#“oh! a piece of gum” that is a warrior

[cmdrfupa]

Chance Encounters

Part three of De Novo (Toji x Reader) All chapters as well as content warnings can be found here.

a/n: It's getting somewhere omg. This series is honestly a delight to write and I want to make sure I'm really taking my time in giving something good and worth a read. warning: Naoya AND Kenjaku mentioning (i know i know but we gotta make it juicy somehow.) Thank you for reading and I hope you're well!

"When a good man is hurt, all who would be called good must suffer with him." - Euripides

The early afternoon sun beamed down gently, glinting off the glass buildings and warming the concrete sidewalks of Tokyo. Pale pink sakura buds dot the trees along the streets, some just beginning to bloom, while the breeze rustles through them with a hint of freshness.

  Toji made his way to the stadium and wasted no time finding a space that was sat off to the side, his frame hunched slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees as he watched Megumi jog out onto the field and greet the visiting team.

  He kept it as low key as possible: plain long sleeve shirt, dark wash jeans and his usual boots. He dawned a baseball cap with the brim low, shadowing over his dark features with it pulled so low.

He was succeeding at keeping a low profile, as he promised to Megumi, but Gojo plopped down next to him, making any hope of blending in vanish.

  “You made it!” Gojo grinned as he leaned back casually, one arm draped over the back of the seat behind him.

“He told me not to make myself visible. Don't think this is a good idea.”

“Nah, hes just being an angsty kid, I'm glad you made it.”

  Gojo waved out to Megumi who swiftly ignored him and gave a halfhearted nod when his eyes made it to Toji.

The arrangement was strange. A man Toji was once hired to kill and ended up getting his ass handed to him was raising his child. But it was probably the safest and most consistent housing arrangement for Megumi since he was 7.

He knew his father worked often but didn’t understand why he had to live with his “uncle”. He remembered little of him and was even told little about Toji until he met him at age twelve when his stepsister was more happy to see the man than Megumi was. But it was better than never knowing Megumi in Toji’s eyes.

  “Man you’re quiet today. No snark? No wisecracks? Who are you, and what have you done with the real Toji Fushiguro?”

  Toji snorted softly, shaking his head. ‘I’m here, aren’t I? I don’t have to banter with a grown ass brat.”

  Gojo cheesed at his retort before pulling out a pack of gum, immediately putting 4 pieces in his mouth.

  “I've got a local gig right now.”

  “Do I need to get Megs out of the city?” Gojo looked out to the field, Megumi swinging his bat awaiting his call up.

  “For now I think its fine.” Toji looked down at his hands then out at the field once Megumi was called up. Both he and Gojo clapped as the unamused teen walked on with his head down.

  “I’m only mentioning it because it involves someone you know.”

  “Oh? A scorned ex? Utahime? Oh fuck, please tell me its Utahime!”

Toji side eyed Gojo and leaned forward onto his knees.

  “Striiike one!” The umpire yelled.

  “your friends brother, Kenjaku.”

it was hard to miss the way Gojo’s teeth were grinding as he practically rubbed the fabric loose on his trousers. “Same old shit?”

“Yeah. Just worse.”

  “Striiike two!”

  The unspoken details said everything. Kenjaku was the only thing that was a stain to literally anyone he’d come across. A morally corrupt man whose only real goal was to elevate himself at every turn.

  The crack of the bat connecting with the ball echoed across the field, and both men turned their attention back to the game. Megumi took off running, his legs carrying him to past first base as he rounded the diamond with a speed that drew cheers from the crowd.

  Toji stood up, clapping with a boom and whistling simultaneously as Gojo gave a warrior yell. “Nice Megs! Thats my boy!”

  The crowd cheered as he gave a few fist bumps and trotted back to home base then to the dugout.

“Kid’s got good instincts,” Gojo remarked, a hint of pride in his tone.

Toji nodded slightly, his expression softening just enough that someone paying close attention might notice. “Yeah. He does.”

  The name Kenjaku hung in the air between them, heavy despite the lightness of the atmosphere. Gojo let out a low whistle, his sunglasses slipping slightly down his nose as he turned to fully face Toji.

  “I’ll be going as Zen'in just to make it all easier. No ties to Megs or anything. Just want a clean slate after this one and I want the boy to not have to deal with any fallout if there is any.”

  “You gonna be alright? Suguru hadn’t mentioned him being back in town so now even I feel like I’m being left in the dark here.”

  Toji’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk. “It’s a job. I’ve handled worse.” He finagled the pack of gum from the breast pocket of Gojo’s shirt and tossed a piece into his mouth. “I'll be getting a job in Getos’ club so you can give him a heads up at least. I don’t know if you want to tell him I’m investigating his brother or not. Your call.”

  Gojo blew a small bubble and popped it a few times before sliding his glasses back up. “Need a place to hideout? I have that old condo down in Yokohama if you want to lay low?”

  “Are you pitying me? Don't need that.” Toji gruffed.

  Gojo shook his head and sighed. “I don’t do pity, Fushiguro. You know that.” Gojo rubbed his hand across the nape of his neck and sat up. “But you’re my favorite broke ass and you should at least be comfortable and out of the city enough during this. Megs is a shared responsibility and I just want his dad in a good space.”

  Toji wasn’t good at whatever this is. A man he was once sent to kill now the guardian of his only child and now offering him a better place to stay than the box he was going to rent out above some random shop. He let out a low chuckle and nodded. “I’ll take your offer, I appreciate it.”

  Gojo hummed before a thought came to mind. “Fushiguro,” Gojo said after a while, his voice lighter now. “You ever think about hanging it up? You know, all the cloak-and-dagger stuff. Maybe stick around a little longer?”

Toji’s jaw tightened slightly, but his tone was calm when he replied. “That was my plan til it wasn’t. Not my style.”

Gojo shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “Figured you’d say that. Guess it’s a good thing the kid’s got me to keep him balanced, huh?”

Toji didn’t answer, but the faintest flicker of amusement crossed his face before he turned back to the field. As the game continued, Gojo stayed beside him, the two men watching in silence, bound by their shared purpose: keeping Megumi safe, no matter what it took.

The club felt almost unrecognizable during the day. Without the dim lights and buzzing energy of the night, the space seemed quieter, more subdued. The faint smell of cleaning supplies lingered in the air, mixing with the distant hum of the sound system being tested. A handful of staff members, yourself included, had gathered near the bar for the midday meeting Suguru had called.

You weren’t sure why you were all here—usually, daytime meetings only happened when something big was changing. Maybe there was a new policy, or maybe someone had finally pushed Suguru too far. Either way, you were curious.

“All right, everyone,” Suguru began, his voice smooth as always. “Thanks for dragging yourselves out of bed for this. I know most of you would rather still be asleep.”

A few chuckles rippled through the group, but you stayed quiet, your gaze fixed on Suguru as he continued.

“This isn’t our usual meeting. I wanted to make sure that everyone was made aware of some changes I will be implementing,” he spoke calmly, a slight sternness with each word. “They aren’t major changes but enough that I decided it was time to bring in people who can help us expand but also reinforcements to better protect our staff.”

Suguru crossed his legs as he situated himself in the clothed chair on stage.

Ever the elusive chameleon, he was a great boss. He assured you that every entertainers concerns were going to be taken seriously always from the very beginning.

His long, raven hair sat in a loose bun at the back of his head as he tucked away a few strands from his face.

“As you all know, last week we had potential investors in the crowd coming in to see the best of Tantra. And I'm excited to say you all delivered.” the good news started a quiet wave of murmurs amongst the employees.

“Your hips did all of this.” Shoko nudged you and winked. “Your carimbo just secured us a new green room.”

You chuckled into your sleeve and shook your head. “I’m a small part of the reason. Those drinks you poor heavily into are definitely the reason.”

“Mm. You’re welcome.” you both snickered as the sound of the heavy metal doors from back stage silenced the room.

Two sets of footsteps were seemingly making their way to the front and Suguru continued. “There will be two new faces you'll be seeing around. The first being part of renovations, contract revisions and foreign talent we take in, so please welcome Kenjaku; our new resource and development liaison.”

On cue, a tall, long haired figure, similar to Suguru, walked from behind the curtains and rose his head, showing off the most unsettling, robotic smile you’d ever seen. “Little brother, its so good to be working together again.” He spoke slowly, words felt like they were dripping with falsities as he squeezed Suguru’s shoulder. The large facial tattoos he dawned made him look like Frankenstein's rejected first born. They were bold, distinct. You’d never miss him and that felt like the point.

You didn’t miss the way Suguru flinched at the contact, the sound of his own brothers voice. He seemed uninterested, disturbed even, at how he was being so chummy. “Glad to have you on board.” his tone was flat, dry.

“Now, a more serious topic. We’ve had a few issues lately,” he said, his tone turning just a touch more serious. “Nothing major, but customers who feel entitled and rude boyfriends. I decided it was time to bring in some… reinforcements. Someone who can keep things running smoothly and handle any problems before they get out of hand.”

You tilted your head slightly, curious. Reinforcement? Did he mean more security?

“And by problems,” Shoko chimed in, her tone dry as she swirled her coffee, “he means the idiots who think this is the kind of place where they can get grabby with the staff.”

A few groans of agreement came from the group, and Suguru smirked, nodding. “Exactly. Which is why I’d like you all to meet the new head of security. He will be working closely with our entertainers to ensure your safety during work hours as well as helping with private security when you have small parties, one on one dances, etcetera. Mr. Zen'in?”

the heavy footsteps seemed to make you a bit more excited at the new face. As he came from behind the curtains, that familiar scar over the lips made your eyes widen. “Zen'in?” you whispered. “he told me Fushiguro.”

Your heart skipped a beat as he walked toward the group, his broad shoulders and calm, commanding presence impossible to ignore. He wore a dark button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his usual air of casual confidence somehow even more pronounced in the stark light of day.

You blinked, trying to process what you were seeing. What the hell was he doing here?

“This is Toji Zen'in,” Suguru said, motioning toward him with a grin. “He’ll be keeping an eye on things from the inside to ensure everyone's’ safety and that patrons are behaving. He’s friendlier than he looks so please feel free to introduce yourself when you see him around.”

Toji’s gaze swept across the group, lingering on you for just a moment before moving on. His expression was unreadable, calm but with that same quiet intensity that always seemed to surround him at the diner.

You felt Shoko shift beside you, her coffee cup lowered as she poured a shot of whiskey in it. “Well, well,” she muttered, her tone laced with delight. “Didn’t expect to see him here.”

You turned to her, your brow furrowing. “You know him?”

Shoko raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh, yeah. The Zen’in clan. Taught one of their kids, heard of em mostly though. He and Suguru have a bit of a friendly history.”

Your stomach dropped.

“That doesn’t make sense,” you said quietly, your voice almost drowned out by the murmurs of the other staff members. “He told me his name was Fushiguro.”

Shoko glanced at you, clearly amused by your reaction. “Yeah, he took his wife’s name after he had a falling out with his family. Big drama. Old money in politics, high society, the whole nine yards. Stripped him of the Zen’in name and the power that came with it.” She tilted her head, her smirk widening. “Though, I gotta say, it’s interesting that he’s using it again now.”

The pieces of the puzzle that had been floating in your mind since that day in the diner were slowly clicking into place. His guarded nature, the way he always seemed to avoid personal questions, the intensity in his gaze—it all made sense now. You too would hide yourself if you are part of a powerful clan.

But that didn’t explain why he was here.

You barely heard her explanation, your gaze locked on Toji as he exchanged a few words with some of the security team and a few ladies on stage before stepping down. His movements were deliberate, fluid, as if he knew exactly how much space he took up exactly. You felt a tightness in your chest, a mix of confusion and something else you couldn’t quite place. Anger? Betrayal? Or maybe just the overwhelming weight of trying to reconcile the quiet, brooding man from the diner with this—to put it lightly— A Zen’in.

“He’s full of surprises, huh?” Shoko added, lighting a cigarette and blowing out in the opposite direction from you. She sounded almost entertained by how you were processing this.

Before you could respond, Toji’s eyes flicked across the room, and landed on you. His gaze was sharp, unreadable, but there was a flicker of something beneath it. Recognition? Acknowledgment? Whatever it was, it sent a chill down your spine.

And then, as if sensing the weight of your stare, he made his way toward you.

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening as he approached. He stopped just a few feet away, his expression calm, his hands in his pockets. For a moment, neither of you said anything, the air between you charged with unspoken tension.

“You seem surprised,” he said finally, his voice low and smooth, carrying just enough weight to make you feel off-balance.

“I am,” you replied, keeping your tone steady. “Didn’t know you were looking for a job. And Zen’in? That’s not the name you gave me.”

He tilted his head slightly, his lips twitching into a faint simper. “Didn’t think it mattered.”

“Didn’t think it mattered?” you echoed, a spark of frustration slipping into your voice. “You lied.”

He shrugged, his gaze never wavering. “Not a lie. Just didn’t tell you everything. Not exactly your business to know everything, either.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Shoko cut in before you could.

“Alright, you two, let’s save the drama for later,” she said, her tone dry but laced with amusement. “Don’t want to scare off the rest of the staff on his first night.”

Toji’s smirk widened slightly, though his eyes remained locked on yours. “Guess we’ll have to talk later,” he said, his tone almost teasing, before winking and walking past you, leaving you with a mess of questions and emotions swirling in his wake.

Shoko leaned closer, nudging you with her elbow. “Careful with that one,” she said, her voice quiet enough that only you could hear. “He’s more trouble than you think.”

You glanced back toward Toji, who was now standing with Suguru and one of the bartenders near the front doors, his broad shoulders and imposing presence making him impossible to ignore. Shoko’s words lingered in your mind, but something about him—something beyond the name, the reputation, or the secrets—pulled at you in a way you couldn’t explain.

And that, more than anything else, left you unsettled.

Crude. Disgusting, fully outside of who he has been for years now.

The car was parked just down the street from the club, engine off, the silence inside broken only by the faint busyness of passing traffic. Toji sat in the driver’s seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel, his jaw tight as he stared out the windshield.

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, the meeting replaying over and over in his head like some kind of punishment.

Crude, rude, disgusting behavior.

He clenched his fist, the leather of the steering wheel creaking faintly under the pressure. He’d handled it like he needed to—cold, detached, playing the role of the unapproachable bastard because that’s what worked. That’s what kept people at arm’s length, made them think twice about digging into his business or asking too many questions.

But with you?

With you, it felt like he needed be unguarded. And it was pissing him off.

He could still see the look on your face when Suguru introduced him, that flash of confusion and hurt when you heard the name Zen’in, like a puzzle piece had been forced into place and left you wondering what else about him was a lie. And then the way you looked at him during the meeting, your gaze sharp, like you were waiting for him to explain himself, to tell you why the man sitting in that room felt so far removed from the one you’d known before.

He’d played the part perfectly. Just enough of an edge in his tone to make it clear that he wasn’t interested in small talk. And for the most part, it worked. You’d barely said anything to him after the meeting, and when you did, it was short, clipped, like you were keeping yourself in check.

Exactly what I wanted, he thought bitterly, his teeth grinding together.

And yet, the memory of your expression stuck with him, digging into his chest like a splinter he couldn’t pull free.

“I can’t fucking do this.”

He let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face. What the hell’s wrong with me?

This wasn’t supposed to be complicated. You were just another person, another moving part in a world he was supposed to keep functioning smoothly. His job here wasn’t to make friends or build relationships—it was to keep things in line, to be the wall people didn’t bother trying to climb. And yet…

His fingers curled into a fist as he leaned back in the seat, his head hitting the headrest with a soft thud. He’d never been the type to care what people thought of him. He didn’t have the time or the patience for it. But now? Sitting here, replaying the meeting and the way he’d deliberately brushed you off like any of the women who were desperate for his attention, he felt disgusted. Not with you—but with himself.

Because, no matter how much he tried to act like it didn’t matter, like you didn’t matter, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d crossed some invisible line. He’d looked into your eyes, seen the faint shadow of hurt there, and for a split second, he’d wanted to say something real—something that wasn’t part of the cold mask he’d been wearing since the day he walked into the diner.

He wanted to tell you the truth.

The thought made his stomach twist, a sharp, uncomfortable pang of self-awareness settling in his chest. This is exactly why I need to keep my distance.

He knew better than to get attached. Better than to let himself linger in moments that felt too warm, too genuine. People like him didn’t get to have those things. His life didn’t allow for it—never had, never would.

And yet, the more he tried to push you away, the harder it was to ignore the way you lingered in his thoughts.

Toji exhaled sharply, his hands gripping the steering wheel again as he stared out at the growing light. This was going to be harder than he thought.

It wasn’t just that he didn’t want you to get close—it was that he didn’t know if he was strong enough to keep you from seeing through him.

How the hell am I supposed to make you hate me, he thought darkly, his jaw tightening as his fingers drummed against the wheel, when I can’t even stop myself from wanting to be real with you?

The air in the car felt stifling, heavy with unspoken frustration. Toji reached for the key, jamming it into the ignition and twisting it sharply. The engine roared to life, a loud reminder of the reality he needed to stay grounded in.

He shifted into gear, pulling out onto the street, his hands gripping the wheel tightly as he drove. He’d made it through worse than this. He’d learned how to bury things deeper than anyone could ever reach.

But tonight, for the first time in a long time, he wondered if that was enough.

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

The condo was massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the living room, offering an uninterrupted view of the glittering skyline. Toji leaned against the doorway, his sharp eyes scanning the sleek, minimalist design of the space. It was almost too pristine—everything in neutral tones, glass and polished wood surfaces gleaming under the dim recessed lighting.

“Figures,” he muttered to himself, his lips twitching in a faint smirk. This place had Gojo written all over it—expensive, flashy, and just detached enough to feel impersonal.

Toji stepped further inside, letting the door close behind him with a soft click. He took off his shoes and sat them at the door, the echo of his heavy footsteps hitting the hardwood floors followed him as he made his way through the condo, dropping his duffel bag unceremoniously on the couch. The kitchen was sleek, the fridge stocked with a few basics, but it was the master bedroom that made him pause.

A king-sized bed sat neatly made with crisp white sheets, a low platform frame adding to the modern aesthetic. Plush pillows lined the head of the bed with a beyond fluffy comforter neatly made up across it. It was a far cry from the small, utilitarian motels and over the top lux hotels he’d grown accustomed to during his work. This room felt too comfortable, too settled—almost like it belonged to someone with a life he didn’t have.

Toji shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the bed before heading to the bathroom. The space was just as luxurious as the rest of the condo, complete with a rainfall showerhead and marble floors. He turned the water on, steam quickly filling the room as he stripped out of his clothes.

The hot water hit his skin, washing away the tension that had been clinging to him since the staff meeting. He let himself linger under the spray, his head tilted forward as the water ran through his hair and over his shoulders.

You’ve been through worse, he thought, trying to shake off the unease that had settled in his chest. The situation at the club, the meeting with you—he’d handle it. He always did.

“Being a Zen’in means separating yourself from the rest. Hold yourself to where you can’t be touched but they’d be willing to die just to hear you degrade them. The Zen’in way, cousin.”

The voice rang through his mind as the water ran over his face for a bit too long. Toji came back to the present, coughing and breathing heavily as he turned the water off.

After the shower, he changed into a pair of loose sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt, running a towel through his damp hair as he moved back into the living room. The condo was quiet, save for the faint sounds of the refrigerator and a few voices cascading in from the courtyard at the center of the complex.

