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bippot · 4 months

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The Monarch Hotel- Chapter 12: Feeling In My Gut

Story Summary -> How many times does Vigilante need to get injured before Harcourt finally gives in and hires a medic to help out with the squad's injuries? Far too many times, that's how many.

When it's uncovered that a fancy hotel is linked to, not only what's left of the legion of butterflies, but also a string of weird deaths and missing persons reports, the only two for the job are lovesick Adrian and the newbie.

Chapter 12: Feeling In My Gut Summary -> The rest of the 11th Street Kids believe that Adrian is dead, she believes otherwise and won't stop working until she gets him back.

Tags -> Canon-Typical Violence, Gun Violence, Blood and Injury, Undercover as a Couple, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Summer Vacation, Butterflies, Alien Invasion, Stitches, Weird Biology, Creep in a Bathroom, Aphrodisiacs, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Drugging, Peeping, general weirdness, Human Experimentation, Eventual Smut, p in v, Human Farming, Kidnapping, Handcuffs, Vomiting, Fist Fights, Trauma, Autistic Adrian Chase, Roleplay, Caretaking, Angst with a Happy Ending

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Previous Chapter -> Puppeteering

The criminal's of the Evergreen area had a few months of peace since the heroes who patrolled there were on missions. For 3 or so months, drug deals and kidnappings and assaults and all those horrid affairs were left for the police to deal with, and since the dearly departed Detective Song was one of the only cops with more than 2 brain cells, it was more than likely for delinquents to roam with no repercussions for their dastardly deeds.

Then, the Vigilante returned.

Vigilante had changed, though. That was clear to anyone who came into contact with the masked hero. Vigilante had always been violent, yet it was usually contrasted by the playful, childish part of his personality. Seeing the mask and not hearing the goofy voice and laugh used to be unthinkable, yet as of late, Vigilante had become more subdued than ever.

Plus, Vigilante was a few inches shorter these days. Did Adrian used to put inserts in his shoes?

And, the suit which used to be fitted to his exact muscly form seemed a bit baggier than it had before. Was he on a juice cleanse?

Jack Ryan's show had been gaining traction in the past few weeks. He'd been rather fortunate when The Creeper came across a very high profile actor doing some less than legal things one night. Wouldn't you know it? All it takes is one threat from that ghastly ghoul, and that actor was on a one-way trip onto Jack's show, 'You Don't Know Jack'.

Surely, the actor thought it was a little strange that a creature of the night was swayed with bribes that would only benefit a game show host? If he was, he said nothing and did his job.

Whatever the case, Jack was on a high. His ratings were rising steadily, his secret identity was still mostly a secret, and he was practically swimming in money. It was a good life.

That was until he got a late night visitor.

If Jack hadn't been chemically enhanced, he never would've heard the quiet steps throughout his kitchen. If he didn't have such keen ears to pick up the slightest noises, then he might've missed them entirely. But he did. So, he paid attention as whoever was in his apartment pulled up a chair and sat facing his bedroom.

"Ooooh, Jack! I know you can hear me," a robotic voice sung. "I travelled all this way to talk to you, and I do mean you, not your boogey green shadow."

"Boogey?!" Jack repeated, the insult hitting its mark. "I am not boogey green. I'm more like chartreuse!"

Whipping his bedroom door open, Jack glared angrily at the intruder. The figure who dared to disturb his privacy and broke into his home sat before him, pistol aimed at his head.

"You're a long way from your stomping ground, Vigilante."

"Well, it's a special day. I thought I'd make the trip."

"What's so special about it?"

"It's my birthday, of course," Vigilante replied, and once their sentence was over, a gloved hand reached for the bottom of the visor to pull it off. "I can't believe you'd forget an old friend's birthday like that."

Jack Ryan blinked. He hadn't expected this. The face beneath the mask was that of... no, it couldn't be. Y/N grinned as she placed the helmet on the table beside her.

"It's so good to see you, Jack, really. It's been forever since we last spoke!" Y/N greeted with sinister enthusiasm, her bright smile blinding Jack to what was going on in her head.

"You're Vigilante?!"

"Not originally. I'm just keeping the mask warm until the real Vigilante returns." She hazarded a look at the mask and pushed all those feelings down for the moment. "But that's the problem, though. I can't seem to find him."

No matter what Y/N tried, what avenue she went down, she couldn't find a single shred of evidence that Adrian was still out there. He was still out there. Despite the chorus of voices telling her that this pursuit was fruitless and that Adrian Chase was dead the moment those doors slammed shut behind him, Y/N couldn't accept that. Adrian was alive. She knew that. She could feel it.

No matter how much time passed since he disappeared without a trace, she could still feel his presence. It was in her very bones. In her soul. In her gut.

"Our dear, dear friend, Dr Yatz - did you get the funeral invite or not? It doesn't matter - he had a lot of sensitive information in his laboratory."

"Yatz is dead?" Jack mumbled, shocked.

"Afraid so, bud. But don't worry, he documented every single test he ever did on you in amazing detail so if you ever run low on that Creeper juice you're so addicted to, just say the word and I'll have some more sent right to you."

She lowered her gun and casually shrugged a shoulder like this was no big deal, but Jack's eyes still widened.

"Judging by the Dr's estimations, you have 3 doses remaining. Now, that doesn't sound like a lot to me."

Jack remained silent, though his heart began racing at double speed. Being The Creeper was thrilling. Every step felt like flying. Everything seemed so natural. The fact that he'd been so successful in taking advantage of this wonderful, intoxicating feeling of escape, of power, of savagery, was almost too good to be true.

Well, that's because it was. He couldn't just turn into The Creeper. He needed a formula that Dr Yatz had been supplying him for years to activate the change. Every other month a batch of 50 vials would appear on Jack's door. In return, The Creeper may have assassinated some of the good doctor's opponents.

It had been months since his last drop off. Vials were running low and Jack was getting ansy.

"Tell you what, as a show of good faith - " She reached into one of the pockets on her utility belt and retrieved a small pot of greenish liquid. "A gift. For you."

With a cheeky smirk that could rival Adrian Chase's on its best days, Y/N pushed the green substance across the table towards Jack . His hands shook as he grabbed the small glass bottle and brought it close to his face, examining it closely. It was the smell that told him everything.

This vial was exactly what he'd been craving since the first time he took it. Without wasting another second, Jack downed the contents of the bottle in a single, greedy gulp. The liquid rushed into his veins, warming them immediately, and soon the burning sensation spread everywhere, starting from his core and working its way up through his throat. It warmed his lungs. It warmed his face. It heated his skin. It warmed his spirit.

There was nothing more delicious. There was nothing more invigorating. There was no other sensation like it.

The Creeper in all of its stupid looking glory transformed before Y/N's very eyes as he felt revitalised, empowered, rejuvenated, renewed. His muscles grew strong, thick, green hair fell across his forehead, and his eyes darkened. The change was complete within seconds.

As cool as she'd been acting, once Y/N was faced with the creature who'd almost killed her all those years ago, her perfect facade cracked. Her smile dropped, her shoulders sagged, and she became incredibly vulnerable and afraid all of a sudden. It was frightening how fast the transformation happened, but she didn't let that stop her from continuing her plan.

Immediately guzzling the drug was unexpected. That was not on the list of outcomes she'd planned for so soon, but hey, improvisation is a skill that every good spy needs. It was time to ‘yes and’.

Her face hardened as her eyes narrowed to slits.

"Hey, uggo, did you know that Yatz left a contingency measure in his work?" She gestured in the general direction of the monster. "If you ever got too big for your red boots, he also developed a biological stopper. He rewrote some of your genetic code, did you know that?"

A grunt came from The Creeper. Whether that was affirmative or not was unknown.

Y/N leaned forward, her eyes locked onto The Creeper's. "So, in the unlikely event that you disobeyed him, he could fire this nerve agent." Another vial was taken from her belt and waved in his face. "And your limbs would lock up, total paralysis, and it would be incredibly easy to kill you."

She paused, waiting, watching. When she saw the effect of her words begin to register with The Creeper, she took a deep breath, preparing herself for whatever he was about to throw back at her.

But all he did was sit on the ground, crossing his legs in front of her and staring at her, completely unmoving.

Like a pet. Like a dog would heel before their owner when they're being chastised or disciplined. A pet with the strength to rip her arm clean off should he have the desire to.

There's one thing that binds all creatures together, natural or man made, and that's self preservation. It's an instinctive primal force to live in the face of danger or, in The Creeper's case, submit to the person who had the one thing that can kill you in the palm of their hand. And thanks to their history, Y/N wouldn't hesitate to get even, to go stab for stab.

Or, now that she had leverage over him, it may be more beneficial to use his journalist connections. Though he'd moved to cheaper entertainment, Jack still schmoozed with prominent journalists who may have information they might not know what to do with.

Y/N had heard rumblings of a fighting pit hidden deep in Markovia and she couldn't be given the go ahead to investigate without a smidgeon of proof that it even existed, let alone had a government agent held captive inside. All she needed was someone to talk to a member of the press and spread the rumour, and it was go time.

"Looks like we're partners again, pal."

Leaving the vial of nerve agent on the table, Y/N rose to her feet and stretched before patting The Creeper on the head. "I have more of that, by the way. Just so you know," she said and walked to the door. "You owe me, and I plan to make the most out of my debt. I don't care if you do it as yourself or whatever this is, find out about the Markovia fighting pit and get back to me."

Then, she pulled the visor on and was out the door.

Even with the extra pair of hands - well, claws - it was slow going. The 11th Street Kids doubted that it was worth spending their time looking for Vigilante, not only because they had very little faith that he was still living, but they had other missions to be getting on with. The documents Y/N had hastily stuck in a garbage bag during their escape had actually been vital.

The Monarch Hotel was not the only one of its kind. There were a total of 5 similar 'hives' across the globe, each established focused on capturing a different class of people. And while they knew Y/N was a little too distracted to be sent to dismantle another one of these operations, she was asked - more like contractually obliged - to consult them in for any information that may not have been covered in the mission report.

"Jesus christ, you look like shit." Emilia stood in the doorway of the Chase home with her hands on her hips as she regarded her sister.

Since she got back, the only place Y/N found even the slightest bit of peace was Adrian's home. It was the only area that seemed to remember him. It was filled with his photos and figurines and clothes that used - no, continues to - belong to him and, in a way, it was the closest she could get to having him back.

Though it was safe to say that Adrian didn't have a conspiracy board complete with blurry CCTV photos and red thread and newspaper clippings up next to his framed family photos. Real Pepe Silvia shit.

"I've been busy," Y/N replied, closing the door with a grunt.

"I can tell. How'd you get those?"

Clearly, Y/N had just tended to a wound on her hip, her arms were covered in bruises, and there was a particularly purple blotch across her cheekbone. Which one of 'those' Emilia was referring to, and if she was honest, Y/N didn't know nor care which.

"Training, y'know?"

"Fighting mobsters twice your size every night is training for you?"

"Yup."

Emilia made a face. Y/N raised an eyebrow at her sister.

"What? You think I can't handle myself?"

A sigh emanated from deep within Emilia's soul as she walked over to the conspiracy board, running her fingers over the paper there.

"I think you're throwing yourself at every shitty lead that crosses your path in search of a ghost." Y/N's eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening as she glared at Emilia. "I've been letting this go on for too long. I thought this would help the grieving process, but it's been 6 months and..." Her sentence trailed off. As much as she wanted to voice her feelings, they got stuck in Emilia's throat.

It was rare to ever see Harcourt get choked up. The room grew uncomfortably quiet as Y/N looked away from Emilia. She could hear the frustration, but most of all, the concern. She knew her sister meant well, but it wasn't helping. Y/N groaned, running a hand through her hair as she tried to find the words to respond.

"There is no way you'll be able to stop me from going down this path. I will find him even if it takes years," she said, her voice low and determined, "And that means I will be throwing myself at every shitty lead that crosses my path until I do."

Like a shark, Y/N's gaze met Emilia's, unflinchingly, and even though Emilia had never thought the pair looked alike in any way, but in that moment, the sisters were the spitting image of each other. Y/N's determination was evident, but Emilia could also see the desperation and exhaustion that lurked beneath it. She sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing further.

"I know you think I'm crazy, but I can't explain it. I just have this... feeling that he's still out there."

Y/N's words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken emotion. Emilia knew how important Adrian had been to her sister - even if she wanted to ignore that at first - and that Vigilante was made of strong stuff so he would have a higher chance of survival than a normal agent.

"You really think he's still alive?"

"I don't know. Maybe. But I can't give up hope until I know for sure." Y/N's voice was quiet, almost a whisper, as she stared off into the distance. "And as long as there's even the smallest chance, I can't stop looking."

Emilia regarded her sister for a long moment before sighing and sitting down next to her.

"I can feel it in my gut."

"Okay."

"Okay?" Y/N repeated.

"Show me all the info you've gathered, squish."

For the next few hours, the Harcourt-L/N siblings poured over every single shred of evidence Y/N had found about Vigilante's whereabouts. They discussed theories, analysed photos, and cross-referenced news reports. Emilia even went as far as to order Economos to hack into some shady databases to get more information on the criminal network at the heart of Markovia.

As the night wore on, they made significant progress, narrowing down the list of possible leads and eliminating dead-ends. Y/N felt a glimmer of hope begin to flicker within her. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't crazy after all.

Then, it came.

A week after their 'study sesh', a video was sent to Y/N's phone with the caption: 'One last shipment, then I'm going cold turkey. Jack x '

The soundless video showed a haggard-looking man in a dimly lit space, his eyes darting around before a bright stage light shone down on him. There, looking beaten and battered, was Adrian motherfucking Chase!

