonely as the Princess dismissed each and every member of her staff which approached her, even waving away the genuine concern on Elias’ brow and leaving him in the halls as she continued to the throne room. Her back was screaming out from the straight form she maintained with each and every step, but she held her stance and walked on, shoulders firm and chin up, just as she was taught. If anyone passed her, they had to see her as what she was, their leader.

And leaders didn’t waver, no matter how strong the vacuum of emptiness swirling within their chest was, not when there were eyes to see.

But the second the towering doors of intricate dark oak shut behind her, leaving her alone in the expansive and empty throne room, her shoulders fell in, collapsing her perfect form as her chin fell to her chest. The weight which settled there was too great, and the hollow gorge that tore through her heart was too powerful.

Did he really think it was that easy?

Her throat burned with the heat rising out of her chest and her legs grew weaker with each step until she collapsed back against the exquisite throne of dark, sparkling granite consumed by overgrown vines, the words from the hot-headed pilot echoing through her mind, latching onto every thought.

Did he think it was all that simple? Did he think she saw the blood on the hands of the First Order and so easily ignored it? Did he think it was that easy?

A sociopathic, murderous regime… did he really think she didn’t realize what they were?

The bubbling in her gut continued on as her thoughts swarmed with a buzzing around her mind and her head fell forward into her hands where her elbows rested on her knees. Her fingers made furious circles of her temples but it made no difference, his words were there, haunting her mind and inescapable.

Did they really think she didn’t know right from wrong?

With the responsibility for millions of souls resting heavy on her back, the fate of her kind in her hands, it just wasn’t as easy as good versus bad. No matter how badly she wished it was.

“Dekka Anya-Va,” the faint voice of one of her staffed maids entered her thoughts as the small woman carefully tiptoed into the room. “The prisoner is… angrily shouting for a meeting with you.”

Her back straightened on instinct, sending a shooting pain up her spine with the quick pace of the change. A pain she could barely mask with her regal tone as turned her stare towards the young woman, “we’ll leave him to calm himself down for now.”

“Of course, Dekka.”

As the door shut again, leaving her alone with her thoughts again, a sigh of insurmountable exhaustion fell from her lips and she collapsed back into the uncomfortable shape of stone.

If only things could be that simple...

tags: (open)

@cammisanders @rogueonestan @blacksquadron-rougetwo @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @trust-dreamcatcher @mistermiraclee @witchyavenger @randomness501 @buckstaposition

#poe dameron #star wars #poe dameron x oc #golden series #princess au #princess leia #general organa

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