He had just settled onto the oversized couch, his head leaning back against the cushions, when his phone buzzed on the coffee table.

Toji’s brow furrowed as he reached for it, flipping it over to check the screen. A text.

-Hi. Got your number from Suguru—he said it’s for emergencies, but I hope you don’t mind me using it. Just wanted to… clear the air after today.

Your name flashed on the screen, and for a moment, Toji didn’t move, his thumb hovering over the reply button. He read the message again, something in him tightening at the thought of you reaching out.

He could’ve left it alone. A quick “No problem” or even no reply at all would’ve been enough to maintain the distance he was trying so hard to keep. But instead, his thumb slid over to the call button, and before he could second-guess himself, the phone was ringing.

You answered after the second ring.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Toji said, his voice calm and steady. “Figured I’d call instead of texting. Easier that way.”

There was a slight pause on your end before you responded. “Oh. Okay. Well. Hi.”

He could hear the slight surprise in your voice, and it almost made him smirk. He leaned back into the couch, letting the weight of the day ease just slightly as he found himself speaking again.

“About the name thing,” he started, keeping his tone even. “I wasn’t trying to lie to you.”

“You didn’t think it was worth mentioning?” you asked, and though your tone wasn’t sharp, he could hear the edge of hurt lingering beneath it.

Toji let out a soft sigh, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not like that. Suguru’s always known me as Zen’in. That’s the name I use in professional settings—makes things easier. Less messy.”

“Less messy?”

He chuckled, the sound low and quiet. “You wouldn’t believe the headaches the Zen’in name comes with. Fushiguro… it’s what I go by when I don’t want people connecting me to the family. But around Suguru, around work—it’s just simpler this way.”

Another pause, and then your voice softened. “Okay. I get it.”

Toji’s shoulders relaxed slightly at the sound of your forgiveness, though he wasn’t sure why it mattered so much.

“Thanks for not holding it against me,” he said, his voice dropping just slightly.

“Well, I wouldn’t say you’re completely off the hook,” you teased, and he could hear the faint smile in your tone.

A corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Didn’t think it’d be that easy.”

“So do I keep calling you Fushiguro around Ayame?”

‘Yes, please. Would make life easier.”

“Hm” you softly hummed into the phone. “I’m expecting bonus pay for all this extra work I’m having to do on your behalf.”

Toji smiled and closed his eyes. “Yes ma’am.”

  What started as a conversation to clear the air quickly shifted into something lighter, easier. You asked him about the rest of his day which led to him mentioning the condo, and he responded with a mix of dry humor and genuine observations, describing the place as “too damn big for one person” but “exactly what I’d expect from Gojo.”

Your laughter over the phone caught him off guard. It wasn’t loud or overbearing—just soft, genuine, and for a moment, it felt like it filled the quiet space of the condo.

“You sound like you’ve got a few stories about Gojo,” you chimed, amusement lacing your words.

“More than a few,” Toji admitted, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Most of ‘em would probably make you question why he’s allowed to walk around unsupervised.”

“And Suguru, the man who has mandatory quiet time before the club opens, is married to him? I just can’t see it.”

“Believe me, no one can. But it works. You’ll see when he visits the club sometimes.”

The banter came easily after that, your voice filling the silence as the conversation drifted from Gojo to other topics. Toji found himself talking more than he expected, your laughter and occasional sharp quips pulling him into a rhythm that felt too comfortable for his liking but didn’t even give it a second notice as he moved from the couch to the bedroom.

At some point, he realized he put you on speaker with the phone lying on his chest, and his right hand had drifted to his left ring finger, his thumb absently sliding over the familiar metal band there. He hadn’t even noticed when he’d started twisting it, the cool metal spinning loosely against his skin until he slipped it off entirely.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

He stared down at the ring in his palm, the weight of it suddenly feeling heavier than it ever had before. His chest tightened, a sharp pang of guilt and unease cutting through the ease he’d felt just moments ago.

You were still talking, unaware of his sudden silence. He slid the ring back on quickly, the motion almost frantic, as though putting it back could undo the thoughts that had started creeping into his mind.

“You still there?” you asked, your voice breaking through the fog in his head.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rougher now. “Still here.”

But even as he said it, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was standing on the edge of something he wasn’t sure he could walk away from.

“I didn’t realize how late it was, sorry about that. I should let you get some rest before your first shift tonight.”

He heard you shuffle around as you spoke, assumed you were packing your outfits for the evenings show.

“Yeah. Would be a good idea. I’ll see you tonight. Be safe.” He stared down at his ring finger, the ring seemingly pulsing around it. “And let me know if you need me tonight. I’ll be in Suguru’s office by the time you get there.”

“Of course! I’ll see you tonight, Toji. Be careful.”

the call ended and Toji was left with a feeling that he hated.

“I absolutely cannot fucking do this.”

The office was suffocatingly silent except for the steady ticking of the ornate clock on the wall. Naoya sat at his desk, fingers drumming against polished wood as his other hand gripped his phone tightly. His jaw clenched, barely containing the fury coursing through him. When the call finally connected, he didn’t wait for pleasantries.

“You better have a damn good explanation for this, Kenjaku,” Naoya spat, venom dripping from every word. “Do you have any idea what your failure cost me?”

The voice on the other end was infuriatingly calm, smooth as silk and just as slippery.

“Naoya, you’re always so dramatic. Relax.” There was a pause, and Naoya could almost hear the faint sound of a chuckle. “It’s not as though your world is ending.”

Naoya’s fist slammed onto the desk, rattling a glass of whiskey that sat untouched beside him.

“Don’t patronize me, you ground snake. You promised results. I don’t make deals with incompetents. Do you understand how bad this makes me look?”

Kenjaku’s response was maddeningly casual. “Oh, Naoya. Always concerned with appearances. Isn’t it exhausting? Perhaps you should broaden your perspective. You Zen’ins are so... limited.”

“What did you just say?” Naoya’s voice dropped an octave, dangerously low. “I’ll give you one chance to explain yourself before I make you regret ever crossing me.”

Kenjaku sighed, the sound mocking. “Threats already? That’s disappointing. I thought you had more finesse. But since you insist... our deal, Naoya, is no longer my priority. Let’s just say I’ve found someone more... capable.”

The words hung in the air, their weight pressing down on Naoya’s chest. His grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded. “There’s no one more capable than me. Who the hell do you think you’re dealing with?”

Kenjaku’s laugh was soft, yet it sent a chill down Naoya’s spine.

“Oh, I know exactly who I’m dealing with. But it seems you’ve overlooked something... or someone. I’ve found a Zen’in who might understands power in a way you never will.”

Naoya’s heart skipped a beat, his mind racing. Another Zen’in? It couldn’t be Maki or Mai—they were too insignificant. His father? No, Naobito wouldn’t stoop to dealing with someone like Kenjaku. That left...

“You’re bluffing,” Naoya said, though the edge in his voice betrayed his growing unease. “There’s no one else. No one worth your time.”

“Oh, I assure you, they’re very much worth my time,” Kenjaku purred. “In fact, I’d say they’re a better investment than you could ever be. But don’t take it personally. You’re just... replaceable.”

The word hit Naoya like a slap to the face. Replaceable. Him? His nails dug into his palm as he struggled to maintain control.

“Who is it?” he hissed. “Tell me who you’re working with.”

Kenjaku’s tone turned almost pitying, though the mockery was still evident.

“Now, now, Naoya. Where’s the fun in that? You’ll find out soon enough. But if I were you... I’d watch my back. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

Before Naoya could respond, the line went dead. For a moment, he sat frozen, staring at the phone in his hand as though willing it to reconnect. Then, with a roar of frustration, he hurled it across the room, shattering it against the wall.

The office was silent again. Naoya’s chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing. His mind raced, replaying Kenjaku’s words over and over. Another Zen’in. Someone who could replace him.

But who could be so bold to try and be a Zen’in.

And more importantly... why?

[mylovelylittleobsessions]

Stealth Attack

A Rings of Power One-shot

Featuring Adar and his kids. Pure fluff.

Enjoy!

Wrûg bared his teeth as he crept forward, soot-coated stick in hand. This was it; today was the day he’d finally be taken seriously as a hunter by the rest of the clans. They’d have to accept him, and let him go on the big game hunts after this! No other Uruk could do what he was planning; they were too scared.

Not that he hadn’t tried to convince them before. He’d made it clear that he would bring the best game, the tastiest meat anybody’d ever had, if only they’d let him come along. But every time it was the same: they’d agree condescendingly, or coo at him, or pinch his cheek, then send him off with a pat on the head and a piece of sweet root.

He didn’t deserve to be treated like this. He’d seen seven winters already; he was practically a grown-up! (Though, of course, he didn’t turn his nose up at the sweet root; he wasn’t stupid.)

Tonight, however, would change everything. His bared teeth became a grin as he snuck closer to his goal: Adar’s tent. He’d teach them all a lesson by leaving a mark on the ancient Uruk, and they’d all see how clever and crafty he was! Even Adar would be impressed, right after he scrubbed Wrûg’s mark off.

Wrûg slipped into the tent and almost huffed with disappointment. This was going to be too easy; Adar was asleep! There he was, the eldest of them, snoring away in his nest of blankets without a care in the world! He tiptoed over to the nest and peeked in, stick in hand.

Adar had his face tucked under his arm like a sleeping warg (and snoring like one too), so putting a mark on his face was going to be tricky. He’d wanted to draw face hair on him like the dwarves had, but now he’d have to think of something else. Maybe he’d put a frowny face, or a skull, or a —

Wrûg’s feet flew off the ground as he was suddenly scooped up in a grip like iron. He rolled head over feet into the nest, and found himself nose to nose with Adar himself, eyes glittering with mischief.

Ooh, Adar tricked him! He wasn’t sleeping at all! His snores were made of lies!

“Well, well,” he graveled, in that soft, deep voice that every Uruk associated with the safety of their eldest, “what’s this I’ve caught?”

Wrûg squirmed, but couldn’t wriggle out of the hold Adar had him in, perched on his lap.

Adar looked him over appraisingly, smirk growing. “Looks like a tasty little Uruk-child for my dinner! Let’s see if he’s any good…”

Hang on a minute! He knew where this was going!

“Adar, no!” He squealed. “No tickle!”

But it was too late. Adar had descended, pretending to gobble him up as he made fake-eating noises and gummed at Wrûg’s tummy. Wrûg shrieked with laughter, unable to escape.

Adar hummed. “Not quite. Perhaps some seasoning.” He mimed sprinkling something on Wrûg before gumming his exposed arm. “Much better.” He grinned and resumed his tickling onslaught.

“Adaaaaar!”

After a few minutes, Adar stopped, letting Wrûg catch his breath. “Now,” he rasped, voice filled with mirth, “what brings you creeping in here to me, little one?”

Wrûg stiffened a little, having snuggled up to Adar in the meantime. “Umm…”

Adar raised an eyebrow, then looked around and picked up Wrûg’s soot stick. “This, perhaps?”

Uh-oh, now he was in trouble. “I w-was…”

Adar tipped Wrûg’s chin up so they were looking eye to eye. “Were you going to play a prank on your Father, child?”

Wrûg nodded.

“Why?”

His lip wobbled. Nononono, he was not going to cry like a little baby in front of Adar! “I ju-just wanna be a hunt-ter…”

Adar’s gaze softened. “Oh, sweetling,” he cooed, rocking him a little, “you need not worry about such things yet. You have your whole life to be a hunter or a warrior or whatever you wish. For now, you would please me best by living your childhood without fear in our new home. Can you do that for an old Uruk?”

He nodded, then flung himself around Adar in a tight embrace. “Love you, Adar…”

“I love you too, little one.” Adar got to his feet, balancing Wrûg on his hip. “Now, no more sneaking in my tent!” He teased, booping Wrûg’s nose with the stick and leaving a soot spot on the tip. He carried Wrûg out and into the camp, where his mother was looking around for him.

“You could have been squished by a warg in there.” He sniffed the air and gave him a look. “Although you smell like you might have already. What did you do, child, roll around in a bog?”

Wrûg looked away shiftily. “No…”

“Are you lying to me?”

“No…” he lied.

Adar rolled his eyes with a huff and passed Wrûg over to his mother. “I believe this smelly creature belongs to you, daughter.” He teased, before looking him in the eye. “Be a good boy for your mother, Wrûg.”

“Yes, Adar!” He nodded with a bright smile. Adar called him by name! He was a grown-up!

Adar gave a small smile and murmured something in his mother’s ear about new soap. Wrûg contentedly rested his head on his mother’s shoulder as he was carried away to the other side of the camp. His mother patted his back while she chattered about the stew she was gonna fix for dinner—

Wait a minute.

What did Adar say?

Soap?

But that meant—

“NO!” He howled. “NO BATH!”

[ninjacat1515]

Defiance of Fate

Matias crashed through the brush, driven by rage and fatherly instincts. The rumor was true and the human fort lay dead ahead, and he could hear the broken whimpers of illager children. Was he too late? Oh gods what had been done?? Throwing all subtlety to the wind he became a freight train of fervor and mauled the neartest guard, unleashing his sheer hatred for humans upon the man.

Stepping through piles of flesh Matias effortlessly blocked multiple sword strikes, vision tinged with red. The world felt so dreamlike and his motions a blur of gore and energy. Shouting rang in his ears but it was muffled by his own roars, primal and with all of the force of a tiger protecting protecting its young.

There was plenty of pain as a blade had found its mark along with a few arrows, but Matias's armor held true. Dozens of humans lay dead, most scattered in pieces or splattered against walls. He had thrashed a warrior and snapped the spine, the woman ending up in a corner as one discards garbage.

When he finally reached the dungeon cells his heart sank. Several very young illagers had not survived the starvation and abuse, but there was hope. Three cubs had managed to cling to life and Matias descended upon them with great love and care. Claws and hands that had peeled flesh from bones and broken them beyond repair, bundled the little ones up in a blanket snatched from a room.

"Shhhh...I am here, you're safe now." As he whisked them away from the hellish place the Universe was disgusted.

"How dare you survive, how dare you bring death to innocents! Those humans are love! All of this horror to save a few monsters, an absolute waste of life for nothing!"

But Matias merely extended his middle finger to the heavens for all of the stars to see.

"I care not for the opinions of those who love humans. I am love for these children and that is all that matters. I care about them, my people care about them, and I will ensure no human ever lays a hand on them ever again."

And the Universe was silent because it knew this Pillager would tear it apart if it uttered another word.

The cubs babbled and eagerly ate stew made from some of the human flesh and drank clean water. Matias cleaned up their wounds and sores as best he could before moving on to his camp. Zipping the hidden tent shut he hummed a song to the tots who were sleepy, smiling at the little sharp teeth poking through their gums. Adorable, and coming in surprisingly well despite everything!

They pulled on his eyebrows and he settled them down for the night. He sat by ever watchful for the first few hours before breathing out and allowing himself some rest.

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

It was love did them in.

LOGIC - Sure, yes. They died of an over-abundance of love. Just loved each other to death. Couldn't get enough love. And now they're dead.

CONCEPTUALIZATION - Why not? Love gets a lot of people killed... Speaking of, aren't you a little close to the edge, yourself, lover-cop? Better lay off that love stuff, if you can.

VISUAL CALCULUS - That's it. You got it.

Got what?

No, I didn't. Whatever it was. [Discard thought.]

VISUAL CALCULUS - The whole shebang.

Oh, the coat and the hat?

Shebang?

VISUAL CALCULUS - The coat, the hat, the swindle so crooked a yeggman couldn't break it.

RHETORIC [Challenging: Success] - Yeggman... that's either a safebreaker or someone who works almost exclusively with egg yolks.

LOGIC [Trivial: Success] - The deaths of Charlie Spillane and Deanna Deneuve, the case Dick Mullen was on -- that's what this crooked swindle must be.

Wait, why are you talking like that?

So they *did* love each other to death?

Actually I think I got that one wrong.

VISUAL CALCULUS - This is how I always talk. Move on. The swindle -- cracked it like a discount safe.

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] - You're right, he used to be more polite.

RHETORIC [Challenging: Success] - Classic case of Mullen-mania, a well-documented condition.

So they *did* love each other to death?

VISUAL CALCULUS - Don't think like a cop, cops don't solve cases. They slide nippers on the goons and take 'em to the big house, but they don't *solve* anything.

Who does then?

VISUAL CALCULUS - The dicks, gum-heels, hawkshaws, peepers, sleuths -- men like Mullen and you.

So I am a dick?

VISUAL CALCULUS - Bullseye. A snooper. And a damn good one.

I don't feel like a private investigator.

I think I've always felt like a private investigator.

Private investigators are just disrupting police work and endangering civilians. I'm out. [Discard thought.]

VISUAL CALCULUS - If there's any doubt, consult your trusty Dick Mullen book and reconnect with the real you, him. Dick Mullen. You. Him. Youse. Modus: Mullen.

DICK MULLEN AND THE MISTAKEN IDENTITY - In your hand, you hold four-fifths of "Dick Mullen and the Mistaken Identity."

3. Modus: Mullen.

End of the road, Mullen. That's your stop.

Another day, another case, thought Mullen, looking at the downpour.

Mullen didn't need that shit. The shit came looking for him.

Men get arrested, dogs get put down.

Looks like everybody wants a piece of Mullen.

Time to ask questions no one wants asked.

The streets -- you either get them or you're dead.

Snitches aren't born, they're made.

That wears after about 30 seconds.

MAN FROM HJELMDALL AND THE DEVIL WOMAN - The edges of the pages are worn and smudged. A lot of people have read about the Devil Woman's altercations with the Hjelmdall Man.

Look at the back cover.

Time to flip through the book.

Put book away.

MAN FROM HJELMDALL AND THE DEVIL WOMAN - The jacket copy proclaims: "Man from Hjelmdall returns in his most exciting adventure yet! After crashing into a strange jungle, cannibalistic natives abduct his only surviving comrade, noble Tyrbald. Before Man from Hjemdall can mount a rescue..."

"...he is ambushed by a tribe of female warriors and taken to the ancient citadel of Cloud City, where a mysterious and wicked queen rules supreme. Will Man from Hjelmdall be able to escape his dire situation and find his missing friend?"

2. Time to flip through the book.

MAN FROM HJELMDALL AND THE DEVIL WOMAN - You open the book to a random page. Man from Hjelmdall, wielding his two zweihänders, is carving through a sea of savages, his visage fixed in grim determination.

His arms, whirling like windmills, are soaked with the blood of his enemies. Mangled corpses litter the battlefield.

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] - Good god this is some retrograde stuff. When was this shit written?

MAN FROM HJELMDALL AND THE DEVIL WOMAN - You flip to the copyright page. This book was written in '38.

Oh shit, gritty and heroic.

Let's give this a chance...

Ugh, vulgar. (Close the book.)

MAN FROM HJELMDALL AND THE DEVIL WOMAN - Berserker rage burns in his azure-hued eyes as he brings glory and honour to his long lost Hjelmdaller tribe from the village of Hjelmdall. The ivory giant roars like an ice bear, and the winds of Katla howl out his name.

Gimme more!

Okay, got it. No need to read further.

MAN FROM HJELMDALL AND THE DEVIL WOMAN - Man from Hjelmdall rides on a gilded gryffin, his golden mane billowing in the breeze. Both zweihänders sheathed on his back, he is off to war. Will he conquer his enemies? Will he conquer himself?