It was him, it was really him. Y/N's heart leapt into her throat as she stared at the grainy footage on her phone screen.

In the video, Adrian stood there as another man was pushed into the space and another light shone down on them. With all this light, the surrounding roaring audience was much easier to see. There had to be 300 or so people sat on platforms around the stage as if the area was an underground colosseum.

Adrian's shoulder slumped for a moment, and he nodded at the other man before punching the guy in the face, a warrior's cry forming on his lips as he landed more and more attacks.

Tears welled in her eyes and Y/N's hands shook as she held her phone, watching the video over and over again. Who knows how many times the video was repeated. She was obsessed with absorbing every single detail as possible, which was difficult with the sobs racking her body, and sent it to the rest of the 11th Street Kids.

Vindicated, Y/N could finally exhale. She'd never thought she'd be this happy and terrified at the same time. He was alive. They had evidence of that. But he was also in a dangerous environment, being forced to fight every day.

"I never thought I'd be so relieved to see that annoying face," Chris barked with a grin, nudging Y/N with his elbow as everyone crowded around John's laptop to watch it together. Y/N tried to smile at Chris' comment, but it was more of a grimace.

"Bud," Leota warned. She shook her head to discourage Peacemaker from trying to joke around with Y/N about this.

The next few days were a blur of frantic planning and discussion. Y/N and the rest of the 11th Street Kids brainstormed multiple scenarios and contingency plans, all determined to rescue Adrian from his captors. They knew it wouldn't be easy, but they also knew they couldn't stand by and do nothing.

Most of the group dipped in and out. Whether they needed to sleep, if Leota wanted to go back to her wife, if John thought he should update Waller on their progress, if Chris had to take Eagly outside for a walk - or fly, I guess - or if Harcourt needed a beer, those members took breaks.

Other than the occasional bathroom break, Y/N stayed awake for a total of 73 and a half hours, and she spent it going over and over whatever plan had just been proposed.

"Ah, look at that, she's going through another microsleep," Emilia teased.

"Shut up," Y/N grumbled as she sat up straighter and forced herself awake.

Emilia's face softened as she took in the sight of Y/N yawning and rubbing her eyes, looking a little bit like she had as a toddler. Y/N sighed and leaned her head against Emilia's shoulder, and all Emilia could do was stroke the back of her sister's head.

"Are you going to let me drive you back to the house so you can sleep?"

"No."

"Okay, I'll just force you, then."

"You sound just like your mother."

Rolling her eyes, Emilia gently pulled Y/N to her feet and into a hug. "That bad, huh?" Y/N groaned and mumbled something incoherent into Emilia's shoulder. "Come on, out the door."

Throughout her stay at Adrian's home, Y/N had relegated herself to the couch. Yet, when she hauled herself inside, she needed a bed to relax into. Y/N let out a tired sigh as she collapsed onto Adrian's bed and she couldn't help but take in the familiar scent of his sheets. It was both comforting and painful at the same time, a tangible reminder of how much she had missed him.

Her hand reached for one of his pillows and pulled it to her chest, inhaling deeply as she tried to soak up whatever faint essence of him might still linger there, and fell asleep, her longing surrounding her like a warm hug.

Eventually, the rescue mission was given the go ahead. Vigilante was a government agent and valuable asset that needed to be rescued. The next few hours were a flurry of activity as the 11th Street Kids made their final preparations for the biggest mission of their lives. They knew that time was of the essence, and they couldn't afford to make any mistakes.

Vigilante was entered as a combatant into the fighting pit, so Y/N was undercover once again. She fought and fought and fought. It took a total of a week of gruelling competition, but she managed to rise through the ranks until she finally saw a familiar face. A face that was covered in bruises and cuts and red patches, and though Y/N knew she looked somewhat similar thanks to her week of fighting, her determination to never see him In such a state ensured that the plan was going to go ahead without a single misstep on her part.

For the first time in over 8 months, Y/N was face to face with the love of her life. She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life as she was to see Adrian. His dark hair was mussed, his eyes intense as they scanned the crowd, and she could tell he was thoroughly defeated.

But, since she was dressed as his alter ego so, as the lights revealed them to each other, Adrian's eyes widened in surprise. He was confused, sure, yet Y/N could see a spark of hope flicker in them.

"FIGHT!"

Once Y/N figured out where the source of the voice came from in the crowd, she realised she was looking at Queen Caroline of Markovia. That bitch! The Queen was placed on a throne and had the most perfect view of the carnage below her. Adrian had seen that woman every day down here and she was a constant reminder of how happy he'd been at The Monarch Hotel, which must've been extra demoralising.

Y/N forced her focus back onto their fight and swung to land a quick punch to Adrian's chest, right on his solar plexus to do the least amount of damage she had to. "Fight back or they'll be suspicious," she instructed just loud enough for him to hear.

Another punch landed, and Adrian stumbled back a step, but as he recovered, he countered with a punch of his own. It wasn't nearly as strong as it could have been, but it was enough to keep up the charade. The fight was a gruelling one, but Y/N and Adrian managed to keep up the act for long enough. They traded blows, trying their best not to hurt each other too much, and then the signal came.

A bee buzzed into the middle of the stage, almost as if it was being controlled by someone. The sexuality of this robot bee was unknown, though.

In an instant, Y/N tackled Adrian to the ground, pressing down on a button in her pocket as soon as they hit the ground in order for the plasma shield that the nerds at ARGUS had loaned them for the week activated. Y/N and Adrian were cocooned in a safe body sized bubble so that the drone strike operated by their fellow 11th Street Kids didn't accidentally hit the pair.

Economos, Adebayo, Peacemaker and Harcourt flew their glorified remote controlled helicopters into the colosseum and shot at the people in the crowd, causing absolute chaos as people ran to safety and pushed others into the line of fire to do so. What the runners didn't know was that there was an entire battalion of police outside ready to handcuff anyone they saw. Despite the queen being in attendance, fight clubs and slavery was still very much illegal.

"Hi champ," Y/N greeted, her voice thick with emotion.

Instead of replying, he tugged her completely onto his chest and locked his arms around her. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, relief and joy mixing with the pain and exhaustion from searching for him for so long, and buried her face into his neck.

"It's okay," she whispered, stroking his hair gently. "I've got you now." She held him tightly, savouring the feel of his strong arms around her. "You're safe, you're safe now."

She could feel the tremors running through him. Y/N held Adrian tightly, pressing her lips to his cheek and jaw to distract him from the crashing and banging of the carnage around them.

Finally, the sounds stopped. As the dust settled and the aftermath of the rescue mission played out around them, Y/N turned off the plasma shield and sat up. The fighting pit was in ruins, the walls and floor bloodstained and dented from the fierce battle. Medical staff hurried in to tend to the captured fighters, while enforcers came in to arrest any of the fighting pit ticket holders that were still alive.

Queen Caroline of Markovia lay motionless on the ground, her body riddled with bullet holes. Y/N gently pulled away from Adrian and helped him to sit up, brushing some of the dirt and blood from his hair, and he did the same for her.

With a watery smile, the two of them looked at each other, their eyes full of love, gratitude, and relief.

"You're really here," Y/N whispered, "I'm sorry it took me so long."

Adrian's gaze softened as he cupped her cheek, brushing away a tear that had escaped her eye. He leaned in and kissed her tenderly, their lips lingering against each other in such a way that told her everything she needed to know. Y/N leaned into the kiss, feeling a flood of emotion wash over her.

The world around them could have been falling apart, but as long as they had each other, nothing else mattered.

When they finally broke apart, she smiled up at him, her eyes shining with tears of joy. "Come on, let's get you checked out and make sure nothing's broken." She offered him a hand, helping him to his feet, and then guided him towards the first medic with a first aid kit she saw.

Turns out that Adrian reacted extremely badly when one of the medic tried to touch him, and if Y/N hadn't been there to stand in between them, that medic would've been murdered in cold blood. It wasn't surprising. He'd been in a fight minus the flight mode for the majority of a year so was it so outlandish that a stranger - and even though they were a helpful stranger, they were still a stranger - activated those instincts?

"Can you just... give us some space? I'm medically trained, I can do it," Y/N assured the medic who hesitated but eventually stepped back and reluctantly handed Y/N the first aid kit.

Y/N gently took Adrian's hand and led him to a relatively quiet corner of the pit, away from the chaos and commotion. She knelt down in front of him, carefully examining his body for any injuries, her hands moving with practised efficiency. As Y/N examined him, she found a few shallow cuts and bruises, but nothing major. She cleaned and bandaged them up, taking care to be gentle and reassuring the entire time.

On their way out of the pit, Adrian stood over the Queen's dead body and just looked at it for a moment. Then, he spat on her cold, dead face. The act seemed to release some tension within Adrian, and he exhaled heavily before hobbling to safety with his hand firmly attached to Y/N's.

Each member of the squad was overjoyed, not only because Adrian was back but also because Y/N wouldn't be so depressing to be around anymore. There was something odd, though. Adrian didn't make a sound. He'd usually be yapping at Peacemaker or calling John playful names, but not a single syllable passed his lips.

And, just like he was with the medic, when Chris tried to give his buddy a bear hug, Adrian hid behind Y/N. Chris nodded, looking a little taken aback but understanding nonetheless. "My bad, man. Sorry about that."

Their journey back to Evergreen was a long one, and it was mostly silent. The flight was filled with snores of various pitches from the squad, except for an occasional grunt from one of them when they shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

"Champ, baby, you should get some sleep," Y/N murmured to Adrian as she felt his shoulders tensing next to her, and the way his hands clenched into fists and gripping onto the plane seat. She knew he was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and she could help with that.

Lifting the arm between their seats, Y/N shifted to be in the optimal position to be a pillow for him. "C'mere," she cooed softly. Adrian hesitated for a moment, then leaned into Y/N's warmth and support, his cheek pressing against her collarbone. "Do you want me to play with your hair?"

He did a small, shy nod.

"Close your eyes, my love." Y/N's touch was so tender as her fingers brushed through his hair. As Y/N's fingers began to dance through Adrian's hair, he let out a long, shuddering sigh. The contact and her nearness were a balm to his battered soul, but he couldn't sleep. Not when there were other people in the room, so the rest of the flight passed in a haze of gentle touches and soft murmurs in an effort to keep him calm.

When they finally arrived back at Evergreen, the squad allowed the couple to go back to the Chase residence without having to do a mission report or give statements because Harcourt realised that neither of them were mentally ready for that just yet. Some things would have to wait, and that was okay.

Once they stepped through the familiar doorway of the Chase residence, Adrian paused for a moment to take it all in. He was home. He couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia as he saw his bookshelf with its collection of well-worn comic books, the photos of his parents that hung above the fireplace, the comfortable sofa where he used to spend countless evenings watching movies with his Gut, and the really unfashionable blankets that his grandmother loved wrapping up in on a cold night.

"Do you want some food, lovely?"

Thumbs up.

"Okay, we'll clean you up, eat, and then, how'd you feel about lounging in bed doing absolutely nothing for the next few days?"

Double thumbs up

So, that's what they did, and by the end of the night, he was feeling a little more like himself. It felt... nice. Warm. Safe. He looked like hell, but she still thought he was the most beautiful guy she'd ever seen.

While they lay in bed together, Y/N couldn't help but wonder about the changes in Adrian. It was like he was a different person, more reserved and withdrawn. She knew that what they'd been through wasn't easy for anyone, but she hoped that he would be able to find his way back to the old, cheerful self some time in the future. It may take a while, yet she was more than willing to help him along.

Facing each other, Y/N and Adrian were inches away from each other, their breath mingling in the air between them as he reached to trace a finger across her face. He was a little heavy-handed and clumsy in his movements, but Y/N didn't mind. She smiled, closing her eyes as she leaned into his touch.

Then, his focus shifted lower. Adrian's gaze drifted downward, his fingers tracing the curve of Y/N's neck, moving lower to her collarbone and down her sternum before trailing up to her shoulder. He lingered there for a while, drawing out the same shapes over and over again.

It took a few tries but Y/N realised that he was writing I ♡ U into her skin.

Y/N felt a warmth spread through her chest as she realised what he was doing. Her heart swelled. It was a simple gesture, and it meant so much, so she felt that it was necessary to repeat it on his shoulder.

An hour turned into two, three, however many, and the pair were wrapped up in the duvet. Their night together passed slowly, as if time itself was taking a break to allow them to savour every moment.

Over the next few weeks, the pair did everything they could to acclimatise Adrian back into 'normal' life. He was completely nonverbal and struggled with being around more than 5 people at once, so the couple were in the process of learning ASL online. To gain back the weight he'd lost in the pit, he was put on a diet that steadily increased his intake until he was firmly scarfing down hotdogs like he used to.

With time, Adrian began to improve. He started with small steps, like going to the nearby park for fresh air, and on one of those walks, they saw an old friend.

Dolores, the old lady that was nice to him when he worked at Fennel Fields, was feeding ducks when they heard her call out, "Oh my, Adrian! It's been so long! How are you doing, dear?" She hobbled over, using a cane to support her weight. Her wrinkled face lit up with a warm smile.

The sight of Dolores brought a grin to Adrian's face as he slowly made his way over to her. It was clear that he was still quite frail, but he seemed determined to make the effort. Y/N explained that he'd had an 'accident' and translated his signs for him, and Dolores's expression immediately turned sombre. She took his hand in hers.