Onward!

Okay, got it. No need to read further.

MAN FROM HJELMDALL AND THE DEVIL WOMAN - The steel muscles of Man from Hjelmdall gleam in the humid jungle air, yet the man does not sweat. In meditation his soul drifts in the frigid Northlands he calls home.

"Holy shit, this is so *me*!" (Really get into the book.)

Uh-huh. I'm done. (Close the book.)

MAN FROM HJELMDALL AND THE DEVIL WOMAN - A passage reads: "The Man from Hjelmdall looks up, his eyes blue as the mountain lakes of his homeland. He rarely speaks, but now his voice booms in the darkened throne room: 'Do not try to sap my masculine essence, wicked temptress! Son of Hjelmdall will never succumb to your seductive wiles'."

"'Thine spells are no match for purity and strength of will. Brothers of Hjelmdall stand above the vices of flesh for it is weak and corruptible, yet mine is forged in gore and strife.' Queen Lydiaana just laughs, a sultry and salacious sound, then says..."

"'I have grand plans for you, Man from Hjelmdall.' She gestures her diabolical hand toward an array of potions and unguents. 'First you shall please me, then lead my armies against the vicious cannibals.' Not a muscle moves in the face of Man from Hjelmdall, yet inside there is turmoil -- this goes against all he holds sacrosanct."

Wow... this is epic!

I kept hoping it would get better but the writing is terrible and repetitive.

I've had enough. (Close the book.)

MAN FROM HJELMDALL AND THE DEVIL WOMAN - What do you even know about literature, have you ever read a book in your life?

Of course I have.

Maybe, I don't know.

Excuse me, I know a thing or two about critical analysis. And art.

+1 Art Cop

MAN FROM HJELMDALL AND THE DEVIL WOMAN - Write a thesis. Man from Hjelmdall is done with you.

3. Put book away.

Wow, that wasn't nearly as interesting as Dick Mullen. I'm not even going to bother with *Sixteen Days of Coldest April*, it sounds miserable.

There is *one* other book we haven't bought yet.

SHELF OF PARANORMAL BOOKS - This bookstore is not *strictly* about crime, romance, and biographies of famous people -- there's also a wide range of paranatural literature.

3. "All right. I want to buy *Medicinal Purposes of the Pale*."

PLAISANCE - "Indeed..." She mumbles, staring at the book for a moment. "Something about that book does seem to have spoken to you..."

"Well, I hope it contains what you're looking for."

A small green book giving off a peculiar foreboding impression, although it's hard to figure out why. It describes the various ways of healing debilitating ailments through the use of pale, some of which sound implausible at best.

As you can see, reading books passes a significant amount of time. It's a good way to quickly complete Thoughts.

MEDICINAL PURPOSES OF THE PALE - "Medicinal Purposes of the Pale." The cover of this heavy tome features a number of esoteric symbols.

Open the book.

[Put the book away.]

MEDICINAL PURPOSES OF THE PALE - Flipping through the book you find a number of sections on the general benefits of the pale. A large pharmacopoeia makes up nearly half of the book.

What's a pharmacopoeia?

I think I just want some general health advice.

MEDICINAL PURPOSES OF THE PALE - You come across the following explanation: "While modern pharmacopoeia are continually updated by so-called 'experts' based on the results of 'clinical trials,' readers will find assembled here the timeless wisdom relied upon by generations of traditional Seolite medicine practitioners, Mesque mystics, and Iilmaraan folk doctors."

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] - It's all quackery, in other words.

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] - Finally, something to calm the angry spirits that have been plaguing you.

MEDICINAL PURPOSES OF THE PALE - It seems to contain descriptions of the medicinal properties of various ingredients that may be gathered from the pale, as well as instructions for producing a variety of herbal remedies.

Is there anything in there about restoring lost memories?

I just want something that will soothe the relentless torment of my existence.

Anything about curing an apocalyptic hangover?

Enough of this.

MEDICINAL PURPOSES OF THE PALE - There are a number of Seolite tonics that promise to improve your short-term memory, but nothing that speaks to your condition.

I just want something that will soothe the relentless torment of my existence.

MEDICINAL PURPOSES OF THE PALE - What you're describing is booze. You don't need any herbs for that.

2. Anything about curing an apocalyptic hangover?

MEDICINAL PURPOSES OF THE PALE - There's nothing in here that speaks to hangovers directly. However, while browsing through the various descriptions you become convinced that you could assemble something from the ingredients listed here. Want to give it a shot?

(Rub your hands together.) Alright, book, let's see what you got.

I don't have time for this.

MEDICINAL PURPOSES OF THE PALE - First, you need to choose a base ingredient.

[haveihitanerve]

I have this headcannon that ripred just pretty much shows up at home with his new kids every once in a while and just assumes everyone is aware and every single one of his pack members accepts his kids, but the first time are always baffled by it like- Ripred: and as i was saying- razor did you have something you wanted to say? Razor: um… yeah. Who-? Why is the warrior here? Ripred: *glancing at eleven year old gregor who is playing hopscotch with another rat pup* thats my son obviously. Now as i was saying- - Mange: *waking up and yawning. Walks out of cave* good morning everyo- GAH JESUS CHRIST Ares: *hanging upside down right in front of the cave entrance* oh. Good morning. Is ripred here? Mange:...*heart rate at 200 beats per second*.....Yeah. yeah. Just inside Ares: *sweetly* thank you - Razor: Mange: Lapblood: Ratriff: Clawsin: Razor: why is the queen here? Lapblood: ripred just showed up, dropped her off, said something about retrieving the other one and left Luxa: *chewing some bubble gum* sup. - Ripred: Aurora: Ripred: Aurora: Ripred: Aurora: Ripred: *sigh* fine Aurora: yay! Lapblood: Razor: Clawsin: Ratriff: Mange: did any of yall get that? Them: nope.  - Ripred: *walking into cave for pack meeting time* theres more coming behind me Lapblood: oh okay we can- Ares: *flies in with gregor on his back* sup yall Mange: hey pup. Now- Aurora: *flies in with nike attached to her leg by a piece of rope* hey Nike: *sullenly* id didn't wanna come Razor: h-hi? Ratriff: okay so- Andromeda: hello! Howard: hey Luxa: *cartwheels in* sup bitches *high fives gregor* Mareth: *carrying a wet boots* gregor she said shes not feeling polite today Gregor: okay. Does she need to go to Regalia? Mareth: no shes just not feeling polite Boots: *hiss* Hazard: *comes skipping in* hello! Lapblood: is that the last of them? Ripred: *counting* yeah should be.  Them: …. Ripred: what? Mange: you have to count your kids? Ripred: THERES A LOT OF THEM OKAY???

[ciaossu-imagines]

💕 or 📖 from the get to know me meme (for you)

Oh my…I’m super flattered and honestly a little amazed that I got questions for myself (I figured it would be mostly characters with maybe an ask thrown in here and there for my OC’s). So I’m really happy about that but at the same time, god, did you pick the two hardest questions for me ahaha! Like, these are super, duper tough for me to answer! I’ma try my best though!!

Your two top fave fictional characters?

Impossible to answer. Simply impossible. There are so many really great, nuanced, interesting characters out there in so many different forms of media. There are so many characters I really love and have developed deep bonds with over the years and to pick just two is impossible. It’s also really hard because, as I’ve admitted before, my favourites are always constantly changing. Even for just my fandoms on here, my favourite characters are constantly shifting and changing for the most part. Outside of the fandoms I write for on here, Watson from Sherlock Holmes, Ron Weasley from Harry Potter, Leo from the Heroes of Olympus series, and Frank from Hold Me Closer, Necromancer are some of my favourite literary characters. For video games, it’s Link and Princess Peach all the way for me, because I was raised on a babysitter’s Nintendo and first loves die hard. To try to give a better answer, I’ll also give my current favourite two characters from each of my fandoms, but remember that in like, two months, these will likely have changed:

For KHR, it’s currently Tsuna and Haru.

For K, it’s Fujishima and Shouhei, currently.

For Servamp, it’s Tsurugi and Yumi and Jun. Just all three of them.

For Iruma-kun, it’s Ifrit and Kalego.

For Bungou Stray Dogs, it’s Fukuchi and Fukuzawa.

For Nanbaka, it’s Hajime and Samon.

For Eyeshield 21, it’s Kid and Agon.

For The Vampire Dies in No Time!, it’s Ronaldo and Shot.

For JJK, it’s Panda and Bernard.

For Dogs, it’s Badou and Giovanni.

For Mashle, it’s Dot and Finn.

For A3!, it’s Tsuzuru and Sakyo.

For S8, it’s Shadow and Reki.

For YYH, it’s Kuwabara and Yusuke.

For Demon Slayer, it’s Zenitsu and Rengoku.

For Assassination Classroom, it’s Karma and Rio.

For Black Cat, it’s Sven and Charden.

For Bleach, it’s Renji and Akon.

For Blue Lock, it’s Ego and Bachira.

For Buddy Daddies, it’s Miri and Rei.

For BNHA, it’s Fat Gum and Mirio.

For Chainsaw Man, it’s Power and Hirofumi.

For Deadman Wonderland, it’s Senji and Karako.

For Fairy Tail, it’s Lucy and Rogue.

For Gangsta., it’s Nic and Hausen.

For GetBackers, it’s Emishi and Ginji.

For Gintama, it’s Gintoki and Kagura.

For Golden Kamuy, it’s Asirpa and Ogata.

For Haikyuu, it’s Daichi, Suga, and Asahi – all three are tied in a great big bow like a giant present and they’re where a vast majority of my love is going. And lust…some of that most definitely.

For Hunter x Hunter, it’s Ging and Chrollo.

For High Card, it’s Chris and Vijay.

For Hinomaru Sumo, it’s Hinomaru and Yuma.

For Joker Game, it’s Sakuma and Jitsui.

For Karneval, it’s Gareki and Yogi.

For Kuroko no Basuke, it’s Taiga and Midorima.

For Magi, it’s Jafar and Sinbad.

For Yowamushi Pedal, it’s Makishima and Sakamichi.

For Mob Psycho 100, it’s Shigeo and Dimple.

For Naruto, it’s Sasori and Deidara.

For One Punch Man, it’s Zombieman and King.

For One Piece, it’s Luffy and Smoker.

For Ronin Warriors, it’s Rowen and Kento.

For Ouran, it’s Honey and Haruhi.

For Saiyuki, it’s Gojyo and Goku.

For The Royal Tutor, it’s Heine and Bruno.

For Tokyo Revengers, it’s Mikey and Ken.

For Soul Eater, it’s Maka and Stein.

For Durarara, it’s Celty and Shinra.

For Kekkaishi, it’s Tokine and Shishio.

For 07-Ghost, it’s Frau and Hyuuga.

For Windbreaker, it’s Mitsuki and Tasuku.

For Beyblade, it’s Kenny and Madoka.

For Black Clover, it’s the whole of the Agrippa family because their designs are cool and Zora.

For Mystic Messenger, it’s V and Jumin.

For Ikemen Revolution, it’s Fenrir and Sirius.

For Class of the Titans, it’s Neil and Odie.

For Gravity Falls, it’s Stan and Wendy.

For Ultimate Spider-Man, it’s Danny and Peter.

For The Covenant, it’s Pogue and Tyler.

For The Mighty Ducks, it’s Averman and Fulton.

For The Outsiders, it’s Dally and Pony.

For Hold Me Closer, Necromancer, it’s Frank and Sean.

Fave book?

I have a lot of books that I dearly love. Much like with characters, it’s really impossible to just choose one. The list of them all that I think are fantastic would fill whole pages. I read a lot of different genres though, surprising because it’s a large part of what I write, pure romance remains the only thing I don’t enjoy reading at all. Mostly because I find them either very formulaic with cliched characters or I find the romances they portray to be vaguely (or in some cases, not so vaguely) toxic. There are a few exceptions to that rule as there are a few romances that I did enjoy, but largely because of other factors within the story. There’s a Harlequin series, of all things, underneath their paranormal romance series, called the Bloodrunners and I enjoyed those. I also enjoyed Dante and Aristotle Discover the Secrets of the Universe. I read a lot of biographies (mostly recently read Britney Spears biography), adore cozy mysteries (currently reading the Murder, She Wrote novel series) and not so cozy mysteries (excited to start the second book in the John Ceepak mysteries). I also read a lot of urban fantasy (big fan of the fantastical noir tropes, with Who Censored Roger Rabbit being a fantastic example and I do enjoy the Dresden Files). Horror though? That’s my jam. I’ve been a huge Stephen King fan since I was around eleven and I really love Grady Hendrix. I also am not someone who feels I need to keep myself to reading only adult novels. I love kids books. I recently revisited and read all the classic Goosebumps books for a wave of nostalgia and despite being written for kids, I love the Percy Jackson series and own a lot of both the Nancy Drew and the Hardy boys novels. Of course, the classics are always worth reading. I reread Alice in Wonderland and The Little Prince quite often, along with the Anne of Green Gables novels, Little Women/Little Men, and Frankenstein quite often. Basically, I just really love books and always appreciate any good recommendations for new ones.

[cloudninetonine]

A past that still haunts me

A/N: Hey guys, it's me (ya boi) I'm back with my still current hyper fixation Genshin Impact and a vent fic because I've been really stressed and well, it's hard living in my house :) It's a hurt/comfort fic because they always get to me and I needed to make something for myself

I am willing to do aftermath where the boys confront the abuser or do scenario but with different characters

Synopsis: You’re not a damsel in distress, you never have been and you never will be, but, well, sometimes you need a hero to rely on and that’s okay

Characters: Diluc, Kaeya, Zhongli and Childe

Warnings: Hints to past abuse, confrontation of abuser, violence, mentions of blood, threats, foul language

It had meant to be like any other menial day of an adventurer: sign in with Katheryne, complete your commissions, sign out with Katheryne with your payments - done and dusted.

But that wasn’t how it went, no, far from it - archons, so damn far from it.

“Thank you once again, (Name)” Katheryne’s smile was kind like usual, holding that familiar feeling of gratitude as she handed over your remission within a marked package, hand returning to the desk’s polished surface once you had taken it graciously, sending her a beaming grin back. “The Guild really appreciates your work ethic when it comes to the Ruin machines, it’s hard to come across adventurers who want to handle them anymore”

You sent her a shrug as you placed away the box “Can’t blame them really, they’re a hard bunch to handle- I was terrified of them when I first started too, but I had my vision to help me out, a lot of these folk only use there pure determination to eradicate them, gotta admire that!”

She laughed along with you politely “Have a good evening, (Name), I’ll see you again tomorrow?”

“Of course you will!” You backpedalled away from the guild reception, throwing the woman a polite double fingered salute as you did “Ad astra abyssoque as they say, my fair lady!”

She parrotted back her usual phrase before disappearing into the building, you walking further down the path of the city for your final activity for that day.

Of course, you didn’t reach that far, after all, it wasn’t that menial day you had expected, that you had wanted. Life was cruel sometimes, so incredibly cruel for no justified reason just for the sake of it all and you wished, archons, you wished you could rewind the clock and stop yourself from bumping into the body, to save yourself from all the repressed trauma bursting forth like a flurry of butterflies, well, more like moths, disgusting, ungodly, monster moths that aimed straight for the face.

“Sorry!” You yelped, too preoccupied with gathering your pocketwatch you had dropped in the stumble to see who it had been, after all, you were on a schedule and you didn’t want to be-

“(Name)?”

...late.

All of a sudden, time didn’t seem to exist, or maybe it was moving way too slowly from that horrid spike of adrenaline that shot into your bloodstream as soon as the voice registered.

You hoped to the Archons that it wasn’t, that it couldn’t, but did the gods hear your prayers?

“Oh Archons, it is you! It’s been such a long time!”

Of course, they did, they just didn’t care to listen. Ignoring the cries of your people were in fashion to them these days.

They stood there with a smile so excited it almost seemed to tear their face in half, with eyes sparkling with recognition after so many years away from them, they opened their arms welcoming you into their embrace like it was something just so normal for the two of you like you would come bounding to them like a lost puppy who had finally found their master.

The fear of your abuser dwarfed in comparison the pure feral rage and loathing to think that they even deserved to be breathing in the same space as you.

People were looking, of course, they were looking, you knew what they were doing, being bright and jovial, bringing others attention towards you both so that whatever scene you caused would be your fault like you were the bad guy. It was old tactics, of course, you wouldn’t dare do anything when you were younger, you’d just push through it, but this wasn’t old times, this wasn’t younger you, scared, smaller you afraid them, this was you now, a warrior, unwavering in battle, a person who smiled in the face of danger, who laughed at the pitiful fights that 2- no- 4 abyss mages brought to you!

To hell what other people thought, you’d stomp their head into the cobblestone if they had so much as poked you.

“Come here and give me a-”

You took a step back, mustering the deadliest face you could, but you wavered, it was only natural, no matter how much you could try to hype yourself up, this person was your first true experience of real-life nightmares, the first person to bring you true pain, no matter how many ruin guards, hunters, millachurls, mages- anything you faced, nothing could prepare you to face your first fear:

The fear of your older sibling.

“If you fucking touch me I’ll stab you-” The growl cracked nearing the end, you were always an angry crier but you were not about to fall back to this- this monster. “In front of all these people, I won’t hesitate”

Their face dropped followed by your stomach, though, the food you had for lunch sure did feel its way up your gullet.

“What’s with your language? We haven’t seen each other in four years and this is how you treat me? Your older sibling?” They laughed in disbelief because onlookers would think they were shocked, I mean, how could you speak to family like that? But they didn’t know, they didn’t know the words they had told you, the insults, the threats, those tight grabs, those beatings- they didn’t know, so they obviously didn’t know that the shock came from the fact that you had stood up to them.

You licked your lips to get rid of the dryness, but the problem you faced was that your mouth had dried out along with them, as did your throat.

Don’t let them turn this on you, don’t let them get the upper hand, you were better than them, so much better.

“You’re not my fucking sibling” You spat, feeling the air vibrate around you, a sudden shine from your cloak hinted you to the cause “You haven’t been for a long time, don’t fucking try that shit with me”

There it was, that familiar enraged spark, that look of hatred on their face, the thing that warned you about what you said had been the right thing to set them off, that they were just as easily triggered by the smallest act of rebellion just like when you were kids.

Of course, they hadn’t changed.

Evil never did.

They took a step forward but you didn’t back off, just hardened your resolve as they leaned in menacingly, as though their stupid little intimidation tactic still worked after all these years.

You told yourself it didn’t but you knew deep down that wasn’t completely true.

“Don’t speak to me like that, (Name)” Facade gone, they showed you what they really were, what they were really like after all, “Don’t you ever speak to me like that, you show me fucking respect”

Respect?

RESPECT!?

Oh Archons, you were angry, no, seething from the thought that they ever deserved respect.

That pathetic piece of shit, that gruelling pleb, mere gum on the bottom of your damn shoe-

You’d kill them, right here, right now.

You felt the familiar materialisation begin to form in your hand when another voice called out, a familiar loving one that nearly made your throat swell from relief.

“(Name)?”

Diluc

He could sense the tension. Of course, he could sense the tension, Diluc had faced this tension so many times before, he was practically the one that owned such a vibe anytime Kaeya even breathed near him for a second longer than necessary.

But being the one to witness it, to see you, the usual awkward, goofy sweetheart stare at another with such overbearing malice made him uneasy, caused his stomach to churn in ways he didn’t like, set him off in a way that was only reserved for the most chilling on moments.

Diluc wondered what exactly this stranger had done to warrant such a reaction from you.

“(Name)?” The redhead called, glancing around the many citizens of Mondstadt that watched the exchange with intrigue, guard and worry, eyes focused on the scene of this foreign stranger and fuming you, hand poised by your side with weapon particles dancing on your palm.

When Diluc finally made it over, his form seemed to curl protectively around you, hand landing on the small of your back delicately while keeping face with the person, eyes narrowed dangerously but still holding an air of civilness.

A true gentleman, even when you were close to merking some rando.

“Is there a problem?”

The stranger straightened immediately, backing up a few steps with their hands up in defence, sending Diluc a charming smile that the man could see through crystal clear.

“No problem, no problem at all” They glanced back at you, seemingly friendly despite his partner’s obvious ill intent that radiated off you in waves “Isn’t that right, (Name)?”

Diluc saw you tense up once again, the buzz from your Vision rising in volume with your obvious anger as you tightened your first, ready to just screw your weapon and go for the throat.

“If that is the case” The noble’s hand softly pressed against your back, gently but coaxing, knowing that conflict in the middle of the town centre would just bring the knights to meddle in affairs that they had no business attending “Then we shall be going”

“There’s no need to leave, after all, my sibling and I were just chatting”

He paused, shouldering a questioning glance your way but at the sight of your unruly expression, he pushed down his enquiries and once again began coaxing you away from the scene. Angel’s Share had already been open for a while, meaning the usual folk would already be settled in, but the storage room was sure to be a good place to chat and to calm you down, all he needed to do was get you away.

“We already had plans” The side glance had the stranger- your sibling, biting their tongue, brows furrowing in a known annoyance as the two of you began your way towards the pub, you still vibrating in anger. “Good day to you”

The two of you had made it a few feet when they called out once again “Don’t worry, (Name), I’ll see you again real soon”

Diluc’s arm tightened around you faster than you could react, tugging you away quickly “Diluc-”

“No, (Name)”

“Stay out-”

“Not here” Sharing a look, he softened at the shine in your eyes. “You’ll just attract the knights' attention”

You didn’t care, no, not one bit. If the knights had dared to interfere at that moment, they too would have been caught up in your blinded revenge, thrown aside or slashed down without single care just to finally eradicate the bane of your existence and you didn’t care about what consequences you brought about, you just didn’t and you made sure to tell Diluc that, as soon as you had the privacy of Angel’s Share’s storeroom, pacing up and down while he stood off to the side against the wall, watching silently.

“You had no right to get in my way!” You snapped, voice shaking from the pure emotions you were releasing “I finally had my chance, I was finally going to do it! They deserve to end by my hand, by my decision, after the years of torture they put me through! They deserved it! And you got in my way! How could you get in my way! I-”

Pushing off the wall, he slowly advanced towards you, carefully, hands out like he was approaching a wounded animal.

“I understand you’re upset-”

“I’m not upset!” You cried at him, stopping mid-step before dropping your head and tightly, grabbing your hair in your hands “I’m not upset! I’m angry! I’m so fucking angry! And I deserve to be fucking angry! I-”

The sob ripped through your throat despite you trying to hold it back, tears finally gathering in your eyes and rapidly falling down your cheeks “You should have let me kill them! I should have had the chance to rid the world of their evil! It’s not fair! It’s not- it’s not fair, I-”

You didn’t bother to fight him when his arms finally wrapped around you, just fell against him as you wept. The pent up rage, fear and sadness from years of repression taking its toll as you cried, your partner whispering sweet words as he raked his hand through your hair gently and leaned his head against yours.

“I’m sorry” His hand held your cheek fondly, ruby red staring back into your own eyes with a softness that made you melt “I didn’t know this meant so much to you, but if you’re willing to tell me, I’ll listen. I’ll always listen”

With another choked sob, you leaned into his hold “Please just hold me for now”

And he did just that.

Kaeya

The captain had promised to meet you at his office, a simple task really but with the lingering presence of Jean and the words ‘There’s so much work that needs to be done’ leaving her lips he bolted, hoping to catch you by the Guild and drag you to Angel Share for your date. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help her, it was just he had already promised you this night and Eula could have always taken his place with paperwork, her threat of “vengeance” as she liked to call it could wait for another day.

It was also due to the fact he had no intentions of filing any paperwork for as long as he could avoid it, but that was his secret to be kept.

Being the perspective man he was, he could tell straight away he had walked into something tense, surveying the surrounding people of Mondstadt who looked on in concern, the unbridled rage upon your face, the obviously intimidating lean that the stranger held over you- something was wrong and he knew he had to put a stop to it.

“(Name)?” You glanced for a single moment before your furious glare had returned to the stranger, another flag waving right in his face as he approached, “My dear? Who might this be?”

Before you could snap, lip curling in disgust, the stranger stood back to their full height, switching quickly with a fake charming smile that practically mirrored his own, holding out their hand towards him “(S/N) (Last), (Name)’s older sibling. it’s nice to meet you”

Kaeya’s smile widened and despite the glare from you that was now focused on him, he shook your sibling's hand in-kind “Kaeya Alberich, (Name)’s partner-”

He made sure to tighten his grip with his last words “And Cavalry Captain of the Knights of Favonius”

Successfully, as he always was, Kaeya held back the smug, mocking grin that itched to climb onto his face when the neck of your sibling bobbed nervously, forehead reflecting the afternoon light as sweat gathered on their brow.

The man hadn’t obviously threatened them, surely, Kaeya was smarter than that, but then again, he could still present himself as a threat, a good one and well, his title was a menacing one when it came to the right moment. ‘Try anything and not only do I have the authority to kick your arse but the power to put you in a place many didn’t dare even step’ shortened into an innocent sentence with only 8 words.

“Cavalry Captain? That’s quite impressive” They laughed off, tugging away their hand awkwardly when Kaeya continued to keep a firm grip, his present eye focused solely on your siblings face. They glanced over to you “Quite an achievement for you, aye (Name)?”

You growled, “I’ll show you an achievement-”

Kaeya’s arm had wrapped around your waist not a second later, tugging you tighter to his side as the two of you turned, the man throwing your sibling a smile over his shoulder.

“As nice as it was to meet you, (S/B), we must be going”

And then without another word Kaeya dragged you away, heading in the direction of your home instead of Angel Share tavern, feeling your pure, unfiltered anger the whole way along with the citizens as they parted ways, rushing off from your rage.

It was only when you had returned to the sanctuary of your abode did you snap, jerking away from your boyfriend with angered strides and beginning your seething lecture towards him, moving up and down through the living room while he ventured off into the kitchen, grabbing 2 glasses and a bottle of wine.

“How dare you Kaeya! How fucking dare you! Do you have any idea what you were doing back there!? What was even happening back there!? So much for being the most observant man in Mondstadt because you seemed pretty dense to me the whole fucking time!” Your hands raked through your hair as you yelled, trying so hard to hold back the tears “I didn’t need your damn help, Kaeya! Nor did I fucking want it! Know to stay out of someone's business when it isn’t wanted!”

Logically you knew what he had done, you were smart like that and you knew Kaeya long enough to know what he was doing but your rage, fear and sadness blocked out everything in that moment, made you blind to reality, made you only think irrationally and Kaeya didn’t blame you for that. He could never blame you for that.

Though, it did hurt him to see you in this state.

“Wine?”

You gawked at him for a moment, staring at him with shock and confusion as he held out a wine glass towards you, another held in his other hand and a sweet smile plastered on his face, before your moment morphed into rage, grabbing the drink from his hand and tossing it towards the wall, the red wine splattering over the wallpaper and glass shards falling to the floor.

“Well, that was a waste-”

“Do you think I’m an idiot, Kaeya!?” You cried, not even bothering to hold back anymore as the tears fell and your voice cracked, hand pointing accusingly in his face “Is this some kind of joke to you!? Huh!? Am I a fool in your eyes!? Some sort of blubbering idiot!? Why must you- why do you-”

The second glass was placed on the dresser by you both, Kaeya’s hand coming to hold your cheek fondly while the other came to grab your hand that dangled in the air, still poised at him “I don’t think you're either of those, my dear, in fact, I think you’re one of the brightest in the whole of Teyvat, nevermind Mondstadt”

You hiccuped “Then why-”

Brushing away the wetness from your cheek, he brought your hand to his mouth to place a fond kiss on your palm “Because you mustn’t cry, (Name), don’t waste your tears on someone like them”

“I’m not crying, I’m-”

He shushed you gently and you finally relaxed, falling into his embrace with a heavy heart “-I’m not, I swear-”

Within the familiarity of your home, you wept in his arms, exhausted from the whirlwind of emotions and the scenes that had transpired that day, ready to just curl into yourself and try to block the flooding memories of history. Although, having Kaeya at that moment helped more than he could ever know, having him to rely on made it all so much easier to cope with that day.

“Tell me what ails you and I’ll listen” Brushing back some hair, he pressed a kiss to your head.

“Can..can we just stay like this for a while?”

“Of course, my dear”

Zhongli

He had sensed the incoming danger like it had been revealed in some sort of premonition. Maybe it had been a skill he had acquired after his long, eventful life, maybe it was his connection to Liyue and his citizens, but for some reason, as he sat before Iron Tongue Tian as the man recalled his tales of ancient Liyue like usual, Zhongli knew that the crowd that was forming around Wamin Restaurant had something that he need urgently attend, especially when even Tian paused his story to glance around the corner of the restaurant building to see the commotion.

When the archon had finally borne witness to the scene, he paused within the crowd, surveying the surroundings carefully. You were the centre of attention, along with another stranger, both glaring at one another with anger and disgust, though your own anger seemed to double compared to the other’s, seeing as your weapon was slowly materialising in your grip. Zhongli could also see Guild Master Lan making her way down the steps leading to the Guild reception, a worried expression on her face glancing between you and the approaching Millelith.

Zhongli made his decision, politely pushing through the crowd until he had finally made it by your side, hand being placed gently on your arm “(Name)?”

Both you and the stranger glanced at him, but he paid no mind to them, only held eye contact with you when Lan appeared by your other side, glaring at the stranger with a hardened gaze.

“Are you harassing my guild member?”

Before the stranger could respond, the Millelith had also popped in, glancing between you and them “Is there a problem?”

Zhongli had taken up your view when Lan began her take, she had borne witness for much longer than he had of course and he was certain that you were in no state to talk to the guards. Your eyes were glazed with hatred, pupils pinpricks in a sea of (E/C) and your hands were shaking, balled into fists.

If anything, he needed to try and calm you down first.

“Get the hell out of my way, Zhongli” Your teeth ground together, words shaking with anger “Don’t push yourself into my business”

“I’m sorry, my love, but I can’t do that” He tried brushing your cheek but you jerked away, glaring at his hand before glaring back at him, in no mood to be coddled “I don’t want you to do something you’d regret”

“Trust me, I won’t regret this one bit”

Zhongli held his tongue for the question that almost rolled out, knowing now wasn’t the time for inquiries when the stranger’s voice rang out, condescending and snarky as they addressed you.

“Still need people to protect you, aye (Name)? Of course, you’re still the same pathetic bitch from years ago”

You were lucky for your reputation around Liyue, for the picture of the kind and caring adventurer that had swept through the town from your years of living here because had it not been for that, you pushing aside your boyfriend and materialising your weapon to aim it at your sibling’s throat would have had you in cuffs that instant.

Lan grabbed you, tugging you away as you screamed “I’ll show you pathetic you fucker! Let me go!”

The Millelith didn’t wait to drag your sibling away, much to their cries of dismay, one sending Lan a nod while you continued to fight against her, crying out in frustration.

“Kid, you have to calm down-”

“Calm down!? No! Get the hell off me!”

Zhongli watched as you finally broke away, huffing and puffing up a storm before glancing amongst the crowd, staring at their worried and concerned faces, your own eyes tearing up before you looked away pushing past the crowd to find somewhere to be alone.

When Lan went to call out for you, Zhongli raised his hand, the two sharing a look before the archon made his way after you, his longer legs keeping a steady pace to which he could catch up to you, just beyond the bridge that led into Liyue Harbour. There were no people where you stood, just the lush green plants and great mountains of nature, a perfect place for you to let out your frustration without the prying eyes of the citizens.

“(Name)-”

“Leave me alone!” You cried, curling into yourself with your back turned to him “I don’t want you here, Zhongli! Nor did I want you back there! I didn’t need your or anyone else's help!”

You knew he was here from a place of concern, and deep down you begged that your words didn’t harm him in any way, but currently, you didn’t care, you didn’t want to care, you just wanted to be numb, numb to the flashbacks of your horrid past and numb to the feelings that were dragged along with them.

“My love, please, return with me to our home, I will brew some calming tea-”

“Tea? Tea!? Does it look like I want any fucking tea?! I couldn’t care any less about some fucking tea, Zhongli!” Spinning around on your heels, you scowled at him, not bothering to hide your rushing tears “Don’t you get it!? I want to be left alone, I-”

Two gloved hands gently encased your face, your angered expression morphing into one of shock as your partner stared down at you with glowing eyes filled with a deep-rooted love, affection, worry and so much more that you couldn’t put into mere mortal words. At that moment, everything felt as if it had melted away, only you and him were in this world, nothing else, just the two of you.

And you felt as though your heart had been lifted from the pressures of this life.

“I do not think it is best for you to be left alone” His baritone voice was always so calming, so serene and in your sane moment, you finally felt its effects “I wish to stay with you, so please, let me stay”

With a whimper, you grabbed onto his forearms and leaned your face into his hands, tears continuing to fall as your eyes fluttered shut “Okay…”

“They have hurt you deeply, haven’t they?”

Hesitantly, you nodded.

“Would you be so kind as to tell me the details?”

“I-...” Sharing eye contact once again, you whispered “Can- can you just...hold me for now? Please”

Moving his hands from your face, he engulfed you in his arms, leaning his head against yours “Of course”

Childe

The Harbinger had just left the Northland Bank, hell, he was just about to make his way down the spiral staircase but when hearing the commotion, he paused, something in his gut telling him to check just before and he was glad he did.

Glancing over the elevated walkway, he felt a fiery pit roar in the depths of his stomach, eyes narrowing dangerously at the scene; you were snarling in some other person’s face, their own face nothing short of disgust and a crowd that only seemed to grow by the minute.

Who the hell did this person think they were? Did they even know who you were? To stand so close to you, with a look of threat on their face like you weren’t about to kick their arse? Like he wasn’t about to kick their arse? How did this insignificant speck of dross not know your connections with him, the 11th Harbinger? Or did he know and was just trying his luck?

“Seems like someone has a death wish” And a death wish they had indeed.

Ignoring the perplexed glance from his subordinate stationed outside the building's entrance, Childe made his way down the steps, murderous look stitched on the whole way to the circle of civilians, the mass parting ways for the man that was Tartaglia and continuing to watch the moment in silence.

“Who the hell are you-” You both turned towards him, you in shock while the stranger stared in confusion until Childe’s hand wrapped around their collar, tugging them closer to look down at them with a deep-rooted disgust “-And why the hell are you harassing my partner?”

They fought against him, obviously, they did, but the surprise came when you saddled up next to him, grabbing his arm “Stay out of this, Tartaglia”

What? It hadn't been your request, no, you were always one to finish your whole fights you weren't "A damsel in distress after all!" no, you were so much more, so much greater but that look on your face, murderous and downright cruel- he just couldn't believe his ears.

Childe stared at you in shock while the stranger struggled, throwing him a dirty look in their attempts “Yeah, this is between my sibling and I”

Childe straightened in surprise, feeling embarrassment flood his system. Had he seriously just grabbed and threatened his lover’s family member? Oh, Archons, his judgement had been clouded by anger at the look of the scene, I mean, why would your sibling look at you that way-

“But it’s really no surprise that you still need to be babied, (Name), how shameful”

His eyes widened but not a moment later had you tackled your sibling, the crowd crying out in alarm as you threw back your fist and crushed their nose under the weight of your punch. “I’ll show you fucking shameful, bastard!”

There was shouting and a glance showed the oncoming Millelith marching towards the circle.

Being Fatui always did garner the attention of the guards nowadays, especially for him, who had tried to lure out the attention of their Archon by summoning an ancient god that nearly drowned the entirety of the harbour, so it was no surprise that they seemed to hurry in the pursuit when they noticed his appearance at the scene. However, lucky for him, your reputation as a great adventurer preceded you and throughout Liyue you were seen as a trusted and well-liked individual, meaning whatever trouble you got in, containing his meddling or not, was usually waved away due to the trust of the people.

So, without another thought, Childe tugged you off of your bloodied sibling and held you close, even as you thrashed violently, shouting at him to let you go.

“What is going on here?” A guard called, slamming the hilt of his polearm into the ground as he surveyed the area, eyes landing on the sibling before following the small trail of blood to you, still fighting against your boyfriend with threats falling from your lips “Was there a reason for this brawl? Who started it?”

As your sibling raised themselves on their forearms, they scowled and opened their mouth to respond, only for Childe to put in. “It was them, sir, they were the one that started it, (Name) was merely acting in self-defence”

The Millelith scowled at him, raising a brow and once again looking you over “Is that so?”

He addressed the crowd soon after “Is this what happened?”

And as expected, they all glanced over the sibling, then to you and piped up in agreement. It paid to be a hero, it seemed, the whole harbour returning the favour of years of helping out the community.

“If that’s the case, please come with us” The sibling cried out, anger and fear laced into their voice, trying to argue for their innocence only for the guards to grab them, hauling them away to archons know where while Childe did the same with you, slowly dragging you away from the scene and back into the bank, you screaming and cursing the whole way until you had made it to his office, finally managing to push him off and storming to the opposite side of the room practically seething.

“Who the hell do you think you are, Tartaglia!?” You cried, throwing out your arms in exaggeration “I didn’t need your fucking help! And why the fuck would you pull me off them!? I had them right where I wanted them and you fucking did that! Are you a moron!?”

“You had a sibling” He breathed, watching as you began to pace, muttering in an angered state “And you didn’t tell me”

“-after all these years I finally had the chance to end their pathetic excuse of a life and you just got in my fucking way! I’d waited too long for this moment and you fucking ruined it! How dare you, how fucking dare you-”

“(Name), why didn’t you tell me you had a sibling!?” He cried, walking up to you and grabbing your wrist to stop you “I was ready to kill them right there! And why are you talking about them like this!? They’re your family aren’t they-”

“They are not my fucking family!”

The scream echoed through the room, chilling Childe to the core as you ripped your arm from his grasp, running your hands through your hair before gripping it so tightly it felt close to being ripped from your head. But you didn’t care, no, you couldn’t, you were so angry and you needed something to keep you grounded, to keep yourself from losing yourself and getting lost in those haunting past memories.

The Harbinger felt his chest squeeze painfully as the tears fell down your face, red rimming your eyes and cheeks wet as you sobbed, chest heaving from trying to breathe “Family takes care of you! Family thinks of you in the highest light possible! They love you for who you are and they love you no matter what! That bastard hurt me, made me feel worthless and they refuse to believe they could do no wrong and I hate them! They are the bane of my existence! They are not my fucking family! I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I-”

Arms were around you instantly, Childe’s face pressed into your hair as you wept, grasping onto the lapels of his suit and shoving your face into his chest to muffle your cries.