"Oh, dear, I am so sorry to hear that, you poor thing." Dolores gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Well, you just take all the time you need, dear. It's good to see you out and about, and I'm sure that young lady here is taking excellent care of you."

They chatted for a little while longer, with Adrian becoming more outgoing as the conversation went on. It was clear that the old lady was a source of comfort and familiarity for him, and Y/N was glad they'd run into her because once they got home, Adrian began to search for his grandmother's knitting needles. He needed an outlet to pour his feelings into and knitting was perfect for that.

Sure, maybe it wasn't cool. But it was something he used to share with his grandmother, and that was a very grounding thing.

If he couldn't tell Y/N that he loved her out loud, he could show her through what he made. Every week, Y/N was presented with hats or cardigans or gloves or socks or quilts that Adrian had made for her until the majority of her wardrobe, even underwear, was knitted. They were all lovingly crafted, and each one held a piece of him.

Even his friends had the honour of gifts.

"Bro, these socks are literally so soft," Chris cheered, surprising everyone by not being a dickhead. Peacemaker then proceeded to take his shoes and his current socks off in front of everyone, and replace them with the new knitted ones.

"Put your dogs away," Leota complained half heartedly.

For the first time in ages, an audible noise omitted from Adrian's lips. The soft sound of Adrian's laughter filled the air. It was a beautiful, raw thing that made everyone around him smile.

After that, it was far more frequent for Adrian to make a sound. Not always laughter, but a chuckle or a grunt or even the odd curse word. Y/N couldn't help but beam every time she heard it, as if each sound was a small victory.

Yet, Emilia was the reason for his first full sentence. And his second.

As a treat, Y/N had bought a Halloween nurse's outfit online to make him laugh as she did one of his weekly checkups. It was short. It was slutty. And, Adrian burst into giggles upon seeing her, his cheeks flushed red due to pure delight, and reached out to grasp onto her hips.

"I hear you've been making progress, Mr Chase. Is that correct?" She asked, leaning into the character.

You're so sexy, he signed.

"Thank you very much, Mr Chase. Shall we start this examination?”

She did everything she usually did - blood pressure checks, listening to his heat rate with a stethoscope, checking his weight, etc. - but in a cropped, skin tight top with a neckline so low cut her boobs were practically spilling over the fabric and kept up the masquerade of porn professionality. Every other sentence she said was an innuendo in some way and guaranteed that Adrian was thoroughly amused by her performance.

Just before the check up was over, Emilia let herself into the house and came across the scene.

"Jesus, Y/N!" Harcourt screeched, covering her eyes in horror. "Almost your whole ass is out!”

Blushing, Y/N tried to pull the short skirt she was wearing down but it was no use, so she grabbed the nearest knitted blanket and covered herself with that instead. On his side, Adrian hurried to sit on the couch and yanked a pillow in front of his crotch.

"Is this what you two do all day?”

While Y/N quietly mumbled out a rebuttal, Adrian announced, "I wish this was what we did all day," in a voice that was wobbly from lack of use but firm in his belief behind the words. Yet, he did look shocked that he'd been able to speak at all.

Y/N beamed at his words, whereas Emilia, on the other hand, seemed to be struggling to decide whether she should be more horrified or amused by the situation - it made sense that Adrian would want to vocally express his horny thoughts, but did Y/N have to encourage them and kiss him directly after right in front of her?

Watching your baby sister do that, frankly, was gross to Emilia. Harcourt had never been one for lovey dovey shit. However, it was nice to see them happy. After all they'd been through, didn't they deserve a happy ending?

"You two are disgusting."

Eat a dick

"He said 'eat a dick'," Y/N laughed.

It was official: Adrian Chase was finding his voice again, and even if it was only to be as vulgar as he used to be.

"Well, that's... progress, I guess?" Emilia relented with a small smile. "Remember, Chase, I'm still your boss."

'You might be the boss, but I'm still banging your sister.'

Y/N let out a cackle at Adrian's comment. "Champ, if I translate that, she might kill you.”

Say it.

Emilia's eyes widened in shock at the translation, her mouth opening and closing several times before she managed to sputter, "Oh, you're lucky Squish is here, or I'll kick your ass."

He groaned out a "Bring it on" as a mischievous smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

Thanks to the shock, Emilia had completely forgotten why she came to see the duo in the first place and left before Adrian actually made her like him. She had sympathy for the guy, but ever since he got back, he'd been growing on her, and she just wanted to nip that in the bud.

As Emilia left, Y/N turned to face Adrian, a coy smile playing on her lips as she let the decency blanket drop. "So, Mr Chase... where were we before she interrupted us?" she purred, sliding her hand up his bicep.

With a grin that could only be described as wolfish, his large hands clutched at the back of her thighs to manoeuvre her onto his lap. Adrian looked her up and down, taking in her flushed face and the boobs right in his face.

Lollipop

"Ah."

Before Emilia had interrupted them, Y/N was trying to examine his pupils with a light, but every time her hand came close to his face, he licked it. The deal was if he'd restrain himself until the test was over, he could have a Chumpa Chump, and he won that reward.

"I think you deserve it, champ." She stretched to reach her first aid kit on the nearby coffee table and produced a lollipop from one of the pockets. "For you.”

Vigilante was rarely seen from that point on. Y/N returned to her life as a kindergarten teacher but fully moved to Evergreen to settle down with Adrian, whose online store where he sold his knitted creations was booming. Their life was a lot quieter than before and, yeah, less exciting but they were content. And even though they'd been forever changed by The Monarch Hotel, they were fucked up together.

Whether as themselves or as the horny newlyweds 'The Bardots', the couple found joy in life and each other. They had a home. Not too long in the future, they had silver bands on their ring ringers. And they had a happy ending despite everything life had thrown at them.

*Click here for my Adrian Chase masterlist, or here for the entire masterlist*

Wanna be added to a taglist? Either comment on this post or send me a message!

taglist: @sarahskywalker-amidala , @she-wolf09231982 , @afraidofshrimp ,@synthe4u, @navs-bhat

#adrian chase #vigilante #vigilante x reader #adrian chase x female reader #peacemaker #adrian chase x reader #adrian chase x y/n

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helenaheissner · 8 months

Text

A Dream of Summer Rain: Chapter 16 (Way Out in the Water)

Hello, lovelies! Don’t forget you can read up to 20 advance chapters of ADSR and 2 advance chapters of "Love During Robot Fighting Time" by pledging to my Patreon or Substack!

***

The second floor of the castle was where Morganna slept. This was the one Gwen had been looking forward to the most. Morganna waited for her in her room, a den of snakes and viper carcasses’ all feasted upon by an unkindness of ravens. They followed Morganna everywhere, just as the murder of crows followed Gwen close behind.

The crows flew in first to attack the ravens; the crows were smaller, but smarter and more vicious. The smaller birds feasted on their larger brethren throughout the room, all the while Morganna sat on her bed.

“I always knew this would happen,” Morganna said.

“You’ll burn in hell,” Gwen said. “The devil will take you, drown you in the Lake of Fire. You will feel nothing but agony for all eternity. And you’ll deserve all of it.”

Morganna smiled. “I can’t wait to see you there.”

Gwen once more put down her gun, and she let her Star hover overhead as she brought her fists down upon Morganna until her skull had caved in and there was nothing but the soggy red remains of her brain matter.

***

Danny drove his truck, while Gwen rode with Quentin in his RV. Joshua drove his own. And Lacy inexplicably found herself in Isabella’s winnebago. The Puerto Rican girl drove, while Lacy rode shotgun sitting on her hands. Lacy tried not to look at Isabella, but when her eyes darted over she saw the other girl was looking at her. Outside, a thousand identical trees passed by, while birdsong carried on the wind across the green-gray of the nature-lined highway.

“So,” Isabella said.

“Hm?”

“Where are you from?”

“Michigan,” Lacy said.

“Like, Detroit?”

“No, I’m from out in the sticks. North-central part of the state. Town called Dresden.”

“Small place?”

“Like 10,000 people.”

“Goddamn,” Isabella said. “What do you do for fun around there?”

Shit, what am I supposed to say? Lacy thought. Is this small-talk? How do I small-talk? “Shoot glass bottles, mostly.” Nailed it.

“That it?”

“No, occasionally we shoot squirrels, too. And sometimes each other.”

Isabella chuckled.

“So where are you from?”

“Boston.”

“Oh, cool.”

A momentary pause.

“Well?” Isabella said.

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you gonna ask to hear it? Everyone always does?”

“Hear what?”

“My accent. Aren’t you gonna ask me to say ‘park the car in the Harvard Yard?’”

“Why would I do that?”

“... You’ve never heard that before?”

“I, uh, have perhaps had a tendency to bury my head in the sand up until pretty recently.”

“Pft, fair enough. I used to do a lot of that myself. Before I hatched, I mostly just sat in my room all day listening to music.”

Lacy perked up. “What’d you listen to?”

“Well,” Isabella said, “Actually, pull open the glove compartment for me?”

Lacy obliged, and opened and reached in to find rectangular cartridges spilling out. “Oh shit, you have mixtapes! I’ve always wanted to make one of these- I love this shit.”

“You do?” Isabella said, her voice lilting upwards.

“Yeah! I mostly tinker with radios, but I have- er, had, I guess- a tape recorder and was gonna make a mixtape off some stuff I picked up at a pawn shop. But, uh, then my house got destroyed.”

“Oof. Been there.”

“You have?”

“Yeah. But, uh, stick this in, see if you like what I’ve got to offer,” Isabella said. And then she winked at her.

Lacy felt her own heart skip a beat. She just hoped her face didn’t look too stupid. She slid the tape into the player, and heard the opening notes to the Pixies’ ‘Where is my mind?’ She smiled, and she rewound it back to the beginning. “Stop,” she said, in time with the lyrics, and then she sang the rest of the song along with it. When the song ended, and it began to fade into the next one, Lacy’s face reddened as she realized she’d sung every word and hummed every note. She ejected the tape, and she looked away.

“Uhh… Whatcha doin’ there, Lacy?” Isabella said.

Lacy gulped. God, she’s beautiful, Lacy thought. “I, um,” Lacy said. “I’m sorry- that was really embarrassing.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Isabella said, putting the tape back in and hitting play. “This is embarrassing.” And then Isabella sang along with Nirvana’s ‘Dumb’ word for word, mangling every note. “I’m probably tone deaf,” Isabella said, chuckling.

Lacy laughed too.

“You’ve got a really good voice,” Isabella said.

“Uh… Thank you,” Lacy said, hoping she wasn’t blushing still.

“You wanna hear the rest of the tape?”

“Yeah!”

Lacy slid it back in, and listened to her mix of rock music beginning around ‘89 and ending around ‘05. When they came to a Mudhoney song, Lacy found herself singing again, and Isabella sang with her, laughing the whole way.

After another hour’s drive they stopped for gas at a station on a wide stretch of highway. The midwestern flat sprawled forever, and the sheer size and scope of the land dawned on Lacy in a way it never had before. Isabella fed gasoline into the tank of her RV, while Quentin, Joshua, and Danny did the same with their vehicles. Lacy looked up at the empty blue sky, squinting at the sight of the noonday sun hanging proudly above. “I’ve never actually left Michigan before this,” Lacy said, to nobody in particular.

“Shit, really?” Isabella said, taking a penny from her pocket and chucking it at Quentin, who caught it in his palm.

“Yeah. Dunno why that didn’t occur to me until now. Are we still in Wisconsin?”

“For the rest of the day, yeah,” Joshua said. “Should cross over into South Dakota tonight.”

“It’s just… Weird. I know how this sounds, but I guess I forgot how big the world is.”

“And how small it is,” Isabella said, almost to herself.

“This is only the fourth time for me,” Danny said. “And my first time out of the Great Lakes region.”

“You two are so young and sheltered,” Gwen said, smirking as she leaned against the side of Quentin’s winnebago and lit a cigarette.

They piled back into their vehicles. Lacy sat next to Isabella in the front seat, while the other girl drove down the highway through the flatlands. Farmers worked the fields as they drove by, tending to stalks of corn. “Wonder if I could do that,” Lacy said.

“Do what?”

“Have my own farm.”

“That something you’re interested in?” Isabella said with a chuckle.

“Maybe. I mean, I do have a green thumb. Why do you ask?”

“Just find it a bit weird.”

“How’s that?” Lacy said in a low tone.

“I’m a city girl,” Isabella said. “The idea’s a bit foreign to me.”

“Boston.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you guys do for fun there?” Lacy asked.

“Heroin, mostly. And tipping over cars when the Red Sox lose. Or when they win. Or… Anything involving the Red Sox, mostly.”

Lacy looked at her.

“That was a joke,” Isabella said.

“What’re the Red Sox?”

Isabella pulled over to the side of the road and parked the car. Her hands gripped tight on the wheel, and she stared directly ahead.

“What?” Lacy said, eyes wide with concern.

Isabella reached over Lacy’s lap to open the glove compartment. Lacy blushed. Isabella retrieved a tape from the compartment and jammed it into the player. “2004 American League Playoffs, Game Four highlights. Listen, and listen good.”

And so, as they drove south, Lacy listened. She figured out the rules to the game as she went, and she found herself getting caught up in it, cheering alongside Isabella as the game progressed.

“That answer your question?” Isabella asked. Night had descended upon the fields as the land grew emptier and harsher.

“Yeah,” Lacy smiled. She and Isabella both reached for the tape player, and their hands met atop the stereo.

For a moment, it all froze. Her hands were warm and soft, and Lacy wanted to hold onto them. Then, however, came the static. The radio burst to life, and the dials turned themselves as a hundred thousand voices came in a brutal cacophony. Finally, it settled: “-From Fresno, the remains of three missing persons have been found. A local street gang is suspected to be responsible for these brutal killings-”

Isabella froze.

The dials turned again.

The new voice was familiar. The lawman: Hannibal DeRosier. “-Suspect has vanished from the state of Michigan, we are now undergoing a federal investigation in pursuit of-”

Again.

“Be not afraid.” Drew.

Isabella pulled over again, parked the car, and froze solid. Her eyes were glazed over, her pupils dilated.

“Isabella?” Lacy asked. She reached to put a hand on the girl’s shoulder, but stopped herself. That would probably make the situation worse. So what would…

Lacy climbed out of the winnebago and stepped onto the dirt and fauna lining the road. She reached into the ground with her magic, felt the Stardust all around, and ignited a small bloom. A rose sprouted from the ground, sweet-smelling and clean. She plucked it, and went back into the car and held it beneath Isabella’s nose.

Isabella blinked, then noticed Lacy, then noticed the rose Lacy was holding near her face. Isabella blushed red as the flower, and Lacy felt her own cheeks running hot.

“Th-thanks,” Isabella said, taking hold of the flower, putting her hand briefly onto Lacy’s once again.

“No problem,” Lacy said, not letting go.

The car door burst open. Lacy jumped and cursed, and let go of Isabella’s hand. Gwen and Danny both burst in. Lacy’s head jerked around to look at them.

“Is everything alright?” Danny asked.

“Uh…”

“It happened again, didn’t it?” Gwen asked, looking at Isabella.

“Yeah,” Isabella said, exhaling heavily. She cracked her neck, then her knuckles.

“What happened?” Lacy said.

“One of my episodes,” Isabella said. She turned back to Gwen. “Why don’t we make camp for the night? We covered a lot of ground for today.”

“Good idea,” Gwen said.

Soon after that, they found a dirt road off of the highway that led to an empty field. They piled the RV’s and the truck onto the field and dug themselves a campfire. When they all sat beneath the stars, Isabella took a seat between Joshua and Quentin and stared straight into the flames. “So, when I was fourteen, something happened to me,” she said. She told them, of the fox, and of the Pale. She took World-Carver from its scabbard and held it by the handle, her hand trembling despite the tight grip.

When it was over, she looked up at the stars.

When it was over, Lacy looked up with her. How could she have that sword? That didn’t make any sense. That was the sword that the Chosen One had in Lacy’s dreams, the sword that killed her. And if it came from the Pale, then… That made the odds more likely.

No, no it wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be the person who would kill her. It didn’t make any sense.

“Thank you for listening, both of you,” Isabella said. “I get… Flashbacks, sometimes, where I’m kinda pulled back into where I was. It’s difficult, but I manage most of the time.”

“Not a problem, friend,” Danny said casually.

Lacy just stared. God she’s beautiful. Danny elbowed her in the ribs. “Right, yes, yes,” Lacy said. “Not a problem at all. Not one bit.”

Danny made that face he made where he was trying to stifle a laugh with mixed results. Isabella didn’t stifle hers, though, and it was more of a… Giggle then a regular laugh.

Lacy blushed.

Dinner was a modest affair of sandwiches they’d bought from a gas station earlier that day. They ate under the clear night sky, in the late spring wind. Eventually, Danny left them, saying he was going to go read. Joshua went to work on his knitting, and Gwen and Quentin excused themselves without saying where or to what they were going.

This left Isabella and Lacy alone around the dwindling fire.

Now or never. Lacy tapped her chest, and her Star emerged. May as well be direct. “You don’t happen to have one of these, do you?”

“What? No, of course not. I can’t even do magic. If I could, I wouldn’t be able to use World-Carver.”

“What do you mean-”

Isabella swung the sword, and reality ripped open. A golden and silver vortex sprang to life silently, a hole in the world. An identical hole emerged ten feet up above them. Isabella chucked a pebble through the lower portal, and the rock went through and then fell out the higher one. Lacy gaped. “Neat, huh?” Isabella asked.

“Yeah, I’ll say! But how come-”

“Mages can’t use magic artifacts,” Isabella said.

“They can’t?”

“Yeah. Nobody knows why, they just can’t. Quentin and Josh have both tried to use this thing, and nothing. Nada. No portals. For me, though, it works just fine for me.”

“Huh,” Lacy said. If this girl was telling the truth… IF… then… Then she couldn’t be the Chosen One. The Chosen One was a mage, a Starbound, and she was reasonably sure a druid like herself based on the wind and lightning and earthquakes they used on her in the dreams. This girl probably wasn’t the Chosen One… She’d just… Found their weapon, somehow. And brought it back with her from that place.

If this girl was telling the truth.

But Lacy wanted to believe it, and so she decided she would try to.

“So,” Isabella said, “Not to change the subject, even though that’s exactly what I’m doing: what did you think of the game?”

“I liked it,” Lacy said. “I’m not sure how much I understand the rules, but-”

“Okay, but how’ve you never heard of baseball?”

“I’ve heard of it, I just don’t know the rules.”

“It’s America’s pastime,” Isabella said, brushing an errant strand of hair from her eyes.

“I’m from Michigan. I prefer hockey.”

“Oh my God, you are so very white,” Isabella giggled.

“Pfft. Can’t really argue with that.”

They went about talking for a while after that, even as the fire faded into embers and ashes. Lacy and Isabella laid flat on the ground, next to the dying fire on opposite sides, parallel, looking up at the night sky, just talking and enjoying each other’s company.

***

“Hey, let’s go shopping,” Isabella said.

“Hm? Oh, uh, why?” Lacy asked.

Isabella tried not to sigh, but rather kept pressing forward. They were in another trailer park a few miles outside of a small Nebraska town called Vogel, a flat, nondescript place where Harry had been waiting for them, wrenching on an engine the size of a sedan, pouring over his blueprints. One day she’d get him to explain how he was everywhere all the time. One day. Today was not that day, however- today was a sunny, warm spring day in a very, very flat place. She could see for miles in each direction, and everything seemed to lead her back to this girl. “Well, mostly because you’ve been wearing the same two outfits for over a week now. If for no purposes besides the practical, you should probably-”

“Oh God,” Lacy said, looking down at her black blouse and blue jeans that she’d worn the past five days in a row. It probably didn’t help that they’d all been bathing in rivers, but still.

They stood on the hard packed dirt surface between the various winnebagos, around the dead campfire. Danny sat there drinking straight vodka out of a hip flask even though it was one in the afternoon- God, that guy was a mess. He was Lacy’s oldest friend, and he’d been dragged into this whole thing pretty unexpectedly, but still, he did not know how to cope without hitting the bottle. Lacy, for her part, was standing behind him pacing back and forth- she’d been doing it for hours.

This girl couldn’t be the one, could she? There was no way.

“So, shopping? We passed a mall on the way here,” Isabella said.

“Yes, let’s!” Lacy said. She turned around to face Gwen, who was leaning against the side of her and Quentin’s trailer smoking a cigarette. “Hey, Gwen, do you wanna come shopping with us? Girls day?”

Isabella’s heart hollowed and her shoulders slumped.

Gwen took a long drag on her cigarette, her eyes darting back and forth between Lacy and Isabella. Finally, she breathed out a puff of smoke, and said, “No, I think I’ll hang back.”

Oh thank God, Isabella thought.

“Are you sure? It’ll be fun,” Lacy said.

Dammit.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Gwen said.

YES!

“Aw. Why not?” Lacy asked.

FUCK’S SAKE! Gwen took another long drag. “Because I was gonna take advantage of the kids being out of the house and have loud, kinky sex with Quentin, stuff involving chains and floggers, and with your whole super-hearing thing I don’t think you’ll wanna be within a hundred yards of that.”

Lacy went tomato-red. Danny down his entire flask in one gulp, then took a fresh flask from the breast pocket of his red flannel shirt. Isabella mouthed a ‘thank you’ at Gwen, who winked at her. After that, Danny tossed Isabella the keys to his truck and gave her a nod and a thumbs up- maybe he wasn’t all bad. She herded Lacy into the truck, and they drove towards Vogel. Isabella turned on the radio, and they were immediately met with news reports about a rash of murders in Chicago- which, given that it was Chicago, meant it must’ve been even worse than usual to be newsworthy. She turned it until she found a heavy metal station, and Lacy began instinctively headbanging to the tunes of Five Finger Death Punch. God, this girl has no idea how adorable she is, does she?

“Your face is red- are you alright? Do you have a fever?” Lacy asked after a moment.

“Er- no, no. I’m just… A bit sunburnt,” Isabella said hurriedly.

“Oh, gotcha.”

A faint ringing in Isabella’s ears warned her about this, about the possibility of getting attached. If this girl was the one she was supposed to kill, that she’d promised the Elf-King she would kill… She didn’t know if she’d be able to go through with it. Lacy was too nice, too sweet, too… Pure, quite frankly. And maybe that wasn’t always a good thing, but for Isabella it was a refreshing change of pace. And Lacy had cute dimples and a nice butt, both of which were things Isabella appreciated… Your judgment is cloudy here, chica, she thought. Maybe it’s not her, though. Maybe this is a coincidence.

“It’s a shame Gwen couldn’t come along,” Lacy said.

“Hey, so, uh,” Isabella started. Don’t say don’t say it don’t say it- “I was wondering: how do you feel about Gwen?” FUCK, I SAID IT- WHY??!

“She’s cool. I trust her,” Lacy said, resting her head on the window.

“No, I mean, how do you FEEL about her?”

“She’s a good teacher and a good friend. Danny seems uncomfortable around her- I’m not sure why. But other than that-”

“That’s not what I- I mean do you like her? Are you attracted to her?” WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME WHY DID I FUCKING SAY THAT-

“I mean she’s a good looking lady, I’ve got eyes, but no, I don’t like her like that. She’s not really my type,” Lacy said with an innocent grin. “Why? Do you like her? Are you hoping to invoke a certain Mormon tradition with her and Quentin?” The grin turned less than innocent at that moment; one might even call it ‘shit-eating.’

“Um- no, no definitely not,” Isabella said. “Quentin’s not really my taste in guys, and I don’t wanna complicate anything for them. And Gwen IS gorgeous, don’t get me wrong, but I guess I’m just not into people who are taller than me.”

Lacy looked like something was beginning to dawn on her. “Oooohhhhh.”

“W-what? What’s that mean?”

“So do you want me to set you up with Danny, then? Is that what this is about?”

“What? No. He’s not my type either.”

“You said you like people who are shorter than you and he’s an inch shorter than-”

“I meant more like you,” Isabella said, then instantly put a hand over her mouth. She parked the car and sat there a moment while Lacy stared at her. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean that- I-”

“Cool,” Lacy said, hearts practically visible in her eyes.

Isabella began playing with her hair, then caught herself and stared at her treacherous hand.

“You’re really cool,” Lacy said. “You’re easy to talk to and to be quiet around as well- that’s not a lot of people for me. I’ve never really met someone like you before, and I’m really glad I’m getting the chance to. I wasn’t really sure when you asked me to do this with you, so I invited Gwen as a buffer just in case. She’s gotten good at catching me before I talk without thinking- she and Danny are kind of similar like that. But I’m glad we could clear things up.”

Isabella started driving again, the streets growing more crowded as she entered Vogel. Okay, okay, this was a good sign, she trusted her.

“And… If I may be so bold… You’re absolutely beautiful,” Lacy said.

There it was. In spite of how she was the rest of the time, when Lacy had decided on something, how she felt about it, she gained this confidence that was… Appealing, if slightly jarring. Isabella was sure she was still red, but she kept driving. “Thank you. You are too.”

And then Lacy started giggling and playing with her own hair.

I’m not gonna be able to kill this girl, Isabella thought. That might pose a problem.

But as they arrived at the mall, it became a problem Isabella was content to ignore.

The Vogel Mall was an underwhelming affair, only one story with only twelve stores, but the wide-eyed look on Lacy’s face indicated that this would do nicely. She really was from out in the sticks if this constituted a proper mall for her, but in Isabella’s opinion every girl had to start somewhere. So they started with pants, ones with a more feminine cut, but about a size too big so as not to hug Lacy’s crotch too much. They moved onto shirts, tops, and blouses.

When they got to underwear, Lacy asked, “I don’t know how much I really need bras.”

“Right now, you mean,” Isabella said. “Are you planning on starting hormones at some point?”

“Uh, I didn’t really think that far ahead, but now that you mention it, yeah I’d like to.”

“Then you’re gonna need some bras as the girls grow in,” Isabella said. She took a bra off the rack and held it over Lacy’s chest, and the girl’s crooked smile said she didn’t mind the physical contact.

After that was the fun stuff- dresses and skirts. Getting to wear those had been one of Isabella’s favorite parts of transitioning, and from her reaction to the sun dresses and knit dresses and maxi dresses, Lacy’s was of a similar stripe. She spent two hours trying them on and taking them off, putting on a fashion show for Isabella.

“Come here,” Isabella said, handing her a pair of shoes with three inch heels. “I’ll show you how to walk in these.” She put her hands on Lacy’s hips and guided through the motions, heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe. Lacy’s giddiness reached new heights- she looked like she was practically drowning in gender euphoria.

“I want to buy all of the dresses! All of them, I say!” Lacy said, happy and greedy and smiling, hand on Isabella’s as they sat at a bench together sipping cherry smoothies.

“Well you can buy ONE of them,” Isabella said. “They’re not super practical for our lifestyle, but it is good to have a few nice things. You’ll never know when you’ll need them, or just when you’ll want them.”