“I’m sorry” He whispered, his own eyes shining slightly “I’m sorry, I was being insensitive. Please, don’t cry”

“No, I’m not crying, I promised myself I wouldn’t-” You hiccuped “I wouldn’t waste any more tears on them-”

Then you broke off into more wails, your boyfriend holding you close and letting you continue to cry in his arms, warm and comforting until you were finally reduced to whimpers, leaning into him heavily as the remaining adrenaline in your body began to wear thin when he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Will...will you tell me about it?”

You sniffed “Later...just hold me for now, please, Ajax...”

His arms tightened protectively “Anything for you, my love”

[autumnleaves1991-blog]

For your Valentine's Day Writing Challenge, I'm requesting #1 with William Ironhead Miller. His character, to me, seems to be the quiet and charming one out of the team. He's the observer. He would know your favourite flowers and candy/sweets without ever having to ask.

A Triple Frontier Valentines Day

Oh, Will, I will find you, love. This was my only request for Will which means that any that aren’t requested will also be Will. :D Thanks for the request my lovely.

Pairing: William ‘Ironhead’ Miller x F! Reader

Warnings: Language (I curse a couple times but otherwise fluff, pure fluff)

My Masterlist

# 1 Being surprised by flowers and chocolate sent to your work from a secret admirer

You groan restarting the computer for the twelfth time that day. “Stupid, fucking thing,” you mutter under your breath and let out a yelp when someone drops in right next to the side of your face. 

“Whatcha doing?” Will asks, looking over your shoulder. You turn and look at him wide-eyed, a hand to your chest. He turns, a breathe away from your lips, “Are you okay?” 

“Jesus Will,” you whisper, “you scared the shit out of me.” He grins and stands up to his full height towering over you and your desk. He motions with his hand for you to continue. You sigh, “the damn computer isn’t working.” He bends down again, close enough for you to smell his spicy body wash and spearmint from his gum. 

“Hmm,” he puts a hand to his chin, “that seems to be a problem” He looks at you, and the two of you burst out laughing. “Sorry,” he chuckles, standing, “I don’t know the first thing about computers, Ben says I’m hopeless.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s the price of being a warrior,” you tease from his speech. You’d been working in the recruitment office for a year now and probably heard the speech a hundred times, although Will could tell you the exact number of times. He was always fantastic with knowing those things. 

He chuckles and puts a warm hand on your shoulder, “How about we ditch the computer for a while? Do you wanna get some lunch?” You smile at him and nod, reaching down for your bag and giving one final hit to the stupid machine before following him out the door. 

When you reach the sub shop, he holds the door for you, and you walk inside waiting for him. “Want me to order?” he asks, and you smile. 

“You know my order by heart?” 

His cheeks redden, and he walks over to the counter, throwing the words over his shoulder quietly, “I know everything about you.” You wring your hands together and get a table waiting patiently. Will comes over a few minutes later, and when you unwrap the sandwich, you smile, seeing your usual order just the way you like it. 

You look up at him shyly and watch as he takes a bite out of his sandwich. “You really do know everything about me, don’t you?” He just grins and nods. 

***************

The rest of the week goes by pretty typically, and when Friday rolls around, you are ready to go home and relax. You had no plans to go out this weekend. With it being Valentine’s day, everywhere would be covered in plastic hearts of sickening pink and red. The bell on the door dings and you look up, your mouth dropping open at the large bouquet of flowers, your favorites. 

“Excuse me, I’m looking for,” the driver asks, looking down at the clipboard and says your name, and you nod, taking the flowers and signing the paper. “I’ll be right back; there is one more thing.” Your mouth opens wider, and you watch as he runs back to the truck and comes back with a red box and handing it to you, a card attached to the top. “Have a nice Valentine’s day.” 

You fall into your chair and look around the empty office, most of the other people gone for the weekend. Will is in his office on the phone and typing on the computer, oblivious. You reach for the box and open it, seeing chocolate-covered pineapple pieces, your favorite. The card has your name written in elegant script, and you reach for it with trembling fingers removing the paper. 

1,345 - The number of times you’ve made me laugh 

180 - My pulse when you smile 

10 - The exact number of pickles you like on your sandwich 

11- The number of Star Wars movies I willingly watched for you 

1 - The seconds I am away from telling you I love you 

Your eyes leave the card, and you look up to see Will standing before you with his hands in his pockets. You drop the card and rise to your feet, pulling him into a deep kiss, his hands coming to wrap around your waist and lifting you off the floor against his chest. You sigh and press your forehead to his, “I love you too.” 

Taglist: @oldstuffnewstuff @yespolkadotkitty @heythere-mel @justanotherblonde23 @artsymaddie @anetteaneta @lunarthoughts @aellynera @lucifer- @houseofthirst @phoenixhalliwell @chicken-ona-stick @agirllovespancakes @jedi-mando @ghostwiththemostbitch @the-purity-pen @idreamofboobear @aerolanya @rebelliouscat @martellthemandalor @spacelatinoss @paintballkid711 @bisexual-space-slut @marvelprincess1994 @thirstworldproblemss @demoncrypt1066 @meshlamando 

[himbodjarin]

LUNAR; CH12

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

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

CHAPTER TWELVE: LET ME SHOW YOU

“So about that break…”

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

“So you’ve been here before?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’ve healed enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he needs more—needs her.

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

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

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

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

“It is,” he confirms.

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

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

“Happy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could’ve drowned.”

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

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

“Oi, watch the kid!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, am I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mesh’la, it’s safe.”

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

“Nobody is looking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Everybody already has their suspicions.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re making a mess.”

“I need to dry,” he retorts.

“Take it off,” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One down, too many more to go.

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

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

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

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

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

“Patience,” he instructs.

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” the vocoder crackles to life.

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s-”

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

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

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

“The ponds, huh?” Mando thinks aloud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The offer still stands.”

“Offer?” he asks.

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

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

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

“You like it here, don’t you?”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I--”

“Turn around.”

He tilts his head. “Why?”

“Need to get out of this stupid dress.”

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

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

“Keep it on.”

It’s almost an order. Almost.

“It’s hers,” she spits.

Oh. That makes sense.

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

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

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

“You’re wrong.”

“What?”

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

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

“About what?”

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

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

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

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

“Your Creed,” she whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mando…” she exhales.

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

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

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

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

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

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

“Take it off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t.”

“You can, pretty girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Din chortles. “Should’ve joined me.”

“Next time.”

He’ll take her up on that.

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

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

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

“S’pretty.”

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

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

“Din.”

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

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

But not this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, that’ll do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit--”

“So beautiful.”

“--Din, please-”

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

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

“Do you like it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Din—you can’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She bites back, “Should listen to yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit, your face-”

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

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

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

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

“Din--”

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

“--Din, fuck. Din, Din, Din...”

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

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

“Din! Di-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Definitely.”

In, it is.

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

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

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

“Can you continue?”

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

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

He needs to see her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Girl gasps, “Okay. Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sweet girl, you really are sweet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Din, Din-fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll be awake before you.”

“But--”

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

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

How can she oppose that?

“Oh——okay.”

This is bliss.

This is his Manda, his paradise.

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

His Girl is all he needs.

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

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

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

“Hmm? For what?”

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

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

“We agreed to a cin vhetin, remember?”

“Yes, but-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

___________________

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

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

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

[representshinjuku]

Shout Out to the Revolution

(Bring it back to the street style)

[All]

This means war--some real beef

[Yotsutsuji] 

The warriors assemble, the fight begins--

Someone please stop this tragic fanfare

(Shout Out to the Revolution)

[Ichiro]

Shout Out to the Revolution

It’s the eve of revolution, we can’t stop

But I’ve got the skill to pivot at the drop of a pin

That’s right, who’s No.1? Ichiro, y’know

You amateur rappers get outta my way

Rebelling against the tyrants, our passage is open

I’m ready to deliver one helluva bashing (Boasting)

Make our living stalking these streets

You trash piss me off and I’ll beat you down with a verse

[Samatoki] 

Calamity’s coming for you (Worst Side)

This’s Samatoki-sama’s rock style

You can’t run from this Level 5 rhyme bullet

Rainin’ down, rainin’ down, rainin’ down now

When I push back my hair, you better get serious

Come at me, kid, it’s time for the shootout

You diss my friends, you’re gonna get beat

“Life is not fair.” That’s my creed

[Jakurai] 

The pendulum of chaos sways erratically

A severed graft, clogged with logic

Do away with contradictory slogans

Instead polish your words, your aesthetic senses

As if deciding your course with a coin toss

Seize your chance to aim for the throne

The enemy in the mirror clears the scales from your eyes

I am--but I know not what to think

[Ramuda]

A heart’s trap, making war with pleasure

Lollipops don’t show mercy

I control this line-up,

My human toy soldiers

Hooked on the thrill, how’s this destructive show?

Leaping up from the ruins,

Ramuda goes hop skip jump!

Let’s go! C’mon ladies!

I’m the cute and cruel revolution

(Shout Out to the Revolution)

[TDD]

We’ll destroy this dystopia

Through our disses we steal our gloria

We make our stand for ourselves alone

Insults fly from this Hypnosis Mic

Sticking with our aesthetics

We rewrite this entire chronicle

Our fates are linked; only one can survive

Raise the flag of revolution

Only the winners’ll live with honor and pride

The pure and the filthy, drink ‘em down and ignite

We dirty guys bring order to the chaos

Bring it back to the street style

[Ibuki]

You bastards brandishing your “justice”--

My crimson flames will burn you to ash

My spite’ll smother you, break all

I’m a def expert, a desperado

A real slayer crushes even the bystanders

You won’t get last words, I’ll thrash your soul

It’s my turn, GREN’s arrow’s gonna burn through you

Time to atone for your sins

[Seigen]

Watch out for my gun (Bang! Bang-Bang!)

Anything goes if you win (Ha! Ha-ha!)

It’s not in my style to get beat down

I shoot with no hesitation, I’m Dominator

You’re not just ‘cuz you’re righteous,

You’re just ‘cuz you’re strong

“Heroes” make me wanna puke (Boo!)

You goody-goody guys don’t know shit

Get in my way and you’re gonna get gone

[Jyobu]

What I crave is blood and gum syrup

Let me see the terror of war resound in your eyes

Tremble and shake, run for your life

What a disappointment--”Allow me to kill you now.”

Rampage with intent to kill in this battle

In the end it was knowledge that allowed humanity to evolve

The GENERAL makes his proposal

Relying on no one, I spread my sublime ideals

[Rindo]  

Everybody’s fooled by my persona

So simple, they bore me to tears

An inferior boot, a shoddy motto

Bonds? Playing ‘friends’? (My oh my…)

With a smirk I rule, strict and clever

I’ll remind you until you scream, I’m Sweeper-A

“This whole country will be mine.”

Burning bridges is what makes a revolution

[D4]

We’ll destroy this dystopia

Through our disses we steal our gloria

We make our stand for ourselves alone

Insults fly from this Hypnosis Mic

Sticking with our aesthetics

We rewrite this entire chronicle

Our fates are linked; only one can survive

Bring it back to the street style

[Yotsutsuji] 

The glimpse of the bright blue sky was brilliant

Amidst the chaos--I’d almost forgotten

I wanted to express that, so I scribbled it down

This verse traces my memories and touches on a taboo

The men who should’ve been bound by unbreakable bonds

Tear each other to pieces, lose themselves in the fog

The intrigue starts moving; bluster meets its grave--

I saw that sort of lucid dream upon the road to revolution

[TDD]

Now is the time to change

Fight on, no gain no pain

No one’s coming outta this unhurt; one way

This means war--some real beef

[D4]

Now is the time of rage

Run wild; only lonely

We can’t turn back, it’s too late

[All]

You wanna grovel in your grave? Rise to fame?

Bring it back to the street style

Dead Mics hit the pavement and scatter

But we’ve staked our pride on this battle

Stand on your own two feet and carve out the future

Wow oh oh…

[Yotsutsuji] Someone please stop this tragic fanfare

Wow oh oh…

[All] We don’t wanna part but it’s time for the finale

Shout Out to the Revolution

We’ll destroy this dystopia

Through our disses we steal our gloria

We make our stand for ourselves alone

Insults fly from this Hypnosis Mic

Sticking with our aesthetics

We rewrite this entire chronicle

Our fates are linked; only one can survive

Raise the flag of revolution

Only the winners’ll live with honor and pride

The pure and the filthy, drink ‘em down and ignite

We dirty guys bring order to the chaos

This means war--some real beef

Bring it back to the street style

Shout Out to the Revolution

[sadoeuphemist]

They had fitted together a wheeled cart for the old knight, large enough to carry him comfortably, but not so large that he would be rattled about when the wheels jostled over the stones. They had harnessed the cart to the knight’s horse, and though normally no knightly steed would deign to drag a load behind it like a mere beast of burden, Sir Percival’s horse was as grayed as he was, and so trotted along placidly as Sir Percival sat propped up in the back, his armor warmed by the sun.

“My final, and most glorious quest,” he proclaimed, staring ahead with clouded eyes. He could make out light and darkness, the shape of a tree, but not the leaves or branches on it. He was looking at the horizon, and at the blue expanse of sky. “You are most fortunate, my lad, to be witness to this, the final day of a long and illustrious life.”

"Yes, Sir,” his squire said. The squire was a lad of about fourteen, walking ahead and leading the horse by the bridle. He had been picked by lot to accompany Sir Percival to his death, and, much like the horse, had accepted his burden rather meekly. He had polished Sir Percival’s armor the night before, fitted it piece by piece onto the frail old body. Now he walked steadily, his shoulders slumped as if there was a harness weighting them down. He had been silent for much of the journey, but at Sir Percival’s words took the opportunity to speak: “If you don’t mind me asking, Sir, I’ve heard of your many deeds, the, uh, the d-dragons slain, the - the knights defeated, and so on, and this quest, Sir, I don’t know very much about it, and, um...”

“Yes, yes, the quest!” said Sir Percival, trying to sit upright in the cart and only succeeding in rocking it slightly. His horse snorted and shifted its weight. “It’s the only quest, really. Every warrior slain, every army defeated, every drop of blood spilled - all hollow striving in service of the single quest above all else.” He waved his hand, his armor creaking, and beckoned the boy closer. The squire dropped back to listen. “The Grail, m’lad! The Holy Grail! The chalice that caught the blood of our savior Jesus Christ! The only thing worth questing for in all the world!”

Sir Percival settled back in the cart, his breathing heavy, his white sideburns quivering. The squire hesitated, hovering over him, and let out a sigh of relief as Sir Percival seemed to relax again. The squire trotted forward, once again taking the horse’s bridle in his hand.

“I had my chance at it, you know,” Sir Percival said, after some time. “Back when I was young.”

“Sir?” the squire said.

“It was ... My goodness, how long ago was it by now?” Sir Percival shook his head. “At my age, one tends to lose track of time. Not just the now, you see, but all the things before it, all jumbled up together.” Even behind the cataracts his eyes were distant now, dreamy. “I had my chance at it, in any case, made it all the way into the Keeper’s castle. The Keeper of the Grail, you know. All full of wondrous things. This beautiful young maiden, fair and rosy-cheeked. All these beautiful young people. A lance, a lance that never stopped bleeding. A wound that never heals. A lance in your hand that cries for blood, the wound always as fresh as the day your lance first plunged into flesh, the red red reminder of every quest and every kill -”

His lips tremored wordlessly for a moment, and then Sir Percival shook his head. “I had to ask the Question, you see. And I had been taught back then to not ask questions. And so I missed my chance.”

“Sir?” the squire said hesitantly. “The - the question?”

“The Question!” said Sir Percival, his spirits suddenly restored. “Yes, devilishly clever, that! Other, lesser quests would have you answer a riddle to succeed. But! If you’re given the riddle, the answer only follows from that, doesn’t it? It’s a simple matter of eliminating all the answers that don’t fit, and then you’re left with the only one that does. Childishly simple!

“But! If you’re given nothing, and expected to ask the Question first, what then? Oh-ho!” said Sir Percival, smiling broadly and revealing the few remaining teeth among his gums. “Now that’s a challenge few knights can ever conquer!”

“And ... what is the Question, Sir?”

“Well, it’s ... Obviously it’s, ah...” Sir Percival furrowed up his face, sinking back so that his head lay against the cart, squinting at the sun. “Give me a moment, m’lad, I’m not as young as I used to be. Just need a moment to think, that’s all.” Sir Percival yawned loudly, his eyelids fluttering. “Just go on, m’lad,” he mumbled, sinking into sleep. “Keep moving. Just a moment’s rest. I’m sure I’ll think of it. In time...”

...

“Sir?” came the squire’s voice, high and anxious. “Sir! I do believe we’re here!”

Sir Percival snapped awake, the blackness receding back so quickly that for a moment he was lost, and then could not remember what he had been dreaming. They had crossed the border of the kingdom quite a while back, and now a foreboding castle towered over them, its walls of black and battered stone. The ground around it had been torn up in times past by charging hooves and cannon fire, pockmarked with splintered lances and arrowheads and shards of rusting metal, and a ragged banner flew from atop the castle’s highest tower. But Sir Percival saw none of that.

In his ears rang only the sound of rushing water - a river, the sound of it babbling gaily against the stones, the coolness in the air, and Sir Percival squinted furiously, seeing the sparkling curve of the river, and what might have been the shape of a man crouched against it.

“Ahoy!” he yelled out gleefully. “Ahoy over there!”

It was indeed a man, weary-looking, gray-haired, though not nearly as decrepit as Sir Percival, sitting by the riverside with a fishing rod in hand, its thin line swaying with the current. “Ahoy yourself!” he yelled back, irritated. “We’re not at sea, you old coot!” Sir Percival continued looking on with a delighted grin.

The fisherman sighed. He was wearing royal robes, though worn and patched, and with a gesture that suggested he was used to being obeyed he motioned to the squire. “Well, get the old dunderhead over here, then! We might as well get this over with!”

The squire glanced at Sir Percival for confirmation, and then led the old horse forward gingerly, trying to navigate it so that Sir Percival would be next to the old fisherman without the horse splashing into the river, and then finally gave up and unharnessed the cart. The fisherman said nothing through all of this, staring moodily into the river, where not a single fish was troubling his line. Sir Percival was simply grinning, nodding on, gesturing impatiently, as the squire tried to brace him up from underneath his armpit, easing him out of the cart. “Um,” the squire said, glancing at the fisherman. “Um, if I could get a little help...?”

“Sat down here this morning,” the fisherman grumbled, rubbing at his thigh, and the squire could see that it was withered beneath the robes. “Nothing’s getting me up until it’s time to go back in. You’re on your own.”

It took a good deal of clanking and a great deal of effort on both their parts, but finally the squire settled Sir Percival beside the fisherman on the bank.

“Ah, there we go,” Sir Percival sighed, clapping his gauntleted hands down on his tassets. He was breathing heavily. “Been a while, hasn’t it, you old bastard?” he said jovially, elbowing the fisherman. “I tell you, Pelleham, bet you thought you were done with me back then, all those - those wonders in your castle dazzling me with their sorcerous charms -”

“That was my father,” the fisherman said impatiently. “And he’s up there in the castle.” He glanced at the highest tower, its face of scarred stone. “Doesn’t even get out of bed these days. Just lies there, day in, day out, wasting away. I’m Pelles, you remember? Pelles. Was barely even a man, first time you came.”