“Fair enough,” Lacy acquiesced. “God, I can’t believe I used to think all this was stupid.”

Isabella cocked an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“I, um, used to have this problem where I resented other girls because I knew I was one but I couldn’t… Do anything about that. And they got to be girls, and it looked fun, all the things girls do for themselves and each other, but I told myself it was stupid so I didn’t have to feel like I was missing out.”

“Did it work?”

“No, it just made me incredibly depressed,” Lacy said with a wide smile.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Isabella said, raking a hand through her hair.

“I take it you never went through that phase?” Lacy asked.

“No, not really. I came out when I was ten, and my parents, rest in peace, were pretty cool about everything. Honestly, I think my mom was excited to finally have a daughter,” Isabella said. Wait, she mentioned that her parents sucked; maybe I shouldn’t mention my-

“What were they like?” Lacy said. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

A sinking feeling went through Isabella’s stomach, hollowing a pit and threatening to drag down all rational thought. “I, um, I don’t really wanna talk about them.”

Lacy nodded. “Okay.”

“Thank you… For being understanding,” Isabella said.

“And thank you,” Lacy said. “For taking me here. I needed this. Life lately has been, uh, stressful. To say the least.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Isabella said. “Glad I could help.”

After that they drove back to the campground, and kept talking about clothes, and about music, and about where they’d grown up, and about anything else that came to their minds. Anything except what Isabella was most worried about, which she tried to limited avail to put out of her mind. I’m not gonna be able to kill this girl.

***

Hello, lovelies! Don’t forget you can buy the official ebooks for MGES and ADSR here:

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existentialmagazine · 1 year

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Review: Jared Harper's newest indie anthem 'Picture' entangles a thrilling romance with a warm, bouncy assortment of sound

With his catalogue garnering over 1,000,000 streams across platforms, the upcoming indie and bedroom pop blended artist Jared Harper has rather defined his sound and identity already, but still remains relatively unknown to the masses. Taking inspiration from a wide array of talents such as The Strokes, Arctic Monkeys, Oasis, The Beatles, and most noticeably John Mayer, Jared’s work incorporates stylings in a patchwork you just can’t help but love and feel instantly familiar with. Now bearing his latest single ‘Picture’, Jared continues his streak of memorable indie releases you just can’t get enough of.

Getting itself engrained into your mind as an addictively mesmerising earworm right from the get-go, ‘Picture’ doesn’t waste a second from pressing play before cascading your ears with vibrant indie and bedroom pop tones that flow with a masterful ease. Bounding beats set the groovy swaying of the soundscape immediately, complemented by euphoric electric guitar and of course some soothing vocal ‘ooh’s that draw their way into the opening chorus. With a steady beat that encourages you to clap along, as well as a funky riff and Jared’s smooth vocals, this quick chorus snippet pulls you right into the experience of ‘Picture’ and makes sure you don’t get lost along the three minute journey it has to provide. As the verse fizzles into just striking beats and synth tones, the track’s focus shifts immensely onto Jared’s sugary sweet vocal performance, charismatically cruising through a lower-toned almost spoken-sung approach. But he’s quick to shift into a soaring higher range for some added chorus’ flair, constantly leaping through his bouncy pacing and easily danceable atmosphere sure to be the anthem of the summer.

Serenading your newest romance, Jared seemingly writes of a new partner he can’t help but fantasise about the future with, regardless of how little time their lives have been intertwined. As the chorus hook alludes to this romanticised dream of what could come, Jared sings ‘I see us in a picture baby’, a nod towards the potential of what he sees in his newest lover. While entangled within this thrilling affair the lovebirds seem to lose touch with reality as the lyrics admit ‘while we’ve been running wild, I hear the winds are changing’, a perhaps self-aware indication that Jared has fallen deep into this fantasy world of what could be, no longer living in reality. Determined to make it work, lines like ‘now I’m holding on to my point of view’ are almost stubborn in their adamance that they’re soulmates destined to be, watching their lives unfold in front of them and refusing to believe anything else. It’s sweet and yet a little bit of a reality check too, capturing all the butterflies of a new romance and the excitement it brings of what could be, whilst still prodding not to lose track and fall too deep too fast.

Check out ‘Picture’ for yourself here to enjoy the infectious indie sound Jared has coined, as well as the equally feel-good narrative it comes with!

Written by: Tatiana Whybrow

Photo Credits: Unknown

// This coverage was created via Musosoup, #SustainableCurator.

#music #singlereview #jaredharper

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tragedienes · 2 years

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@conlvbrisa continued from here because i messed up the formatting on the original post lol

summer had always been careful. ever since the first time she killed someone, she had been nearly meticulous in her routine, her modus operandi. everything she did when she indulged in her favorite hobby was planned thoroughly; the before, the during, the after. she'd pick a victim, kill them, dispose of them, all without a witness or evidence left behind. she was twenty-one the first time she took a life, when she realized she could actually do something with the intense, burning rage she felt at nearly every moment. when she realized the urges she had to kill didn't have to be suppressed, that she could relieve that pressure in her chest in the form of murder and get away with it, too. well, until now... the person that came across her in her most vulnerable state almost seemed more confused than scared of her. summer, the meticulous planner that she was, didn't know what to do. it felt like an old western stand-off, them standing there with their hands up and her with the knife outstretched. she watched their feet, looking for the slightest twitch that suggested they were going to run off. she had built up that routine, cleaning up after herself so the police, as clueless as they were, would never discover her identity. for some stupid reason, summer never thought what about what she would do if someone came across her in the middle of the act. she thought it was impossible, that she was too good at the art of killing. the few times she did ponder what would happen if she was caught, she assumed she'd just dispose of them, too. "am i just supposed to believe you?" summer countered, adjusting her grip on the handle of the knife. even if she did let them go, what was to stop them from telling the authorities? their question caused summer to laugh, surprising herself. what reason did she have? did she even need a reason? not in her mind, no. it was their punishment for existing in the world the same time as summer sung. "he was a man in a bar. i saw him, i wanted him dead." she spoke truthfully, an odd sensation for her. she had always lied to everyone, keeping so many bloody secrets. as arbitrary as the reason was, she thought it was enough of a justification. she killed white business men she met in swanky bars because they were, satistically, the least often to be murdered by a serial killer. she wished she did it as revenge for her gender, but really she did it because it made the most sense to target that demographic. "what are you doing here in the middle of the night?" she asked, as no one came to a dark, abandoned warehouse to pet puppies or feed the unhoused. if they were doing something similarly uncouth, maybe she could blackmail them into keeping their mouth shut.

#conlvbrisa #* narrative. summer sung.#* thread. summer & finnick.#murder tw #OKAY NEVERMIND. i severely f'd up the original post so here we go again

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alicetiermes · 2 years

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THE LAST SHADOW PUPPETS - EVERYTHING YOU'VE COME TO EXPECT

31 August, 2016. By ALICE PYLYPENKO. For The Genius Trash.

Surreal, baroque, and in matching tracksuits, The Last Shadow Puppets explore dazzling imagery of life in California with an immaculate sophomore album, Everything You’ve Come To Expect.

Miles Kane (left) and Alex Turner (right) by Zackary Michael, 2016.

First impressions of this century’s glam-rock band’s return are dizzying. After all, they are the synopsis of an eight year hiatus, written in some Seventies California dream.

The Last Shadow Puppets second album, Everything You’ve Come To Expect, which debuted in April, is a long-awaited surprise. It is the orange-tinged poolside, the salacious, barely-buttoned shirts, the inebriated confessions and vague retellings. The Shadow Puppets speak a language of their own, adore David Bowie, and are now pitching Gainsbourgian pieces on electric guitar.

Alex Turner (left) and Miles Kane (right) by Zackary Michael, 2016.

A rare rock baroque experience, Everything You’ve Come To Expect is delightfully dichotomous. The title track is a psychedelic blank verse, reciting references to Nancy Sinatra, the Beatles, David Bowie and Joy Division. It’s chorus is a dreamy back and forth croon. Aviation, with a particularly puppety sound, is exciting and full of remarkable metaphors, while shimmery Miracle Aligner sounds almost classical, fit to play from a gold-needled record player when you are at your happiest.

Dracula Teeth could be the soundtrack to an old Italian horror, with dainty French phrases and moody orchestral sound. The complexity which comes with the fitting string parts (courtesy of Canadian composer extraordinaire, Owen Pallett) adds to the cinematic quality of band’s vision. This fiction-telling shines inn The Element Of Surprise, sung in soft voices spinning stories. The more contentious tune is Bad Habits, catchy and gritty and flaunting Miles Kane’s virtuosity with yelling and the guitar. A country-tinged ballade, Sweet Dreams, TN, has Alex Turner exhibiting his vocal talents, which prevails in the band’s cover of Bowie’s “Moonage Daydream”. The heated Used To Be My Girl is full of iambic lines and catchy brilliance.

Listen to The Last Shadow Puppets — Everything You've Come To Expect.

The supergroup title is clearly earned in many aspects besides Kane and Turner’s fame outside of TLSP. Every tune features some unmistakable identity of the Shadow Puppets. She Does The Woods, as widely believed, is a ridiculously poetic innuendo. The semantics are only fully clear to Kane and Turner, but perhaps that is part of their thing. Pattern, a personal favourite, is an avant-garde short film. Vocally and musically beautiful, it turns the venue into an intimate, dim-lit bar.

The Dream Synopsis, is an earnest retelling of an abstract dream. The lyrical weirdness takes us to a phantasmagoric rendition of LA, as it overtakes Turners dreams and hints at the inner turmoils of glamorous rockstar life. Introspective track The Bourne Identity reminds of a lovely acoustic improvisation, remarking on identity and its loss.

The Last Shadow Puppets at Webster Hall, NYC, 11th April 2016, by Alice Pylypenko.

Recording in Rick Rubin’s Shangri La Studios in Malibu, the Shadow Puppets have stepped a little ways away from the Scott Walker influence, although they still love him, and entered the chambers previously inhabited by the likes of The Style Council and Jacques Dutronc. The album cover is graced by dancing Tina Turner saturated in orange.

Perhaps inspired by the idea of film, Everything You’ve Come To Expect invites the listener to take an emotional summer dip into la piscine of introspection and attraction, soundtracked by the Puppets’ psychedelic pop tunes, of course.

The Last Shadow Puppets at Webster Hall, NYC, 11th April 2016, by Dana Yavin.

The complex, referentially-rich album betrays spectacularly unkempt behaviour and appearance of the duo. Not in a bad way, rather, no artificial effort is involved in their performance. Kane and Turner effortlessly construct the setting of gold-rimmed bohemia, a smoky hyper-reality, one where the audience is on the edge of an intimate scene. Miles Kane is a wired rock star, and Alex Turner is his darker accomplice. Their connection flares onstage.

When I see them in New York, and later in Berlin, they are unbelievably vibrant. They tour a full 5 months and remain elated and magical, vocally brilliant and musically talented. If anything, they continuously add more to their repertoire. I’m lucky to witness their take on the Beatles’ “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” and David Bowie’s “Moonage Daydream.” They perform with overt pleasure. They play and reflect off of one-another, talented and eager.

The Last Shadow Puppets, Columbiahalle, Berlin, 23rd August 2016, by Alice Pylypenko.

The Last Shadow Puppetsaccomplish in attitude, fashion, scenery, sound and lyrics, and even the secret language with which they seem to imbue their music. The backbends and the dancing, embracing, jovial singing and rockstar extravagance. The dimly-lit concert halls and falling petals, orange and blue lighting. Matching as a mod mob with a rock’n’roll orchestra.

The end of their tour poses the questions – “when can you come back again?”

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thegoldenreport · 2 years

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FORBIDDEN STICK

It’s the question of the hour.

We want to know.

Who has the forbidden stick?

It is important to realize that this is not a plaything or some cool relic to hoard as a souvenir. If you have the stick, please return it immediately.

Camp season has ended and the stick is missing, no longer resting over the wide bookcase at the back of the lodge. No longer protecting us.

We hope you had a good summer. We hope you recognize the value of a sturdy canoe and have taken to it as your primary mode of transportation. We hope the chip injected into your left temple is whispering songs we sung together every night at campfire. We hope you never forget them. We hope you are following it’s instructions.

But amidst all the fun, all the green cloaks, all the dinner parties with the King, our forbidden stick was stolen. You do not understand the consequences if we are not to get it back.

It must have been before lunch on a Tuesday. The last week of camp before close. Our cameras show a ragtag group of teens split off from the ceremony. Apparently able to move by themselves without vocal order from the King. A result of their chips suspiciously malfunctioning. How rude and inconsiderate.

They carried themselves away and into the lodge. The scrawny one emerged with the stick behind his back. The others followed, giggling as he tossed it to them back and forth. Our artifact. A delicate thing. They weaved their way through the King’s dance. Avoiding the grasping hands of our green cloaks and escaping to the parking lot.

That is when they vanished. In thin air.

It took us three months to track them down. Each had somehow adopted a new identity. Each seemed to suffer some level of memory loss. We took them back into our custody. We fixed their broken chips. We thought this would be simple. But no.

The stick is still missing. And while our thieves are now more productive members of the Floodpain family, none can tell us what happened to it.

So we are asking you. You, the reader.

Please contact us through the Golden Report is you have any information on a gnarled, twisted stick, approximately six feet in length and slathered in a bright, aqua teal paint. Winds are already shifting, changing. The air tastes acidic. The underbelly is groaning. Camp Floodpain is losing the stronghold.

Return the stick.

Or suffer the complete upending of time and space as we know it.