“Oh.” Sir Percival’s face folded up in wrinkles, his eyes small, his mouth open in a small black semicircle of bewilderment as he leaned in uncomfortably close, trying to make out Pelles’ profile. “Are you - are you sure you’re not - ? You sound just like him, as if - as if it hadn’t been a day - No, no, of course you’re not...” Sir Percival shook his head, slumping back on the riverbank, looking out dazedly at the currents rushing on. “It’s been years, of course. Decades. He was old when I first came here.” He looked hopefully at Pelles. “I don’t suppose I could see him...?”

“Just told you,” the fisherman snapped. “He’s gravely ill. Definitely not taking any visitors.”

“Ah. Of course.” Sir Percival looked down at his lap, folding his hands together.

“And you,” said Pelles. “What are you doing still gallivanting around at your age?” He ran a scornful eye across Sir Percival, the polished armor hanging on his withered frame. “Let me guess, yet another quest. A final quest. For you to perish in pursuit of some noble goal.”

“Yes, yes, exactly,” said Sir Percival, but all the energy had gone out of him. He was slouching in his rigid armor, the edge of his gorget cutting into his chin, though he seemed to barely notice. “We were ...” He smiled toothlessly, his voice gentle. “It sounded so glorious, really, when I proposed it to the King. The one quest I’d never fulfilled. It’s the only thing, isn’t it? The Grail? The only thing that matters in the world...”

“You knights and your damned quests,” the fisherman muttered. He bobbed the pole in his hand, letting the line waver. “What’s it accomplish in the end, hm?” He painfully extended his legs from beneath his robes, rubbed at his bare feet and let them soak in the water. “I spend my days fishing now.” He tugged at his line disgruntledly. “It’s about as productive.”

“No, no,” said Sir Percival dreamily. “You weren’t there for the old days, or perhaps you were still too young, then. Riding across the countryside, around every corner another quest awaiting us. An evil knight, a young damsel in distress...”

The man snorted. “You save a damsel, and then she’s safe to be kidnapped away again. You kill a man, and then you got to kill all his compatriots. When’s it end, eh, Percival? When’s it fucking end?” 

“Well. of course it’s the...” Sir Percival shook his head. “Of course that’s the point of striving, it’s the nobility of the struggle...”

“You conquer a castle, and always there’s a new one just beyond your borders,” the fisherman insisted, jabbing a bony finger. “You do what one man can, and your king sits up in his castle playing his games, and the world bangs on all around you. And in the end it’s just the Grail, the Grail, the Grail, the one thing you’ve never been able to attain.”

“I...” Sir Percival ran a gauntleted hand across his face, shuddering involuntarily from the touch of metal. “I’ve done everything I could, certainly, but ... It’s the youth, of course!” he said, turning stiffly to his squire, his face suddenly beatific. “We do what we can. We make the world as good as we can. And then it’s our - it’s the children, of course, who grow up and keep the quest alive...”

Pelles barely glanced up at the boy, snorting. “I’m my father’s son. As are you. And the old wars, and the new ones, they’re all the same butchery. We’ve both been around far longer than we should. Seen the change of ages. And it’s gotten worse, if anything. All the old atrocities, without even the idealism to temper ‘em.

“Boy!” he said, and snapped his fingers at the squire. “Look around you. Behold my kingdom, in all its tattered glory. What do you think of it?”

The squire stood awkwardly, knees locked, flushed with the sudden attention. “Oh! Uh, I don’t -” He cast his eyes around the scarred landscape littered with the remnants of battle, the shrapnel gouged into the soil. Riddles are simple, Sir Percival had said, eliminate all answers that don’t fit, but in his anxious state no single answer was winnowed from the chaff. “I - I don’t really see anything remarkable about it, Sir...?”

“Y’see!” said Pelles, a nasty grin on his face. “It’s the world we’ve made for ‘em. He’s too young to know any different.”

“No, no, no, no,” Sir Percival said, struggling to shift himself in his armor. “Listen to me, m’lad. If I’ve taught you anything let me teach you this. Despite all the world, despite every brutality in it, in the end we can still find salvation! The Grail -!”

“The Grail!” Pelles shrieked. “Men warring for the Grail, slaughtering one another for the Grail, throwing their lives away in an endless fruitless struggle just for the hopes of finally getting heir hands on the damned Grail -!”

“No!” Sir Percival boomed, and pushed himself upward, the metal joints of his armor locking into place, and for a moment he was standing gloriously on his own two feet again, a shining monument to knighthood as they both stared at him in wonder. “It’s the only quest worth doing,” he proclaimed, his words coming out in a rush, “I swear to you this. We must believe in a redemption through blood. In the promise of salvation -” and then his knees were giving way, the ground rushing up like a great black mountain, and he toppled forward in a violent clash of steel.

“Sir Percival!” the squire screamed, and rushed to him, struggling to turn him over on his back. “Help! Help me!’ he yelled to Pelles.

“I told you!” Pelles yelled back. “I’ve sat down and there’s no getting me up again without a retinue of attendants!” He was dragging himself up the bank regardless, his fishing pole abandoned, as the squire managed to roll Sir Percival over, hovering anxiously his ashen face.

“Heavy,” Sir Percival said, struggling to lift an arm. It might as well have been an anvil. “It’s never - it’s never weighed a thing before, the armor, never noticed I was wearing it -”

“You fool,” hissed Pelles, crawling laboriously to lean over him. “You stupid, stubborn old fool.”

“Oh,” said Sir Percival, a slow smile drifting across his face. “Pelleham. My dear Pelleham. There you are.” His head drifted languidly in Pelles’ direction. “There’s something I was going to ask you, but I can’t at the moment remember what it is.”

“It’ll be all right, Sir,” his squire said urgently, clutching his gauntleted hand. “You just - There’s the castle, and you can -”

“Lad,” said Sir Percival, turning his head back to face the sky. “Lad. Lad. What’s your - ? Your name, it’s something like that, Lad, it’s -”

“Galahad, Sir,” he said, stifling back a sob.

“Of course. Yes. Galahad.” He was seeing brightness. He was seeing light. “My good and faithful squire. Your first quest. And how well you have performed. It’s there, the Grail, right within your reach...”

Sir Percival’s eyes were wide and sightless, and his mouth hung open soundlessly. Galahad fumbled with the armor, unbuckling the straps that he had practiced, struggling to reach the heart beneath the metal chestplate. He shoved the steel aside, pressing an ear to Sir Percival’s hairy and sunken chest. After a few moments he sunk back, his face blank. “He’s dead.”

Pelles was sprawled out on the ground, grimacing in pain, and pushed himself up to watch his fishing rod floating away in the river. Sir Percival’s old nag trotted over, looking down at the body of its master, and gazed off distracted again at some shrubbery in the distance.

“Doddering old idiot,” Pelles muttered. The black castle cast a shadow into the sky, a monolith looking down on them. “At least you’ve got the cart if you want to drag him all the way back. We could bury him here, if you like,” he added, after a moment’s contemplation. “He’s got enough of a history with this place. I don’t think he’d be unhappy with that.”

He looked up, waiting for the squire’s response, and saw that Galahad was busy unbuckling Sir Percival’s belt, hoisting up the scabbard that hung on it. Around the boy’s waist the sword dragged against the ground, so he looped it across his chest instead, the belt going over one shoulder.

“What’re you going to do with that?” Pelles said.

Galahad awkwardly drew the sword from its scabbard, balancing the naked blade with both hands as if he had never held a sword before, pointing its tip towards Pelles, and then let it lower to the ground. “I want an answer,” Galahad said.

Pelles sighed, massaging his aching thigh, his leg stretched out upon the damp soil. “Go on, then.”

“The Grail,” said Galahad, his voice firm. “What’s the damn thing even good for?”

“Ah!” said King Pelles, and despite himself a laughter surged up from his chest, bubbling out inexplicably. Far downstream, his pole was a tiny splintered twig among the rocks, and the fish leapt sparkling through the river, fearless and free. “There you go! Now that’s the Question, isn’t it!”

[marvelfansince08love]

Dream Girl

Word Count: 2546

Pairing: Oceans 8 Tammy x Fem!Reader 

Prompts: 8 “You think I’m beautiful?” and 39 “ “Go fuck yourself.” “How about you fuck me yourself, you coward?!” 

Warning: Happy ending, soft pining. 

A/N: For anon, I hope you enjoy love! We do love some Tammy content x

Tags: @waitingfortheendtocome @natasha-danvers @saucy-sapphic @witchxaf​ @j-does-life​ @coconutlipss​ 

Not my gif! This is Tammy’s face to R throughout this mess lmao x

Prompts 8, 39

“Guys I want to introduce you to an old friend of ours. This is Y/N.” Debbie gestures towards you as you lean confidently against the door frame of the front entrance to Lou’s warehouse apartment. You lift a hand in greeting chewing slowly on a piece of gum, you wink at the brunette stranger who you’ve seen on the big screens before who giggles in return. You can practically feel Debbie’s eye roll as Lou chuckles quietly amused by your confident nature. 

“Nice to meet you all.” You address the women who are new to the group, before turning your attention to the woman who’s brown eyes stare hard at your form. “Tammy, always a pleasure.” You smirk cheekily at the blonde woman who scoffs irritably as she crosses her arms across her chest. Her brown eyes leave your own and turn accusingly to your childhood friend. 

“Really? Lizzie wasn’t available to help.” She complains, while the other women look on in confusion at Tammy’s unusual cold demeanour. 

“Hey! I am far better than Lizzie fucking Carpenter, thank you very much.” You retaliate, moving away from the door frame and into the living space. You hear Lou mutter under her breath ‘here we go’ before slipping away from the tense atmosphere, you notice the others follow suit apart from one who seems barely over the age of 23. The young girl seems to settle more into the sofa, slowly eating her M&M’s her eyes moving back and forth as if witnessing a tennis match. 

‘Probably an accurate description’ You think amusingly, as you remember the previous arguments you’ve had with the blonde mother. 

“Guys please, can we just get along for one job. I swear I feel like I’m 21 again whenever you two are in a room together.” Debbie expressed, tiredly. The con artist has always been the mediator of many spats between you and Tammy since you could remember. 

If you were being honest with yourself, you don’t really know how this quarrel between you started. In fact, you and Tammy used to be best friends growing up. ‘Partners in crime’ your mothers had said, never going a day without talking or seeing one another. After the Ocean family had moved into the area, you became the warrior three rather quickly with Danny being a surrogate older brother to you both. That all seemed to change after college, you became more cocky with your grafting skills and wanted to make more money elsewhere and Debbie being the true Ocean she is couldn’t pass up the opportunity of the thrill. Tammy on the other hand grew tired of being constantly on the move and never settling down, once her boyfriend now husband came into the picture you drifted further apart. Small jabs at one another turned into full blown arguments where you wouldn’t talk for days until all communication stopped all together.

 You have only seen Tammy once since that last argument that ended any piece of friendship left, her wedding day. To this day you never understood that painful feeling in your chest as you watched your childhood best friend walk down the aisle into those man's arms or how she looked at you from the head of the table as you danced with your date for the evening. You still don’t know why you invited her along instead of taking up Debbie and Lou’s offer of going as a ‘threesome’ which Tammy scolded you all for. Now you stand again in front of her, back to where you left off, arguing. 

“I’m not the one who’s ego is so big, it fills up the entire building,” Tammy mutters in defence, making you laugh out loud. 

“Please if your ignorance was anything to go by, I’m sure it would surpass my ego, Dream girl.” You respond back, watching as something unrecognisable passes across her face at the old nickname. You internally scold yourself at the use of the endearment. She takes a deep breath before bringing her hand forward towards you, making you raise an eyebrow in question. 

“Truce? For the sake of the job.” She begrudgingly offers, keeping her hand out. You look at the well manicured hand and back up to her face before taking her hand into your own and squeezing it gently, you try to ignore the electricity that jolts through you at the feeling of having her warm hand against your skin again. You notice her squirm slightly and clear her throat before abruptly removing her hand from yours, adjusting her knee length skirt. 

“Right well that settles it, I think we can move forward and get this plan going. Debs I have a few documents for you to look at.” She informs, her eyes glued to Debbie’s form as she steps away from your space. Clearly unaffected by the wave of electricity you’ve just experienced. 

“Why would you care if you felt it anyway.” You scold yourself, dismissing the thought before going over to the couch and settling in ready for Debbie and Lou to give you the rundown on their latest Job as you take the offered M&M from the younger woman. Unaware of the torn brown eyes that is also questioning the same electricity feeling from across the way. 

***

“You know I used to think Fencing was boring but you know what… I was right.” You tease, as you sit next to Tammy in the white van waiting for one of her contacts to meet her with the equipment. You laugh at the glare that she throws you, knowing there’s no real bite behind it. 

“I’m kidding Tam, I think it’s a very important job and brings in a great income for the family. What does your husband think of you working again and bringing in more money than him?” You continue, not being able to help yourself. Her eyes stay glued to the front keeping an eye out for her guy, attempting to be unfazed by your jabbing. 

“He thinks I’m working an office job at Vogue if you must know which is perfectly well considering he doesn’t live with us anymore.” She murmurs, double checking her phone for the green light to move out of our hidden spot and to the moving truck full of stolen equipment. 

“Oh wow, Vogue huh? Moving up in the world of fashion there, Dream girl.” You mock, a teasing smile on your face to show her you mean nothing behind it and avoiding the sensitive topic of the husband talk. Her lips twitch slightly in gratitude before her brows furrow, her brown eyes locking on your own suddenly far more interested in you then her phone. 

“Why do you still call me that?” She questions, her voice suddenly vulnerable. Now it’s your turn to frown, confused by her question. 

“Call you what? Dream girl?” You shrug, unaware of the effect it still has on her. “I guess you’ve always been ‘dream girl’ to me, even if we aren’t friends like that anymore.” You confess, suddenly feeling very open to her in this small space. You watch the confliction flicker in her beautiful brown eyes waiting for her to respond. 

“We aren’t friends anymore?” She whispers sadly, her eyes full of sorrow. 

“Well I mean we haven’t exactly spoken to each other since your wedding day and even if we’ve had to interact like at my parents wedding anniversary party we just ended up bickering until we spent the rest of the day avoiding each other.” You mumble, feeling awkward and exposed with this new, honest topic of conversation. A soft hand lands on top of your closed fist that had formed unknowingly throughout this conversation making you relax from the tense position. 

“I never meant for us to grow apart the way we did Y/N. Things just seemed to happen so fast I never took a minute to consider your feelings or how we just stopped being each other's person.” She opens up, she smiles apologetically at you as unushered tears build in her eyes that are full of regret. You sigh in defeat and turn over your hand to hold onto hers and squeeze in reassurance and comfort. 

“Aww shucks, you going soft on me Tam Tam.” You joke halfheartedly, feeling uncomfortable with her choice of words knowing just how true they were. You see that perfectly arched brow rise knowing she’s caught your attempt at deflecting the subject. 

“Even when I was with him I still never stopped thinking about you, ya know. What were you doing? If you were happy? I guess I was just too stubborn to pick up the phone and apologise.” She says, regret laced within her voice. Making you shake your head in dismissal. 

“No Tam, if anyone was the stubborn idiot here, it was me. I missed out on so much of your life. Look at your two kids, they are already past your waist and soon will be off to college.” 

“You are so dramatic.” She laughs, shoving you lightly. She bites her bottom lip contemplating her next words. 

“You haven’t changed a bit, ya know. You're still that beautiful confident girl I remember.” A soft warm smile appears on your lips. 

“You think I’m beautiful.” 

“Oh  the confident part goes unheard but the beautiful she hears loud and clear.” She teases, laughing as you wiggle your eyebrows at her suggestively. Before you can continue her phone chimes indicating our packages have arrived breaking the weird spell we had created putting an end to our conversation.

You pull away from each and adjust in your seat,  an unsettling feeling settles  in your chest as Tammy pulls away from the alleyway and towards your drop off location. Comfortable silence fills the van leaving you both with your thoughts. 

 ***

“How could you be so reckless?! You were so closed to being caught, I swear one of these days you're going to end up in jail and I will only have one thing to say to you ‘I told you so’.” Tammy shouts, speeding towards you as you enter the living room with the rest of the crew. 

Tammy, Rose and NineBall had stayed behind for this job, their talents needed back at base while you and the rest of the gang carried out the job elsewhere. The heist was a success but your risky slip up towards the end of the job didn’t go unnoticed by the blonde who had stayed glued to NineBall’s side watching from the screens as you effortlessly pulled off your side of the job with the exception of your slight slip up. The others scatter away towards the back room, staying clear of Tammy’s rage which has only surfaced in the last two weeks of you arriving. You throw your hands up in defence. 

“Hey! I had it Tam okay. Yes it was risky but I did it. You think you can do a better job please, be my guest.” You murmur, too tired to argue loudly with her. 

“Go fuck yourself, Y/N!” She spats, arms crossed in defiance.

“How about you fuck me yourself, you coward?!” You retaliate, smugly watching as her angry demeanour falters at your words. Silence fills the room, except from the light scratching on the wooden door leading to the back room indicating to the earwigs next door. You watch as her brown eyes turn dark with determination, the rest of her face stoic as she marches towards you with purpose. Before you could question her intentions, her usually delicate hands fist your shirt pulling you close as soft full lips clash hard with your own overwhelming senses. Once the initial shock is over you relax into the kiss and place the palms of your hands against her cheeks cupping her face. Before you could take it further she inches away keeping her forehead against your own as she catches her breath. “You were saying?” She whispers teasingly against your lips. 

“I um, yeah. Mind if we do that again, I don’t think I quite pinpointed the flavour of your lip balm. Was that min-” Her lips cover over your own once more stopping your rambling. 

Scuffling from behind Tammy causes you to stop your moment of bliss, as you both watch your friends stumble through the back door bickering quietly to one another. You clear your throat to make your presence known and watch as they freeze. Keeping an arm around Tammy’s waist you address the peeping toms and earwigs. 

“You guys got somewhere to be?” You mock, as Tam giggles quietly against your shoulder trying to hide her now red cheeks. 

“This is my apartment, you can’t kick me out.” Lou justifies as Debbie laughs grabbing her clothed arm and dragging her out of the room making sure the others follow. 

“It’s about time they figured it out and I don’t want to be here for the aftermath. It could still go either way.” She murmurs to Lou loud enough for you both to hear making you roll your eyes are your friends ‘told you so’ attitude. 

Once the group has left, you hear Tam sigh softly against your shoulder. “I think we have a lot to talk about.” She informs softly, a small content smile appearing on her face making you pull her even closer, placing a kiss to the top of her hairline. 

“Later. I just want to hold and kiss you a little longer.” You confess, holding onto her just a little tighter basking in the blissful moment. 

Finally

***

Later that evening as you both lay cuddled up in the guest double bed of Lou’s apartment, you whispered sweet hidden confessions to on another that haven’t been said out loud before. 

“I’ve been in love with you since I was sixteen Y/N. That night you picked me up from that awful date with Jefferson when he tried his luck with me. You were so angry with him and I asked if I could stay at yours so my parents wouldn’t see the state of me.. you just held me all night no bombarded questions. I watched you sleep with your arm wrapped around me, even in your sleep you were still trying to protect me.” She stops talking for a moment and looks into your eyes, holding your gaze . “I just remember thinking ‘no one is ever going to match up to my expectations because you outdone them all without realising’ but I knew that our friendship meant more and I didn’t want to ruin it.” She pauses, as she twirls your necklace that lays on your bare chest smiling softly realising it’s the one she bought you at college graduation. “You still kept this?” she whispers, her breath softly touching your neck making you shiver. You place your hand over hers stopping her movements.