#forbidden stick #the golden report #issue 45 #original #writing #surreal #weird #dark #unreality #camp floodpain

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agentmmayy · 2 years

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august rotation

sorry for the little delay in posting this! school started up and it’s been hectic, but here’s some of the top songs i had on repeat during the month of august and boy was it a hot month for music

hold the girl- rina sawayama: this song makes my ears orgasm!!!!!!!!!!! the vocals!!!! the BEAT!!!!! the lyrics!!!!! teach me the words i used to know, reach inside and hold you close, i won’t leave you on your own it’s about healing now and healing your younger self and trying not just to hold onto to who you were but to comfort them and hold them close. the entire song is a love letter to your inner child. everything about it sends me through the roof but especially the absolute magical moment between 3:17-3:30 HOLY SHIT!!!!!!!! OH MY GOD!!??!!?!?!?!! INSANE. BITING AND RIPPING THINGS AND CRYING!!!!!!!

it gets dark - sigrid: this song is so punchy i LOVE it. it’s about finding your own path and self and making a life and reaching those little pitfalls and stumbles but still having hope and learning lessons through them!! it’s about it getting dark so you can see the stars!!!! definitely a montage-worthy song. could definitely picture myself walking down a street or in a moving vehicle/train/bus at night listening to this

the boys of summer - first aid kit: i love first aid kit so much and honestly? this is how this song was supposed to be sung. no i don’t take criticism. it’s achingly sweet and soft and nostalgic for that last breath of summer august chased away.

out of my head - first aid kit: imo this is their best song to date. they just keep getting better and better. i couldn’t group it with the previous one because of that. it deserves to have its own little paragraph for me to talk about it. the instruments, the vocals, the lyrics. they know just when to pull back and push harder and it makes for suuuuuch a good listening experience. also the harmonies are *pinches earbud wire like pacha* so good. sometimes you DO have to get out of your head to truly see yourself and wonder who you are and where you’re going. stuck inside my dreaming, falling behind shook me. unrelated but i feel like this is a song i’ve heard in the background of my dreams before

shadows - bears den: @preux-chevalier put me onto this song and i haven’t stopped listening to it since. first of all the strings throughout are gorgeous. i’m always a sucker for a violin. second of all- the devotion woven into every line of this is breathtaking. it’s so earnest and loving and yeah i DO want someone who wants me and all my shadows

if it’s not god - maddie zahm: listen. i was attacked. wig? snatched. it captures that wrestling with religion and beliefs you grew up with and finding your own identity and what/how you want to believe. the line in particular what father picks a few just to leave the rest? SCALPED me. holding onto blorbo-ing this for the tags. but the cover art??????????? HELLO???

lucid dreaming - alice kristiansen: this was just rude. still haven’t recovered. never will. it has the rawness very few songs have that just guts me to the core and scrapes everything out without remorse. i had to sit quietly for a bit and just stare at the wall after my first listen. every lyric hits so fucking hard. the entire song is a repeated sucker punch to the stomach. it leaves me winded and aching. i can’t pin point a favorite lyric or else i’d be putting the entire song on this post but this one in particular made me lose my mind: are you tired? are you sleeping? cause i woke up with your ghost again. but the lyrics aren’t the only part doing the heavy lifting in the song because alice kristiansen’s voice is so delicate and the way she sings every line... literally no one else could perform this song as well as she does and that’s that.

the watching silence - michael & michelle: this duo has the most delicious harmonies and songs that simultaneously hurt me and comfort me. the chorus is pure perfection and i’ve caught myself singing it multiple times when it’s stuck in my head

canyon moon - andrew mcmahon in the wilderness: talk about songs that make me get up and dance!!!!!!! i literally can’t help myself whenever i listen to this song and for that reason i simply cannot play it whenever i’m working or in the studio. andrew mcmahon delivers banger after banger and this is one of the best ones. i crank that shit up!!!!!!!!!!!!!

dance away the pain - number one popstar: got read to filth by this. i enjoy how hopeful it is and ofc it’s an absolute bop but a very specific one. as @whatdoyoumeanif said, it has sad twerking and disco ball vibes. the type of song you hear for the last call in an empty karaoke bar

#if it's not god went right onto the eddissy playlist just for chrissy cunningham #wheeeewee #also bestie #the only reason i haven't left a very thick and in depth review is because whenever i try to listen all the way through #i ALWAYS GET STUCK AT CANYON MOON AND PLAY IT LIKE 10 TIMES #not included was august by taylor swift bc like. hello. obviously i had that on repeat and so did you and everyone else #august rotation #monthly rotation playlist #monthly round up #ness listens to music #actually obsessed with rina sawayama thanks #i had lucid dreaming right before why should i worry from the oliver and company sound track on my playlist #and boy did i get whiplash every time

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

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King of Cups || Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Hanged Man

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | eight

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: After some time apart, new conclusions are met.

Word count: 7.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT, fingering, unprotected piv sex, emo emo emo (are we even surprised any more), mature themes, abandonment/family trauma, loss

Notes: Friends, wow. I'm honestly embarrassed by how long this took. Thank you for your patience. I hope you find the reward worth the wait. This chapter is nearly all in Din's POV until it switches and blends in the last chunk. If you’re new to KOC, you’re more than welcome to start at this chapter! Love you guys x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

“Din.”

Familiar fingers brush through his hair, a hand he knew once combing over his overgrown locks. He feels the drag of nails across his scalp, tucking a truant curl behind his ear, and the act feels like home— like hearth.

Somewhere beyond his open window a morning bird trills, perched in its roost nestled into the forked branch of the elm.

He breathes a sigh, the sound thick with sleep, and turns to his pillow, burying himself deeper into the linen.

“Din, honey.”

He blinks— lazily, molassesed— her shape clearing into focus.

Green eyes peer back at him, fine lines framing the corners of them, and crescents crease around her lips, pulled warm into a soft curve.

Small toys— wooden things, baubles and bits, dolls made from scraps of old fabric—litter the floor, spilling from the chest butted against the stone of the wall. A book, well-loved and dog-eared, rests on his nightstand—the one he insisted she read from each night, the story he couldn’t possibly fall asleep without hearing—the images written on the page, dancing in his small mind to the tune of her voice.

It’s all there now as it was then before.

“It’s time to wake up.”

She sits at the edge of the bed—his bed—the weight of her arm draped over his shoulder like a blanket— like shelter. Like never being fearful again. Like never dying. Like summer, forever.

“I am awake,” he murmurs, and it is with his own tongue that he speaks. Not that of a boy, but a man—unfiltered, unmodulated. Stripped of his helmet, he hardly recognizes the tenor of it, of its richness, but he feels the words reverberate against the hollow of his throat and he knows they belong to him.

Light casts through the window behind her—particles of dust, trapped in the tines. Floating there, suspended on strings.

She only smiles, and strokes a thumb across the sweep of his cheekbone, there in the room he last felt safe.

“No, not yet.”

It’s time to wake up. It’s time to wake up. Wake up wake up wake—

“Not yet.”

His eyes blur open with a flutter of his lashes, the lifeless durasteel ceiling coming into view—the jade of her gaze fading, fading. Blowing away.

He shifts a hand through his hair— through the long strands in dire need of trimming— lying on his bedroll, spine knobbing into the thin mattress. The cold metal overhead stares back at him.

His chest rises. Falls.

Din can still feel her, the warmth of her, there on his cheek.

///

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He knows what you’re thinking, he can see it in the guard you’ve encased yourself with— your glass walls, your glass house. Transparent but impenetrable, Din can only look. A spectator, watching as you go about your routines— a stranger on the outside.

And he sees how you look at him.

You think he’s fine.

You think he’s marble. Unbreakable. Impervious to time, to cold, and he does nothing to correct you; no, he allows the belief. He lets you believe the calloused veneer of his beskar— lets you assume he is more machine than man.

Din thought it would be simpler. Convenient. Din thought it would hurt less.

Because how can he tell you? How can he possibly communicate the imprint you’ve left on him— how his mind revolves around the imagery of that evening in vicious figure-eights. How he can’t unremember your heat curling around his fingers, how he can’t unbridle the pulse of his cock in your palm. How he can’t unspeak that which he called you, his virgin tongue flicking new and flighty around the word.

Cyare.

It tripped—in the midst of his pleasure, it sprang clumsy from him how the inevitable always seems to where you are concerned: transport to Coruscant, his past, his history, his identity— it just happens, reasonless, illogically. Some driving magic beckoning him to buckle, wishing him to give.

Your moans, your gasps, how you prayed his name— this is the white noise murmuring through the ship, harmonizing with the tinny mechanical beeps and settling groans of the bulkheads. You churn like smog through his helmet. Ever present, the memory of you is constant— invasive. It’s suffocating him.

He’s been dealt plenty of injuries and contusions— he has the scars enough to prove it— but it’s this. It’s this that’s killing him. It’s you.

All of these paintings, life-like and lurid, and yet it is this wound - untended, uncauterized - that scalds most: the moment Din, that beskar apparition, slipped away from you. You were there, hip under the weight of his glove, and he simply

went, like fog.

He watched your face crest and fall—felt your heart, skipping nervous like a stone over a morning pond, little waves rippling lightly, lightly out and out until it puttered quiet and

sank.

He abandoned you there. He left you before you had the opportunity to convince Din that you wouldn't do the same to him. Because Din has learned this, his suit of armor a trudging reminder of the inherent fact: good things leave.

You’ll be gone soon. You’ll leave him—he’s taking you home and you’ll leave him. His son will leave him.

He’ll be alone again. He’ll have the Crest, he’ll have the Guild—he’ll have the life he once cast in stone for himself, the life he’s worn as proudly as the Mudhorn emblem he boasts on his pauldron. But that was then - before - and he can never find his way back to that now; now that he knows what he knows—of breakfast and bitter caf and laughter like church bells and warmth and goodness and you.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

There in the galley, lamp-lit iridescence caressing your countenance, you asked him once if he was scared of anything and he told you he wasn’t sure— not yet.

Din lied.

As a rule, he doesn’t make a habit out of dishonesty; it doesn’t typically suit him, he is blunted to a fault— earning allies and enemies alike with the very attribute—but he lied to you then. Maybe his fears are the same as everyone else’s, maybe they’re simple. Human.

Maybe he’s scared that you’ll unchain him from his armor, of his shortcomings and tragic flaws and see the pulpy heart of him—that you’ll look and look and look, and you will like nothing that you find there. That he’s just a man.

And perhaps, he’d rather remain unknown than risk the chance of being unlovable.

For there is a certain hollow you befriend in the aftershock of loss—there is an aperture loss gores you with. There are some holes time can never fill; they remain trenched, dug from rusted trowels— left to fester, left to ill.

Sometimes, in the surly vacuum of space, in those dulled moments in which he has nothing but to count the seconds as they tick clocklessly away, Din attempts to conjure the last word his mother gave to him. He didn’t know it then—he didn’t know it was intended as a gift, boxed and ribboned and bowed. He didn’t realize—a child, wide-eyed with naivety, drenched in fright—that he should cherish it. Remember it. Keep it safe.

No matter how hard he tries, how hard he strains, he can’t recall it. He practices the nightmared memory of it, transports himself into that war zone, dodging shrapnel and brimstone just to catch sight of her face— and he can see her lips moving, can feel the fan of the flames as his world is reduced to cinders, but he cannot hear her.

Was it goodbye? Was it I love you? Was it be safe? Was it hide? Hide hide hide for me. Be good and hide, kind boy—

It dogs him. The nothinged mumble, his silent passenger.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He heard you. There in Valentia, the city buzzing cacophonously like an orchestra tuning their instruments, he overheard the Twi’lek translate for the older woman.

Family, she said. You have a beautiful family.

Din has never in his life considered forsaking his Creed— forgoing the thing that saved him, made him, honed him to tungsten, sharp as a blade.

But he did then.

It was a flash, something fickle and brief— like the flicker of a candle before it diffused to smoke— but in that nanosecond he saw himself ripping off his helmet. He saw himself going to you, pulling you close to his plated chest. He saw the surprise wash over you—the shock that bubbled to elation. He saw you smile, that crippling gorgeous thing, with his own naked eyes and—

And then suddenly you were there before him, snapping Din from his reverie, blanket snug to your chest, the child — his child— slung beside you. He wished he had an explanation, but before he could process his actions his hand was drawing itself to your body, tugged by some unseen force—robbed of his autonomy— and rapturously, he touched you. He felt you.

His knuckles grazed your arm—your warmth, radiating past the aged leather of his glove—and the wisdom that woman uttered, the plain truth only the ancient could learn— only a mother could know— rattled around his mind, unanchored and barreling.

Yearn for the past. Reclaim time.

Hold onto them hold onto them hold on—

Never let them go.

Ready? he asked you, arm resigned to his side, feigning monotony beneath the cover of his visor.

You threaded an even smile to your lips, as if Din were none the wiser— as if he hadn’t catalogued every lick of your expressions, every curve and bow and wrinkle as your emotions sung across your face. As if he didn’t know when you were lying. As if he didn’t know when you were falling apart.

Ready, you replied, swallowing past the disappointment welled in your throat.

Both your hearts broke then. Perfectly—the same.

This is the Way.

///

Din is gone over a week. It’s the longest he’s ever been away for a hunt—it’s the longest nine days of your kriffing life.

The ship feels vacant without him; she’s cumbersome, too cavernous for the likes of only you and his foundling. Her durasteel sidings yawn morose against the wind beating restless against her—her metal stretching like a lothcat in a patch of sun. The doors and hatches complain ajar and gripe shut, as if she’s recalcitrant to go about her standard operating procedures without Din’s presence. The old gal misses him, down to her steely bones and dual ion turbines, and in truth — and despite yourself— you suppose a small part of you feels the same, shares an inkling of that same loneliness.

The rituals and dog-eared routines you’d drawn comfort from are now rinsed in a forlorn wash.

The single bowl of food you prepare looks wrong without its twin beside it.

You scroll a finger over your display screen, flicking through various articles, the faint light from the holopad basking the contours of your face in a lonesome shade of inanimate blue.

Anything good you hear him ask, there in your inner ear— the memory of his voice leaving a nick among the many wrinkles of your brain.

You sigh, quietly— alone. Never.

Even Munch misses him, although he expresses it differently. He’s been a downright terror with Din gone. At first it was a vacation, a luxury retreat; you and the child gorged yourself on crackers and grava berries and dried bantha meat—mindful of sweeping up the crumbs on whichever surface you snacked. You giggled and ran amok and shared secrets in code only the two of you could decipher.

But one day grew to two, and two to three and three to four and by the fifth you were out of treats and your patience too had dwindled to short supply.

The child is special— unquestionably unique. And as much as you adore him, would lay down your life for him if it came to it, Maker he is uniquely qualified to send you round the bend twice over. He’s baffling, infuriating— just like his father. Of all the things he could have inherited from the man, of course he decided to latch on to his vexing penchant for mystery.

You lost him for half a day. He was somewhere aboard the Crest, of that you knew that for certain, but he managed to enact a stunt that could’ve puzzled even the most illustrious of illusionists with how quickly and effectively he vanished, seemingly out of thin air.

He emerged eventually for dinner, babbling wickedly. There was that, at least: you could always count on Munch to — well, munch.

Over a week of this— nine days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes, to be exact… But who’s counting.

The sky glitches with lightning, sparking like a bulb in dreadful need of changing, and veins of violet skitter along the horizon, chased by the clapping hammer of thunder. Fat drops of rain trace down the transparisteel, the metalled drum of their pattering against the Crest lullabying your eyelids to a slumbered close. You drift, weightless, waxing and waning in and out of a reoccurring dream that always blurs to mere suggestion - to shadow - as soon as you wake.

The harsh sound stirs you—the ramp’s gears springing to life, signaling the Mandalorian’s return. Rapidly, you blink clear the slog of sleep from your eye, re-emerging from the forgotten depths of your subconscious and half-roused, you bound from the copilot’s chair. You rally from your stupor, instinct urging you to meet the bounty hunter by the entrance—some tittering, foolish part of you still so glad and girlish just to see him.

Hobbling down the ladder with veteraned coordination - one leg one arm one foot one hand - you hop the last two rungs to land catlike on the balls of your feet, heading towards the stern of the ship and—

You don’t make it three steps.

He’s there. Din is there— nine days later and finally, like a hallucination, he’s here— ominous and backlit by the glow seeping in from the galley. An obelisk, undaunted.

Your gut somersaults, flipping until it dizzies.

Knee-jerked and reflexive, the basest part of you demands you go to him, to cross the threshold separating you— the time and space and uncertainty dredged like a moat between you two. But instead of greeting him as you wish— two arms thrown around him, welcoming him home—back to the Crest, to the child, to you—you stand there, dumbstruck and wanting.

The passage of the corridor is like a strait. It's so narrow you can smell him— his carbon musk, his petrichored sweat—and it furls thick into your sinuses, fogging up your vision, clotting the faulty wiring of your mind. He’s brought the wet in with him, drip dropping from his hulking frame to splat puddled onto the deck.

plop

A beat ferments, hanging ripe from its branch as the tempest rages outside the sheltered hull of the ship. Distantly, thunder booms from above.

“Din— hi.”

“You’re up.” He doesn’t move from the archway. Stiffened, composed from granite, the man hardly breathes. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily—untruthfully.

Din scans you: your obviously tousled hair, the drowsy flush kissing your jaw, the tell-tale crinkle of your tunic. Your tongue darts out to skip over your lip and his lungs pull, aching beneath his ribs.

Maker, you’re pretty even when you lie.

“Go back to sleep,” he assures, but you hardly register it; it’s scarcely above a murmur by the time the words hum through his modulator.

“Can I make you some food? Can I—"

There’s a tarred shake of his helm, tiredly dissuading you. “No, you—you’ve done enough.”

“But you must be exhausted, Din. Let me help you,” you urge, sincerity shaping the lilt of your voice. “Please, I—” You falter. Vision finally adjusted in the dimmed hall, it is then that you spot it.

Your mouth runs dry.

He’s dappled in a violent scarlet, foreign red splatters contrasted against all that silvered grey, bleeding with the rainwater to roll sanguined down the rounded edges of his armor.

Blood. He’s covered in blood.

Something pitted—something vital— in you contracts; horror, prickling the fine hairs along your forearm. “Maker, what happened?”

Eyes gaping fearful, you skitter around his breastplate, his vambraces, the paneling of his flight suit, roving meticulously in search for the source of his injury. Thoughtless, consumed with only one concern - is he hurt? - your hand flies to his chest where it rests—solid. Fretting. “Stars, are you—”

He can see it—he can see you, always—how your gaze swells, laced with a surge of adrenaline, of care, and Din lays his broad palm flat over your knuckles, grabbing your frantic attention. “It’s not mine—hey, it’s not mine.”

Your shoulders deflate, relief visibly relaxing the rigidity in your spine, and for the first time in what feels like minutes you release the breath you’d fostered high behind your teeth.

He doesn’t know what overtakes him. Perhaps it’s your sleep swollen lips or the soft petal of your cheek— taunting Din, daring him to feel you again, as he did before— or perhaps it’s the all too apparent fact that you simply give a shit about him— despite everything he’s done, all of that which he has left unsaid. That you worry. That you care.

Puppeted, arm hoisted by some invisible strings of fate—those unseen threads of inevitability—he reaches for you. Din’s thumb roams the slope of your cheekbone, the buttered hide of his glove gliding over your skin. Something rattles flustered in your chest, and you must look pathetic— how your eyes bat at him and your mouth parts, breathy and demure.

“Dala.” He sounds pained when he says it, as if it’s poisoning him; the very syllables like hemlock dripping down his tongue—slowly gradually, ending his life— this life.

This life as he knows it.

You nuzzle into the cradle of his palm, encircling a hand around his wrist, urging him still. You both know he could break away from you without an ounce of strength squandered, but he doesn’t; he listens, he quiets for you. Enchanted, neither of you dare move— neither of you, willing to shatter the profound spell of intimacy you’ve stumbled onto.

He holds you like this, and you hold him to you. His hand on your cheek; yours over the birdcaged throb of his heart— burning - devouring - its entombed aril like the heart of a dying star.

“Where’d you go?” you whisper, heathered, into the heel of his hand. There is something broken in your cadence, like the chipped rim of a fragile cup, and it punctures him just there beneath his sternum.

Where’d you go?

Where’d you go before? When you left— where did you spirit away to?

Why didn’t you take me with you?

A sick wave rots his stomach. He couldn’t answer you then, not when you were wobbly and coltish beneath him—Din can barely answer you now. His digits twine into your hair, cupping the arc of your neck. The gesture is not unkind. It is delicate— urgent, too—and the following hush you share speaks tomes for the both of you, the sob of his leathered fist admitting what he cannot utter.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Maker, if you could see him. See how his face folds for you, grief lined into the shallow grooves that mark him. The cycles of it— how they bend him into something contorted. Something in need - I need you I need you I need - something ugly, he thinks. Leftover. Hidden. Hide hide hide hi—

You turn, pressing a kiss into the rough of his palm. It’s a soft thing— trepid and cautious—too worried you might frighten him away to offer anything more than a chaste brush of your lips—too worried you’ll send him scurrying back into the cratered unknown he crawled out from.

But he doesn’t.

Din doesn’t turn tail and run, he stands firm—weaving his hand further into your scalp, guiding you closer to him with a throaty sound. The forehead of his helm sinks to yours, and through its filter you discern the tremor of Din’s breathing, made fuzzy by the tinny modulator.

This is nothing like before. Din was hot blooded and vicious then, possessed by the infernal likes of some great beast, but he has since been tamed, if only momentarily—coaxed into a certain meekness by the frail ache of his heart—by the grace of your kind mouth, kissing his gun-worn glove.

He groans your name, mumbled and brassy. The two of you so close, so merged, that if it weren’t for his helmet, you’d feel the tickle of the syllables as they sweep over your face. Din repeats himself, repentant—praying for forgiveness on the cross of your name—your kiss, a benediction.

Again, he calls you. I’m sorry.

Again, you kiss him. There is nothing to forgive.

Again. Again.

With a flutter of bravado, you sling a lumbered arm over the span of his neck, notching yourself into his chest, an interlocking piece finding it’s match. Din’s forearm comes to coil around your waist, wide hand spanning the small of your back, and if possible, gathers you nearer— a growl emanating somewhere from under his beskar.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, bullet riddled—grating—warring with the countless shards of himself he has yet to reconcile; but his body betrays his intentions as Din’s grasp finds itself lower, filling his fingers with the plush of your ass. “Tell me, please.”

Arousal rushes to pool in your depths—at the proximity of him, the hungered way at which he paws you—and it’s a reaction you feel mimicked by the iron rod straining against Din’s flight suit, pressing into your thigh. You shake your head, gaze colored earnest, and you shift, applying a grind of your hips against him in response.

Din lets out a defeated groan; weak to you, a fabled Mandalorian warrior brought to trembling knees by the guile of a good woman. And suddenly, like striking a match in a room swarmed with gas, you are incendiary.

He’s everywhere— groping and kneading your arms, your ass, your neck and waist. You are malleable beneath him, sculpted like wet clay under his eager touch—as if he is committing your form to memory; the fervor of his grip, reclaiming time.

He hooks a hand under the crease of your knee, yanking you to the column of his armor, sealing your bodies together. Gyrating your hips against him, your clit yearns against his thick outline as you dig into the cowl draped over his shoulders.

Sliding his hand down your backside, he presses his palm into your clothed heat from behind, pads of his fingers insistent as you saddle your spine into his touch, granting him better access. His cock brays, straining beneath his many layers, and a withered moan breaches past your lips.

“Gods, Din.”

Din. He can’t stand that—his name, lush in your wet mouth—and without ceremony, drops your leg from where he’d glued it to his hip. Like a beggar, impoverished and need-stricken, he begins to fight with your clothing, half tempted to rip the damn things off you, leaving you tattered; he’d happily buy you a new wardrobe if it meant having you as he’s wanted for these long months—naked and vulnerable and his.

Your tunic and pants come off in a flurry, your underwear too, discarded hastily in some forgotten corner—and with a hand on your chest, he walks you backwards until your bare ass connects with the durasteel, a jagged inhale tearing through you at the chill. A question knits your brows to meet as Din paces away from you, increasing his distance.

“What are you-”

He interrupts you with a groan. “Just - gedet’ye - just let me—”

His gaze drips like wax down your body—eyes dressing over your clavicle, the supple weight of your breasts, the gorgeous dusting of hair at your mound, the sweet press of your thighs as you clench them together, your pretty knees, your pretty ankles, your pretty feet, pigeoned inward nervously.

Pretty pretty pretty—fuck, all of you. So fucking pretty.

With the cock of his chin, his gaze returns to the heave of your breasts—tracing over your nipples pebbling in the everpresent draft of the Razor Crest— and you rile under him, heart stammering loud—so loud you’re convinced he can hear it with the aid of his helm. And Maker above, the way you’re fucking staring at him—all hooded lids and flushed cheeks. Din wants to fucking ravish you.

Dismantle you.

Pick you apart bit by bit until you’ve come undone completely.

And as if slogging through gravity itself, movements prowled, he steps to you. Din finds your hips, running the whisper of his gloves along the slopes of your sides; a master of patience, commanding time to his will, he crawls up your skin

slow

deliberate.

You’re all but helpless to the shiver that traverses the planes of your body, zipping along your synapses like the fault lines of a quaking planet—cracking you open, exposing your molten core. You’re not proud of the noise you make when he cups your breasts. Starved, you whine as he takes you into his hands, pinching and groping until you’re pert and sore and you drive your pelvis into him, rutting yourself against his frame like some flea ridden slum-mutt in the prime of her heat.

Din seethes, mumbling in Mando’a—spitting curses you can’t pretend to comprehend, but that blot warmth along your cheekbones at the oaky depravity of which he utters them.

He seals over your mound, blood pumping at your seam, bundle of nerves pulsing steady against the heel of his hand. Immobile, he waits, hovering stagnant and teasing before his lust to feel you outweighs his desire to make you be good and wait—and parting through your curls, he kisses the tips of his orange gloves into your honeyed cunt.

It’s dirty. He’s dirty, he’s fucking filthy—covered in foreign blood and alien soil—and you feel depraved, unclean. Powerful. You feel, perhaps, as the Maker intended—wild and without shame, to roam his gateless garden and sully the soles of your feet.

You feel raw. Din Djarin sands you raw.

The pump of his wrist is merciless, pistoning in and out in shallow thrusts, knuckles angled to prod at that spot— that piece of primordial heaven sequestered at the channel of your cunt—and he keeps discovering it over and over again with a sharp shooter’s precision—zeroing in on his mark and releasing the trigger. Dead eyed.

You grab greedily at his bulge, at his cock begging for regard beneath the protective fabric covering him, and you squeeze the best you can. The angle is awkward and unweildy and it’s not nearly enough for either of you, but it conveys your intention well enough.