“Tam, even though we lost sight of our friendship I still always thought of you. Everything I did or saw reminded me of you and how stunningly beautiful you are. I can’t seem to quit you, Dream girl. And now that I have you properly I don’t ever wanna stop.” You vow, knowing that every word spoken speaks the truth. Because you have always known that you and Tammy were more than just friends, you were just too stubborn to allow those thoughts to come to light. But now that you have her close you don't ever want to let her go. 

[su-univeralai]

Okay here it is... Kissing prompt #7 for... I think you gotta do Kataang, but you could try it for Taang or any of the ships. I'm already ded.

7. French kisses where they trace every tooth with their tongues as though trying to memorize them.

hehehe ok look out for some nonsense. It starts nice, but goes downhill real quick. For anyone who thinks this is legit Kataang, it is not. So, if you’re a Kataang fan, probably shouldn’t read this ficlet. Oops, made it Taang at the end 😅

Katara joins Aang on the balcony away from all their friends. Now that the war is over, she can finally wrap her brain around her confusing feelings for the young Avatar. 

The pair smile at each other before embracing. They both smile into the hug, grateful to have both made it through the final battle. Katara sheepishly pulls away with a blush on her face and looks towards the sunset building up the courage to kiss him. 

She turns her face towards the airbender with love clearly in her eyes. Aang steps closer to her so their faces are just a few inches from the other. She leans into the kiss, cupping his jaw to hold him close. 

Aang smiles into the kiss, happy that Katara is returning his affections. He feels her slide her tongue over his bottom lip, asking for permission to explore his food hole mouth. This being his first makeout, Aang enjoys the feeling of her lips on his. 

He feels the swipe of her tongue run along his bottom lip again and still doesn’t understand what she wants. He squeaks in surprise as her tongue penetrates his puckered lips to explore the cave that is his mouth.

The airbender moans as her tongue glides across every surface of his mouth that she can reach. His eyes open in shock when her surprisingly long tongue traces his back molars. 

He gazes at Katara’s closed eyes as he feels the strange sensation of her tongue following the arch of his teeth, running along where his teeth and gums met. Is this what kisses are supposed to be like? He shrugged and closed his eyes and tried to enjoy the strange kiss.

Neither noticed or heard the soft snickers from the rest of the gaang watching them through the open door. 

Zuko jokingly puckers his lips toward the group and says in his best Aang voice, “mmm, Yeah, Katara, you lick them teeth up.” Everyone snickers, even Sokka, who tries to hold it in.

“Hey! That’s my baby sister you're talking about...” he pauses before raising his voice an octave higher, “Oh, Aang sweetie, it looks like you’ve got a cavity in there, let me take another lick.”

Iroh releases an uncharacteristic snort from that comment. The old man wipes away his tears before trying to say something about young love, but decides against it when he sees Aang’s eye practically pop out of the sockets from another one of Katara’s moves. 

Suki even attempts a joke, “Come here baby,” she says in an attempted low husky voice, “I need your tongue to floss in the very back... oh yeah right there, I’ve been trying to get that out from my teeth for ages.”

Toph cackles as she rolls around on the floor. She tries to catch her breath before adding her own comment, “Oh Katara, feed me like the baby bird I am!” She opens her mouth like a baby bird would waiting for food to be placed in her mouth. 

Sokka dangles a piece of meat above Toph’s mouth, “Is this what you’re looking for, baby?” he squeaks in his incredibly bad Katara impression.

Everyone stops laughing as Katara marches up to the group with a glare on her face. Obviously, the two lovebirds had heard their friends making fun of them.

“Are you two making fun of us?” Katara asks, hands on her hips and Aang hiding behind her.

“You call that a kiss, Katara? Seriously little sister, I thought you’d have more skills than that being that I’m a kissing god.” Sokka teases, “Right, Suki?” he asks looking for affirmation.

The Kyoshi Warrior blushes at the thought of their most recent steamy kiss. Question answered.

Katara’s cheeks flush in embarrassment and anger. “I’m a good kisser!” She yells. She whips around to the mighty Avatar, “I’m a good kisser! You liked the kiss we just shared, right?”

The airbender averts his eyes to the ground and twiddles his fingers, “I mean.... that was my first real kiss, so I can’t really say that it was good or not...” he ends lamely.

Toph picks herself off the ground and marches up to Aang, “Well I guess there’s only one way to find out.” 

The earthbender grabs the monk’s robes and connects her lips to his. They’re surprisingly soft for someone who is such a rough bender. He instantly relaxes into the kiss and pulls her closer. Quite enjoyable.

The rest of the gaang’s mouths hang open as the youngest members of the group kiss in front of them. Katara doesn’t even protest as she watches them pull each other closer.

Toph pulls away and says, “There. Now you’ve kissed two girls. Hope that helps you figure out what you like.” She steps away with the faintest tint of pink on her cheeks, “Now, let’s eat!” she requests trying to take the focus off the mindblowing kiss.

[osakaso5]

IDOLiSH7 5th Anniversary Special Story: Opening Doors...

Chapter 5: A Burning Passion

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 6

Tsumugi's Thoughts: Several days later...

Tsumugi's Thoughts: They began filming for Shining Rainbow Kitchen!

- - - -

Whoosh...

Tenn Kujo: Ah... I can see Manami Bay.

Iori Izumi: That must be their famous morning market.

Haruka Isumi: There's so many people, even though it's early morning.

Yamato Nikaido: .........

Iori Izumi: Hey, Nikaido-san.

Yamato Nikaido: ...Hmm?

Iori Izumi: Stop looking like you're about to fall asleep. You're the one who wanted to come here.

Yamato Nikaido: Yeah...

Haruka Isumi: You look like a zombie... Are you bad with mornings or something?

Iori Izumi: He's never been much of an early riser, but it seems he also stayed up late last night...

Tenn Kujo: For work?

Iori Izumi: No. He was gaming with Yotsuba-san.

Tenn Kujo: Pathetic.

Tenn Kujo: Wake up, Yamato Nikaido. You're supposed to be a professional.

Yamato Nikaido: It'll be fine. My eyes will pop right open once the cameras start rolling...

Tenn Kujo: That work ethic is exactly why Gaku took the Crescent Wolves role from you.

Yamato Nikaido: ........

Haruka Isumi: Ah, he's finally awake.

Haruka Isumi: Did you wanna be in Crescent Wolves? I guess you do kinda look like Shizuo Chiba.

Iori Izumi: I didn't expect you to care about it so much.

Yamato Nikaido: Yeah... Ugh... I dunno why, but I just broke out in a cold sweat for some reason.

Tenn Kujo: Hehe. Not feeling sleepy anymore?

Yamato Nikaido: Don't get me wrong here. I'm not gonna pretend like we could ever be rivals. I mean, this is Yaotome we're talking about.

Iori Izumi: What do you mean? You could beat him just fine, Leader.

Tenn Kujo: Gaku won't lose that easily.

Haruka Isumi: ...Are you guys competing for the role now?

Iori Izumi: Not now, but we will eventually.

Tenn Kujo: I'm sure we'll have our showdown someday.

Yamato Nikaido: No, we won't. Let's go eat some lobster already. 

- - - - 

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Tamaki Yotsuba: Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Toma Inumaru: Cock-a-doodly-doo!

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Cluck cluck!

Mitsuki Izumi: That's a lot of chickens! What's up, chickens!?

Tamaki Yotsuba: Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Toma Inumaru: Cock-a-doodly-doo!

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Cluck cluck!

Mitsuki Izumi: This is Dearest Poultry Farm, the home of Dearest Eggs!

Mitsuki Izumi: They play their chickens music to make them lay good eggs!

Tamaki Yotsuba: Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Toma Inumaru: Cock-a-doodly-doo!

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Cluck cluck!

Mitsuki Izumi: We're gonna sing them idol songs so they can lay good eggs!

Tamaki Yotsuba: Co... Huh!? Like chickens?

Mitsuki Izumi: Yep.

Tamaki Yotsuba: Right now!?

Mitsuki Izumi: You're the one who started clucking! Sing a MEZZO" song. Sogo's watching.

Tamaki Yotsuba: Okay. So-chan, I'm gonna do my best so these chickens lay good eggs!

Toma Inumaru: Uh, do I gotta sing too?

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: What about me?

Mitsuki Izumi: Of course! Ah, or will TRIGGER's manager get mad?

Mitsuki Izumi: This might get cut, but you might as well do a medley! Tamaki, you're first..!

Tamaki Yotsuba: Cock-a-doodle-doo ♪ Cock-a-doodle-doo ♪ Cock-a-doodle-doo ♪

Toma Inumaru: Cock-a-doodly-doo ♪ Cock-a-doodly-doo ♪

Ryunosuke Tsunashi: Cluck cluck ♪ Cluck cluck ♪ Cluck cluck ♪ 

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Mitsuki Izumi: There! Thanks a lot!

- - - -

Momo: Wow! This is really stylish, for a rice shop! Says here the name is Iketeru Rice Mill!

Nagi Rokuya: OH! Japanese modernity! I makes me want to cosplay!

Sogo Osaka: Apparently the owner of this place is popular with women because he's really handsome.

Torao Mido: I bet I'm hotter, though.

Rice Mill Owner: Welcome.

Nagi Rokuya: .......!

Torao Mido: Wha..!?

Sogo Osaka: Huh..!?

Momo: Whoa!!! What a hunk..! I didn't think it was gonna be a foreign guy!

Rice Mill Owner: Haha. I love Japanese food, so I moved here. Do take a look around.

Momo: Not to mention he's a real gentleman~! Hmm...!? What's wrong, you guys!?

Nagi Rokuya: ...Oh my god...

Sogo Osaka: He looks exactly like Nagi-kun's brother...

Torao Mido: Are you sure you're not related to this dude..?

Rice Mill Owner: Haha. I don't think there's that many guys with a face as good as mine.

Momo: Whoa..! Even his vibes are kinda handsome!

Rice Mill Owner: You're here for the Radiant 16-Grain, right? You gonna cook it right away?

Torao Mido: It took him like a second to get casual with us...

Sogo Osaka: He must not be one for customer service...

Nagi Rokuya: OH... My brother is more lovely. He lacks confidence yet acts haughty, which is a part of his charm.

Momo: But I'm weak to hot guys...

Nagi Rokuya: No, no, no! Think of how sad Mister Yuki will be!

Rice Mill Owner: I don't like seeing people frown. Let's all be happy, instead.

Rice Mill Owner: With my shop's grains ☆

Torao Mido: He winked at us.

Sogo Osaka: He seems like a good businessman.

Nagi Rokuya: In any case... Please, let me take a picture of you.

Rice Mill Owner: OK. Do you wanna be in it too, or is it just gonna be me?

Momo: He's super good at handling customers...

Sogo Osaka: Mido-san, you said you were more handsome than him. Go on, defeat him.

Torao Mido: No, to tell you the truth, I'm not really all that assertive...

Rice Mill Owner: Well, what'll it be? Should I start polishing the rice? 

- - - -

Gaku Yaotome: This is the General's Farm, where they grow the General's Edamame!

Riku Nanase: We're already here! The trip felt so short!

Minami Natsume: The video collection Yuki-san showed us of Momo-san was quite impressive.

Riku Nanase: The pictures you showed us of Mido-san doing cool poses were impressive too, Natsume-san!

Gaku Yaotome: Your collection of Izumi Junior morning pics was really something too, Nanase!

Yuki: You had a nice collection of dinner pictures featuring Ryunosuke-kun yourself, Gaku-kun.

Riku Nanase: It was so much fun! I'm glad we had no trouble along the way!

Gaku Yaotome: Right. Our lunch boxes were delicious, too.

Minami Natsume: Not to mention the climate is nice here.

Yuki: Yeah. It's so warm.

Gaku Yaotome: And we've got someone repping every one of our nations.

Yuki: I didn't know we were nations.

Gaku Yaotome: Why don't we have a competition to see who can defend their group's honor the best?

Riku Nanase: A competition?

Minami Natsume: Oh dear... I thought we were supposed to be Team Peace.

Yuki: TRIGGER's a warrior nation.

Gaku Yaotome: Why don't we see who can find the biggest edamame?

Riku Nanase: Fine by me! What does the winner get?

Gaku Yaotome: You want a prize? Well... Any ideas?

Yuki: Let's all wager whatever we can find inside our pockets.

Gaku Yaotome: Pockets?

Riku Nanase: I've got, um... Some chocolate!

Gaku Yaotome: I've got my phone.

Minami Natsume: I have a handkerchief.

Yuki: I've got a piece of gum. Alright, so whoever wins gets all of these things.

Gaku Yaotome: Wait a minute!

Riku Nanase: Yay! I'll get a new phone and a handkerchief!

Yuki: You could've mentioned the gum, too.

Minami Natsume: If I win, I'll show you those pictures of Tsunashi-san again on our way back.

Yuki & Riku: Yay!

Gaku Yaotome: Yay! ...Wait, I'm not letting you have my phone! It's got a bunch of my personal info!

Minami Natsume: Oh my. I just so happen to love personal information.

Yuki: So do I.

Gaku Yaotome: Hey!

Riku Nanase: Ready, get set, go!

Gaku Yaotome: Nanase..!

To be continued...

[vikingsagine]

A Shield-Maiden’s Wrath - Bjorn x Reader - Part Two

Summary - After finding out Bjorn has cheated on you, the night that all the Ragnarsson’s were nervous about finally arrives. Time for your sweet revenge....

Warnings: SWEARING! ANGRY AND PREGNANT WIFE!! VIOLENCE! REVENGEEEE is a  bitch. Or is that Karma? Either way, it’s a bitch.

I did enjoy writing this, it was fun. Part One and Part Three if you want to read it. This is basically just something fluffy in a weird way. Hopefully, satisfying and justifying to the ex wives of Bjorn Ironside and just some brotherly love.

BONUS REACTIONS AT THE END!!

@soleil-dor​ @abonelessgod​ @sadbutatleastsassy​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @ivarthebloodyking​

Hvitserk is nervous. They were all nervous. 

He scanned the herd of people, tearing away at the piece of chicken in hopes to ease the rush of anxiety. If Bjorn knew he flapped his gums, breaking the promise he made, Hvitserk was sure his oldest brother would not be afraid to ‘settle’ things. Then of course, he could already imagine that you would stick up, biting into Bjorn to argue it wasn’t Hvitserk’s fault. Which would cause more strife, barking back from one another and ultimately, he would be to blame. 

Ubbe is more cautious.

He kept his light blue orbs from flickering between the oak wooden doors then to Bjorn, sitting innocently. Unaware of his targeted predicament. All four of them swore not to warn Bjorn of your knowledge because a, they would all remain out of their soon to be hurricane of a temper and b, none wanted to face yours or Bjorn’s wrath. Instead, Ubbe stood closely next to his older brother, not even thinking about drinking or eating. Too agitated and paranoid. 

“What is wrong brother?” Bjorn broke his chain of thoughts and caught him off guard. Quickly recovering from his momentary surprise, Ubbe forced a crooked smile to his lips. More so reassuring himself that everything is going to be fine. “You seem tense, relax. Drink. Eat.” 

“I’m not hungry.” Too quickly he answered, too fast. Bjorn stared at him skeptical as to why he seemed so stiff. Watching out for something. Then it dawned upon him.

“Oh I see.” This caused red flags to go off in his mind, the gears going crazy. Zooming and whirling. “You are looking for someone, aren’t you?” Ubbe clenched his jaw and squeezed the cup in hand. Clenched it so hard, he could feel it dent under the pressure. “That blonde girl, Margrethe. It is alright, I won’t tell your Mother.” He instantly relaxed in his seat and let out a skittish chuckle, quickly turning to the cup of mead for calm. 

“You could say that.”

Sigurd decided to remain ignorant. 

Instead indulged himself in his people, strumming away at the strings of his ute and filled the air of a joyous melody. He laughed and sang, finding pleasure in the company of friends and strangers. All seemingly serene, almost perfect. Yet, he could not ignore the arc of his stomach. Almost sickly as if he ate something bad or drank too much. Nauseous and sick. He knew deep down, even with hopes of peaceful tranquility for the rest of the night, it will soon be thrown to the air. Destroyed and burned. So, Sigurd kept dancing, grasping the last few moments of this bliss. 

Ivar is on edge.

He is not afraid, looking forward to the oncoming festivities that night. He could recall your last controversy. Bjorn verbally abused you over your pregnant state and how you shouldn’t be fighting or using a weapon however, your free-spirited morals did not take it so well. One thing led to another, things were thrown around by your hand. His brother’s voice boomed so loud, he was sure other town’s could hear. Which led to Bjorn’s departure and eventually, Ivar found him screwing one of the servants. Beautiful but rather, daft. Anyone stupid enough to even consider having sex with his older brother; a married man and soon-to-be Father, has a death wish. 

“Brother, are you sure-” 

“Ubbe, stop.” Bjorn cut him off, pressing the woman close to his side. He knew it was very dangerous to be playing around with the chance of his wife walking into those very doors. Of course he knew it would cause his possible death but something about the thought was exciting. “It is far too late, Y/N will not come. Hmm?” The great warrior leaned over his knees and nudged his little brother. 

“Sure.” Ubbe pressed his lips together and stood up. He knew he should’ve said something, hinted at least a little, warned Bjorn or even motioned that you knew. But there was the side that secretly wanted this, curse it be. 

My brother, I hope you are prepared, the Gods will not be on your side tonight nor will I. By the Gods, you brought this upon yourself.

~~~

Two shields of wood smashed wide, slamming against the walls and shook the hall like thunder had struck. Young men and women alike froze in their happy state and awed with wide, scared spectacles. Like a nightmare come to life, they stared. 

You stood, a raging and fuming beast. In all the glory of your shield and sword and arrows and bow. So dangerously true. Coated in leather wrapped around breasts and a bulging stomach; never a pregnant woman seen so chilling. To cause dread. Your eyes glowed vibrantly, black ink surrounded the skin and smeared the corners of your eyes. Paint ready for war. Hair is so beautiful, thick and heavy. Twisted in mending lace. A true shield-maiden ready to demolish their enemy. 

The hall in complete silence. 

You pulled an arrow back and pointed the tip of it towards your target, your prey, your next victim. Another face to tear into. 

“You.” Like a deep rumble of thunder, the sound of your voice bounced from the walls, calm and steady. But there were those that could hear the hot rage, pure and unfortunately real. “And you.” With a darting eye, you glared and aimed the weapon towards the slave girl who was pushed aside and shaking in fear. 

One, two, three steps. 

Bjorn did not budge, holding your gaze with as much passion. His pride and ego and name too much to set aside for the benefit of his wife. Instead he sat and analysed every move of your body, predator eyeing predator. Everyone else disappeared. He could do the obvious and apologize for his doings, beg for forgiveness, admit his wrong and fight for your favor. But, where would be the fun in that? 

“My love I have been waiting for you.” Bjorn smirked and poured a cup of mead to hand it over. “Drink.” The cup was knocked out of his grasp as you shot the first winged spear.

 ‘How dare he.’ You thought. Just the sight of your beloved husband made every cell in your body boil. And then to see the whore he so desperately fucked because of his lack of fulfillment, for his own pleasure. The next arrow landed right next to his head, almost slicing his pale flesh. 

“I see you found out.” Bjorn gripped the arrow planted, threw it to the ground and huffed. “So who told you? Ubbe? Sigurd? Hvitserk? Ivar?” He motioned towards his brother’s; who were now out of the way just like the rest of the people. They all backed up, leaning against the walls to be out of both of your range. Ivar sat in the perfect position, out of the way yet close enough to adore the sight. 

“Do not bring them into this.” You hissed and watched as he took slow steps down the few rows of stairs. “This is your fault. You. Bjorn Ironside. My loyal husband.” Words like venom, another arrow whirled through the air and stopped him in his tracks. 

“Please, we can talk about this.” Another arrow.

“Calm down.” Another.

“You have to understand that-” Arrow.

Bjorn lost all patience now, growling out of annoyance and bored into your being. Pregnant. Strong. And very, furious. Without warning you drew your sword out and dove it straight for his head, in hopes to decapitate that handsomely deviled face. “You cheated on me!” Another swing. “You filthy pig.” Stab. “You animal.” Following him up the steps, you kicked the table to knock him over. 

“I love you.” Bjorn muttered and ducked, dodging the oncoming fly of cutlery and food. Desperately searching for a shield. 

“You love me? You love me so much that you shove your cock into the cunt of a fucking whore!” Finally reaching his axe, he met your sword that buzzed with your fire. He could feel the emotion burn into his body but still, he did not fear it. Instead intrigued, guiltily enjoying your passionate emotion. “You shame me and you humiliate me and you betray me.” You kicked him over, knocking him on his ass and managed to scratch the surface of his chest. 

“I wanted sex and every time I tried, you were in pain.” This added more fuel to the fire, sparking up that heat that burned at your core. You were sure your child also fueled that pit of flames, angry at their Father. 

“Because I am pregnant.” He rolled over to his side and jumped to his feet, re-directing each one of your desperate attacks. “With your child. Tell me, did you fuck that slut before you fucked me?” There were so many questions that filled your head. So many emotions that stung your heart. “You aren’t a great warrior, not a man. You’re just a fat piece of meat thinking with the blunt tool dangling between his legs.” You grabbed a fistful of Bjorn’s hair, wrapping his braids around your hand like shackles trapped to you. Then dragged him and shoved his head against the pillar. “How many times did you screw that bitch?”

“Nine, maybe ten times, give or take.” He gave you a cheeky smirk, playing with your emotion. You heaved him back and smashed his head onto the floor. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Not your fault! Think so much with your dick that you just fell in her loose lips.” With a fury you growled and punched him in the jaw, followed by a barrage of slaps and claws. “Couldn’t even wait for three months and deceive your own lover! Couldn’t control yourself longer than two minutes! And then you lie to me! All those late nights, you left me alone, cold, miserable while you get your fill!” You grabbed the ruffs of his head and slammed it against the ground. “Then you force your brothers to lie to me. Hide like a rat, a slimy sloppy snake. Drag them into this because you wanted sex!” All you could see is red, nothing else. You. Him. And red. “And humiliate me, making me look like a fool! I defended you, stood up for you, made excuses for your bullshit. And this is how you repay me?!” Bjorn caught your hands and gripped them so hard you thought they would bruise. 

“Now you know how I felt when you let that merchant’s son bury his tiny little cock in what is mine.” With one swift move, he flipped you over and drove his hips into you. It only pushed you that much further and you spat in his face. 

“I do not belong to you, I only belong to myself!” You wrapped your legs around his waist and drove him into you then snapped your elbow up, striking his face. “We weren’t married then either! I hardly knew you!” 

“Even still, you knew I wanted you. You fucking knew it!” With your form now on top, you tried to dig your nails into his eyes and gouge those pretty blue orbs out. The ones you love so much. So piercing and so hard to read. But now, clear as day. “And I know you saw me!” For a split second you were surprised, wavering you from your confident outburst. Bingo! Just like that Bjorn trapped you under his form, holding both your wrists in place. 

“That was five fucking years ago you piece of shit.” You growled, struggling against his hold. “Bringing things up like a bitch. I always knew you were a bitch, a weak, weak man.” You cooed, slithering your knee between his and dug it up. Bjorn groaned and rolled off of your body before collapsing. It would have been sweet that he still took note of your pregnant belly but, considering the situation you didn’t give a fuck. “Besides, he fucked me in ways you couldn’t. He pleasured me better than a weak man like you ever could.” You couldn’t help but smirk, a smugness filled your bones. 

Bjorn jumped to his feet, dragging the axe along with him and met your stance. Ready to unleash your storm of resentment. The clear primal glare behind his piercing orbs sent shivers down your body, now clearly ready to settle things. 

“You want me back Ironside, you better fight for it.” \

You tossed your weapon from left to right hand.

 “Earn me.”

~~~

“What do you think is going on in there?” Hvitserk broke the tension, drawing his knees to his chest and pushed himself into a more comfortable position. 

“Maybe they’re finished.” Sigurd shrugged, pulling at the stings of his ute while his brows furrowed. They all looked at each other, hopeful until they heard a loud cluttering sound followed by a loud groan of their older brother, cue a sigh. “Never mind.”

“Maybe we should-” 

“Don’t.” Ubbe cut Hvitserk off, knowing fully well where he was going. He did not want to lose a limb or an eye by stepping back into the hall, now a battlefield. Another crash sounded from behind them and he shivered, feeling pity for his older brother. Bjorn in an unfortunate predicament of not being able to fight back like he usually did because of their child, which made Y/N even more dangerous. A force to be reckoned with. “By all means go back in there and you try to break them apart but, I will not come to your aid.”

“Why did you have to drag me out of there? I was enjoying myself.” Ivar frowned a little, remembering how Ubbe and Hvitserk practically hauled him out. 

“I’m sure you were.” Ubbe spoke and folded his arms over his chest. “But I am not losing another brother tonight.”

“Don’t be absurd, Y/N wouldn’t have hurt me.” Ivar argued back.

“You would have hurt yourself. Wouldn’t be able to crawl away fast enough.” The crippled glared at Sigurd, who was now smirking. But, he did not get angry this time and just rolled his eyes, over his shit. “I think I won the bet.”

“No way, I said she would attack during the feast first. All of you owe me.” Hvitserk intervened, not really caring about the sack of silver or gold. But instead the glory of beating his brother’s at least once. For the one that started the bets most of the time, he didn’t seem to win a lot. 

“Everyone knew that, even the town’s people.” Sigurd intercepted and made Hvitserk huff. They all snapped towards the wooden door as they shook slightly, followed by the sound of your shouts and the sound of Bjorn’s voice, filled with as much passion. 

“I predicted all of it.” Ivar seethed, halting their bickering. “I said all of that, so I win.” 

“No, you also bet that they were going to end up fucking. That does not sound like pleasure.” Sigurd quickly corrected, pointing to the hall. “I should get all of your money.” 

“No.” Hvitserk denied.

“Yes, I claimed she was going to arrive in battle armor. Not anyone could have predicted that.” 

“Yes but, I bet what all three of you said. It’s me.” Ivar hissed.

“I’m older than both of you, the money is mine.” Hvitserk attempted to pull all of the bags of coins but Sigurd and Ivar were on him, pulling and thrashing. Ubbe rolled his eyes and clearly was over their bullshit, always the one fixing things. But this time, he did so differently.

“Be quiet. Shut up. Stop!” The four boys all froze and listened intently to a soft sound whispering amongst the wind. Coming from inside the hall, less violent or brash. Then their faces fell,  knowing what the hell was happening and sunk on their asses.

“See, I win.” Ivar hummed in victory, snatching each one of their filled pouches of gold and silver. For once, thankful to both yours and Bjorn’s endless cycle. Tiresome and annoying but at least, consistent and committed. 

“Where do you think that thrall went?” Sigurd raised his eyes in curiosity, the only one seemingly interested. Hvitserk shrugged and Ubbe just stared at the sky.

“Do you have to ask stupid questions?” 

“She probably ran away.” Ubbe concluded lazily. “I don’t blame her, I would too.”

~ PROMISED BONUS ~

“I should tell him but, he doesn’t deserve it.”

“If Bjorn finds out I told her, I’m so dead. I’m too young to die. I’m still a virgin. I don’t wanna die a virgin. Why? WHY? Maybe she won’t come, maybe she’ll just forget about. MAYBE SHE - oh nvm.”

“I’m just gonna pretend I know nothing. Ignore my problems. Yeh, this is better. ”

“Oh yeah, he’s screwed.”

“oh.......fuck. I’m too sober for this shit”

[scapegrace74-blog]

Saorsa, Chapter 28

A/N  Here is the next installment of Saorsa.  I’m not sure how I feel about this chapter.  I knew I wanted them handfast, couldn’t work it into the modern marriage ceremony (which we don’t see anyway), but wanted there to be some acknowledgement of their deepening relationship.  In the series, that happens because Claire doesn’t go through the Stones.   This is my equivalent.

Rather than link to all previously posted chapters, I’ll just direct those of you wanting to catch up on your Saorsa-reading to my AO3 page, where the fic is posted in its entirety.

Thank you to each of you liking and reblogging!  It does my little fanfic writer’s heart good.

She wasn’t a demonstrative person by nature.  The circumstances of Claire’s childhood had seen to that.   Practical, pragmatic, emotionally cautious: the nomadic life of an orphan following her scholarly uncle about the globe had shaped her for an adulthood of no-nonsense behaviour.

Which didn’t explain why she was swallowing back tears the Monday evening after Easter.  She sat on their bed watching Jamie pack a simple change of clothes and slip a few spare coins in a hidden slit inside his tall leather riding boots.   She could blame her pregnancy, but it had been many months since her last hormonal outburst.   In truth, she was afraid for Jamie.  He was undertaking a difficult twentieth-century journey with only his eighteenth-century wits to guide him.   She was going to miss him horribly.  A nagging premonition gnawed at her, that he would leave and never come back.

“Dinna fash, Sassenach,” he said, noticing her discomposure.  “I may be new tae these times, but I ken a thing or twa about keeping safe on a long journey.  An’ Rupert will watch o’er me, leastaways as far as Edin’bra.”

“I know that, Jamie.  I just…”   She broke off, hands unconsciously cradling her swollen belly, as though comforting the child within her was the best she could hope for.

“What is it, mo chridhe?  Are ye worrit about the bairn coming early?”

“No.  Not really.  First babies are often born late.  I’m worried about…” she broke off, at a loss to articulate the swirling mix of emotions she was feeling.

Jamie must have intuited her ambivalent state of mind, for he settled next to her and enveloped her hands in his.

Still new to the art of husbanding, he had learned that the best way to induce Claire to talk was to offer her silence to fill.  He therefore sat quietly, tangling and untangling their fingers.

“I can’t help but feel…” she began hesitantly, “that once you leave Lallybroch you’ll… oh, I feel stupid saying it…”

“Out wi’ it, Sassenach.  If it’s causin’ ye tae fret sae badly that ye didna remind me tae pack spare socks, then it needs to be given voice, aye?”

She grinned ruefully, then tried to collect her scattered thoughts.

“I know you chose to stay here, in this time, rather than return to your own.  Given what you know about the aftermath of Culloden, it was a reasonable choice.  But Jamie…” He could see how dearly this was costing her.   A furrow of worry bisected her brow, and her molten eyes looked haunted.  “Jamie, you’re a Highland warrior, and I can’t help but feel that I’ve turned you into some kind of glorified field hand and future babysitter.  And that once you leave Lallybroch, you’ll not want to return.”

Having blurted out her fears, Claire’s gaze sheered away from her husband, focusing instead on the patterned wall coverings.

“Claire…” he breathed, stunned by her revelation.   “Sassenach, look at me, will ye?”

Their eyes met, and the look he was giving her was so pained that she blinked in shock.

“Have I given ye reason to doubt my commitment to ye and yer bairn?”

“No,” she answered plainly.

“And was it no’ me who asked ye, ripe wi’ another man’s child, to be marrit?” he continued.

“Yes, it was.”

“It’s true that I’m a Highlander, Sassenach, an’ a proud one a’ that.  But I was a warrior by necessity, no’ by desire.  I fought because to do ought would ha’ been craven, an’ my Da didna raise me tae be a coward.  Twas the only way I kent tae protect my family, my clan.   Now ye and this bairn are my family, an’ those who serve Lallybroch are my clan.  I may no’ ken much about yer science an’ industry, but I can provide for my own, an’ tis my great honour tae do so.  And if so doin’, I help ye raise a braw wee Scot tae be laird or lady of this home of my heart, weel, I will one day die knowin’ I was a credit tae the Fraser name.  In my time, I would be ded, or just as well.  Here, I can do wha’ I was born tae.  Now I ask ye, why would I turn from that?  Why would I turn from ye?”

It was the most he’d ever spoken about matters neither practical nor routine, and she took the words inside her heart where they lit a spark in the tinder of her newborn love.

“It does pain me, though, that ye feel I asked ye tae be my bride merely because it was prudent.  I havna done my duty as yer husband, if ye dinna ken…”

Jamie stood abruptly and held out his hand.  She grasped it gratefully to leverage herself from the bed.

“Follow me, Sassenach.  It’s high time tae address my neglect.”

***

Murtagh looked mildly perturbed to have his evening’s routine interrupted, but scarcely more so than usual.  A few murmured words in Gaelic from Jamie and he grunted in surprise, appraising Claire’s hastily donned overcoat and pale blotchy skin.

Claire was surprised to find the small croft next to the stables comfortably appointed, its solid wooden furniture decorated with heavy woolen throws and the occasional cushion.    An ornate picture frame adorned the mantlepiece, displaying a dour couple posed stiffly in outmoded wedding clothes.

Disappearing through a darkened doorway into the croft’s only other room, Murtagh returned carrying several objects: a long strip of frayed tartan, a two-handled tarnished silver cup, and a short dagger in its sheath.  Murtagh placed the items on a low table and exchanged a significant look with Jamie before returning to the adjacent room.

“Claire,” he began, and she could sense the air in the room shift with his pronouncement of her Christian name, muted but sure.  “I ken that you and I, weel, we’re still new.  But the lady I’ve come to know, she’s… weel, she’s all that I could e’er want in a wife.  Canty.  Brave.  Strong and fierce tae make me heed, but soft and gracious and sae, sae beautiful, she can make the sun shine on a cloudy day.  I could travel through the stones across the ages, and no’ find a better companion fer my heart.  So I’m asking ye, Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser, will ye do me the ‘onour of becoming my wife?  No’ because ye’er wi’ child.  No’ because ye need me tae drove yer sheep or mend yer fences or tend yer hearth.  I want to be marrit’ to ye because ye’er the only future I wish tae know.”

He was balancing both her hands on his open palms.  She fixated on their size; broad and calloused, yet always gentle with her.  She smiled and felt him take a deep inward breath.

“Jamie… I… that… but we’re already married!” she blurted.

“Aye.  The church ‘as blessed us, and a good thing too.  I feared I would be goin’ tae ‘ell fer all the lustful thoughts I had of ye, bonnie wee thing that ye are.  Tis a relief tae be back in God’s good graces.”

His impudent smirk released the tension from the room.

“Very funny,” she retorted.  “But seriously, Jamie, why are we here?  And what is all this…” she gestured towards the table.

“Have ye ne’er heard of handfasting, my Sassenach lass?  Tis the proper Scottish way tae be marrit’.  When ye’er bound together in the auld way, they say nought can come between ye for a year an’ one day.  Sae I’ll ask ye again, Claire, will ye accept tae be my wife?”

“Of course, you ridiculous man.  Why else would I be standing in Murtagh’s croft in the dead of night, wearing nothing but an overcoat atop my nightgown and slippers?  I swear, James Fraser…”

Any further chastisement was halted by his sudden, emphatic kiss.  She nearly lost herself in his mouth before she remembered Murtagh was only a few feet away, waiting for them to finish their quiet conversation.  Jamie called him back to the room with a shrill whistle.

Standing before the fire, Murtagh first unsheathed the dagger and drew it roughly across Jamie’s outstretched palm.   Claire flinched, but only a few scarlet beads of blood rose from the shallow cut.  Understanding what was coming next, she extended her right hand and received a matching slash.  Jamie then pressed their bleeding palms together.  Murtagh quickly enveloped them in several loops of the tartan sash.

“Is that…?” she asked in wonder.

“Aye, tis a wee strip of my plaid.  Murtagh saved me a piece a’fore ye burned the rest, ye heathen,” he joked, calm now that the ceremony was underway and she hadn’t laughed in his face.

“What now?” Claire asked, feeling the slippery warmth of their co-mingled blood against the fine skin of her wrist.

“We repeat our vows.  I ken ye dinna understand the Gàidhlig, but would ye consider sayin’ the Fraser oaths?  I could translate them for ye and…”

“Jamie,” she interjected.  “Of course I want to use your family’s vows.  I am a Fraser, after all,” she asserted proudly.

Slowly, using only their free hands, Claire and Jamie each grabbed an end of cloth.  Staring at his mouth to capture the nuance of the unfamiliar sounds, Claire slowly repeated after Jamie:

‘S tu smior de mo  chnàimh , na mo chuislean ‘s tu ‘n  fhuil

Bheir mi dhut-sa mo chorp, gum  bith ‘n  dithis mar  aon

Bheir mi dhut-sa  slàn m’  anam , gus an  crìochnaich ar  saoghal

With each phrase, they clumsily tied a knot above their pressed hands, until the room was silent and their hearts were full.  Unsentimental to the last, Murtagh quickly unbound their hands and wiped the blade of his dirk on the plaid.

Jamie opened a nearby cupboard with apparent familiarity and withdrew a half-empty bottle of whiskey, pouring a generous amount in the double-handled cup. Murtagh growled something unintelligible in Gaelic.

“Tis my wedding day, ye auld coot.  Dinna be parsimonious,” Jamie replied easily.

“Tis yer handfasting day, ye muckle-sized eejit, an’ tha’s my only bottle,” Murtagh retorted with no malice.

Claire grinned at their easy banter, happy that Jamie had made a friend in the older man.  Besides her, Murtagh was the only person to know Jamie’s secret.

“Here, Sassenach.  A’fore Murtagh here drinks it himself.”

Grasping the offered cup, which Jamie informed her was called a quaich, in both hands, she took a hasty sip while looking at him over the bowl.  His blue eyes danced in merry amusement.   Receiving the quaich, Jamie finished the amber liquid, watching her all the while.   Something crackled between them, and both could feel the buzz of it in their veins, stronger than any liquor.

“Weel,” Murtagh interrupted, “if tis all the same wi’ you, I’ll be goin’ tae bed.  There’s sheep that require dipping t’morrow.   Godspeed tae ye, lad.  Dinna forget what I told ye about the roads beyond Edin’bra.”

With a polite goodnight to Claire, Murtagh fled to the other room.

“Well,” Claire began.

“Aye.”

At this rate they’d still be standing in the croft’s living area when Murtagh rose at dawn, staring at one another.

“What did you have me say, exactly?” she asked.

“You are the marrow in my bones and the blood in my veins.

I shall give you my body, that we two might be one.

I shall give you my whole soul, until our lives shall be done.”

“Until our lives shall be done?” she asked in a timorous voice.

“Aye, Sassenach.  Ye’er stuck wi’ me,” he tried to jest while they slowly made their way across the courtyard and up the stairs of the main house, leading each other through the dark towards home.

“It’s a good thing I love you then,” she confessed.

“And I you, mo nighean donn.  Come.  Let me show ye how much.”