Can I have this? Will you give this to me?

Din growls his reply, leaving your pussy to fumble with the waist of his trousers, fidgeting over the pesky buttons—the final of the flimsy holdouts separating you and the tempered steel hanging solid between his legs. It bobs free from his pants, ruddied tip straining and pining for you, and without spending another moment idle, he rediscovers the warmth of your naked body— molding himself to your form, his grip once more finding the pit of your knee and bracing it to his side.

He ruts the underside of his shaft through your slick folds, his blunt head nudging at the swollen cleft of your center—each pitch of Din’s hips sending bolts of pleasure crackling through your core. He’s stifling a string of moans while he does it, while he undulates against you, the sighs and gasps digitized to near silence as he coats his cock in your gloss—and not for the first time do you find yourself considering how fucking colossal Din is. How fucking virile and engulfing, like blaster smoke and tabacco and cedar. Like coaled smog from a cremulator. Like giving life, like taking it away— like mercy. Vengeance.

Din swipes your standing leg up to match the other in a fluid motion, effectively levitating you off the ground with only his palms secured beneath your hamstrings and your strangled hold around his neck to suspend you.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He’s practically begging you now, anguish wrecking through the timber of his voice—grasping blindly for an excuse not to lose himself in you completely, not to bury his primal drives and fears into the chasm of your sex.

You’ll leave him you’ll leave him he’s terrified you’ll leave him

“I-I don’t want you to stop— I want this. Din, I want you, I missed you. I miss you.” You miss him. He’s right here, cock streaking through your middle and still, you miss him. You’ll never stop missing him—wanting him. An unscratchable itch at the median of your back, burning for his affection, for his touch.

He releases a husked sound at that, as if hearing it from you hurts— your words, purpling a bruise into the bloody beat of his heart—and like a dipping sun sinking below the crust of a darkening planet, the last of Din’s resolve fades to utter black as he finally - finally - buries himself into where you weep for him.

Oh Maker. Fuck, fuck—

You muffle a relieved cry, forehead collapsing to the slope of his shoulder. Your walls shutter, blinking and gasping around his cock as he rolls up into you, lips pulling taut around his girth with each drag through your cunt. Din fucks you slurred and languid—his pace, sweltering like a summer fever—heavy, punitive. Smothering and thick. You can feel every vein, every silken ridge, as he notches himself inch by inch— the cant of his hips meditated, aiming to melt you open with each wave.

Stuffed to the hilt inside you, he rakes in a ragged breath, calming the race of his bloodstream drumming percussive in his ears.

It occurs to you then that he might be trying to be careful with you, curled around him like this, crushed up against the bulkhead. You think he might be treating you as a jeweler would handle a rarified gem— gentle and tip-toed, afraid of letting you clatter to the counter, of scuffing your facets— devaluing you.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want cautious or considerate or any of those awfully pious things. You want to be owned. Devoured. You don’t want to feel anything else but him. You want him to need you so terribly, so primally, he bleeds. You want to forget your own damn name and replace the memory of it with his—just his, to sit besot like liquor on your tongue. Din Din Din.

“Fuck me— please - please - fuck me harder Din.” Fuck me like you need to. Fuck me like you want me— please just tell me you want me. Tell me I’m wanted. Tell me I’m worth this.

You can see the deliberation span over his mask, the light glinting off the steel there hesitant, wary. Are you sure?

“Fuck me.” I want this. I want you.

He wants to give this to you somewhere soft— somewhere you deserve. With a feathered mattress and molted down pillows and gauzy curtains billowing in a sea breeze as light dapples prismed patterns on your dewy skin. He wants to give this to you somewhere beautiful—perhaps on that planet you once probed him about - Adega - with its red trees and warm nights and friendly natives you’d cherish and keep aloft in your breast.

He wants you to feel safe. Adored.

But what he wants and what he needs are two vastly different things—two opposing extremes at odds with the other. Because he needs to fuck you here— it has to be here. Needs to score your backside with metaled bites from the Crest’s unforgiving interior; needs you crumpled and sloppy, panting out his name to echo shamelessly into the deviled bowels of his gunship.

He needs you charred for him. Scorched earth.

And with your panted pleas, lilting addictive and irresistible, he is all but helpless to deny you— to deny himself. Relenting, resolved, his voice bottoms out.

“I-I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

He fucks you frenzied. The snap of his hips drives you into the wall; he lifts you off his cock just to spear you on it once more, fucking up up up into you, unleashing all his strength— his neglected need—into the grail of your womb. The salted slaps of skin are loud enough to make a lecher blush. It’s a chorus of beskar rattling, wet and ugly and Maker, he’s splitting you open and all you can do is mewl.

You screw your eyes shut, lost to oblivion—crown of your head shoved back, jugular bared for him like prey before the slaughter.

“No.” Leveraging his mass against you, Din clasps at the nape of your neck to command your focus, forcing your chin. “No, look at me,” he orders, brutal and sinewed and there’s desperation there. Din needs you looking at him — seeing him— the embrace of your gaze like a life raft, tethering him here, grounding him to this plane of existence, the one where he has found salvation—if only fleeting, if only like hourglassed sand sifting through his fingers—within the temple of your body. Struggling and led-lidded, you pry your lashes apart, shivering as you drink in the punishing expression leering across his visor; and as you always do, you peer past the murky T there, meeting his eyes camouflaged in their sockets behind it.

“There you are. There you are, my pretty thing - hnng—” He silences himself with a hoarse moan, the sensation of you clenching firm around him, gripping Din like a man would a rope, dangling some feet above the ground, hiccuping him to stutter. “T-That’s it, dala—fuck, y-your pussy is so godsdamn tight.”

You go boneless at the praise—at how he tongues out those fond epithets, vehement and covetous and brined in sincerity—and your breathing quickens as you soak the coarse weave of Din’s flight suit, chafing your clit to shambles with each bow of his starved sex.

You’re close. Stars, you’re so kriffing close—reach out and touch it and you’re there, a promise fulfilled dancing at your fingertips—and you almost tell him; you wish you could - don’t stop don’t stop please right there Din - but you’ve lost your voice, vocal chords stricken with tension. More than that, you’ve lost the wedge of your brain that recognizes articulation all together. Speech itself. You’re wasted. You’re shattered. You’re being fucked within an inch of your sorry life.

Nimbled, without a word of warning, Din relocates— grappling under the plats of your thighs and bracing you featherlight to his chest—negligible in comparison to the ton of armor he dons cycle after cycle, weightless when compared to that of his Creed, hanging like a yoke around his gullet. You yip in surprise and scramble around him, calves digging into his back, forearms clamped around his shoulders—his cock remaining delved within your pussy with each footfall.

Four long strides and he’s reached his destination: a large crate, stranded just outside the hallway leading to the galley. Stooping at the waist, he lowers you down with astonishing ease until you’re flush on your back, knees flanking his frame. You heave a sigh, petulant and wanting, when he slips from you mid-adjustment, a lewd squelch accompanying the movement. It is to the fervor of your clawing, desperate nails scratching down metal - please please please - that he glides back into you with one deft sweep, a satisfied gasp tumbling loose from him.

He looms over you now— Din, a tower unyielding—thrusting into you rough and hard and perfect. He’s filling you in undiscovered places long gone unrealized, nooks you didn’t know you had—the length of him completing you, making you whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, orange pads of his gloves dimpling your hips.

With a tremor of your chin, you moan—broken and chirping. “Don’t - please - please don’t - shit - don't stop—” Your prayers convulse, dying in your throat, sentence cut short as he circles his thumb over your clit, catching at your slippery bud. Ever the marksman, he’s debilitatingly attentive to you, the hide of his glove snagging against your cleft, and combined with the steady rock of his dick shredding you open, you’re all but defenseless to the dawning of your release, crawling closer and closer and—

“Din,” you pant, ”Din Din Din, I think I—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna, oh Maker—”

The muscles in your stomach seize, a twisted expression cramping your brow. You scamper to his arms, reaching out for something - anything - a parcel of real estate to clutch onto while you unravel. You’re grappling with his pauldrons, the pulsepoint at your wrist humming over the symbol welded to his shoulder, and you mage into starlight. You’re fizzing. You’re blind. You’re atomic and phasing in and out of realities and you burn— a meteor hurtling through the upper atmosphere crashing crashing crashing and—

Language exhausted, all there is left for you to do is cry, the evidence of your orgasm ricocheting like a hail of gunfire against the Razor Crest walls.

“That’s a good girl, that’s a good girl for me—f-fuck." It’s like taking a jab to his solar plexus, how you cinch around him— the corset of your walls milking his cock until he’s shaking, stumbling. The drive of his pelvis has gone erratic, the throbbing bloom gnashing its teeth in his gut—that rabid thing desperate to be released, uncaged—teeters on the identical ledge you’d just leapt from.

“Tell me to stop - please - tell me to, tell me to stop—” You’re all eyes. Your whole face, swallowed by the sweet, glassy orbs notched below the quiver of your forehead, and you’re looking at him like he could hang the damn moon and it’s too much— it’s too much too much he can’t levee this raging need— and with a hurried gasp he pulls out of your heat to tug at his slicked cock— panting ragged as he gushes onto your stomach, your legs, your pretty pussy made pink and puffy with abuse.

His breathing is labored; you can see it in the mountainous rise and fall of his chest plate as his strokes slow, his other hand digging into your flesh, indenting you. He exhales, scraping clean the fissure between his lungs, and Din tips his head, angling it backwards— granting you a rare sliver of the stubbled swath along his neck. The sightly patch, treasured behind his silvered grotto, shouldn’t be the thing that plays upon your heartstrings like one would pluck a harp— not after he’s burrowed himself inside you, not after he’s carved you to his likeness— but it does. You’re butterflied and cherry blossomed and you grin— not so much on your lips but in your soul, and there is a purring warmth that’s radiating like candle flame from the anima alive beneath your breasts and—

And then, suddenly — like time, like memory— he is gone.

He leaves you. Mirrored, he does as he did that night—laying a squeeze into the meat of your hip, he transpires to atoms, dissipating round the unknown bend of a corner and you’re alone again—alone, with only the citric bile steeping in your insides to accompany you, threatening to rise up your windpipe.

No. No no nonono—

Din’s presence, a beacon in the moonless night, disappears— leaving you orphaned and moored and mortified. He’s done it again— he’s left you, he keeps leaving you— and it renders you sick; viscerally, you’re angered and ill and green-washed with naivety.

Fool you once, shame on them. Fool you twice, and what in Maker’s name did you expect? A declaration? An about-face? As if a Mandalorian could let the beskar from his blood. As if Din could reanimate the cadaver of his past—could slip into that old snakeskin he’d shed cycles before.

It paralyzes you. Immobile, you are chambered flat on your back in the resin of your embarrassment, bereft of your vision as you stare sightless into the steel. You’ve separated—your mind and your body disjointed like oil and water, and you don’t hear it. You don’t hear the tread of Din’s feet, you don’t register his aura, Illuminous in the archway; you don’t see the stray towel fisted in his grip, you don’t feel the clench of a frozen hand around your heart as he does his. For he sees you there—a tick in your jaw; eyes distanced, fogged—and he knows he’s done this to you. The scarring of how he derelicted you then tarnishing the new-leaf flesh of the present.

He steps towards you, closer now, and your alerted gaze pins to him. A surprised expression makes a home there, astoundment freckling your face— and although he hasn’t earned the right, it strikes him bullseyed between his plated ribs because it hurts— the obvious shock of him returning for you hurts. Din is not a good man— not all of him. Sometimes, you and all your heaven-lit gleam, you make him forget that.

But sometimes, you make him remember.

And Maker, if you don’t look good like this. Streaked with his seed, creamy white pearling the maps of your body, the shine of it catching in the cannistered shafts of filtered light.

There’s a word for this—for you, for how you look, splayed and painted with his cum—with him. It puffs up like petals would, there in the square of his center. He’s never said it. His mouth doesn’t know the feel of it, his lips don’t know its shape. It’s scribed in Mando’a, and as native as the language is to him—as fundamental as Basic, if not more so—the word itself is foreign. Gawky. The thought of it alone hobbles through his mind on foaled legs. Din keeps this word barred, its essence clinging to the iron partitions of his skull, its perfume clouding his senses, his better judgement, his confounded rationality dangling precarious by a string.

Beautiful. Mesh’la.

You shift under his watchful eye, knees steepling mousy, and gingerly, he prizes the two apart and you let him.

You let him you let him of course you let him.

Din runs a damp cloth up your seam, up those hypersensitive folds, towards the expanse of flesh leading to your belly, and you hiss—a startled chill icing through your body.

“It’s cold,” he informs you, well after the fact, and you chortle a note in response. He continues to lave you clean, the drag of the material smoothing over your stippled planes and it’s intimate—how he takes you under his care, how he unmakes his mess.

Your heart, silly flustered thing it is, it tells you the act feels worshipful—reverent, maybe—but your head convinces you to look away, to cower, to do anything but address the blaze left in the wake of the rag he’s swiping over you. It’s too much. You feel vase-like— fragile and dainty, for the bounty hunter to either fill with wildflowers or crush under the heel of his boot— and it’s too unbearable. Bringing a hand to your sweat-sheened face, you shadow your eyes, ostriching shyly— if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

A clipped tone escapes his helmet and it’s a sound you can’t place— it’s short, a blip—and you presume he’ll remain mum until he speaks. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

You don’t have to hide from me. I don’t want you to hide from me.

You nearly whimper at that. There’s something endearing and bronzed about how he says it, something torn, too—and you peak through the curtain of your fingers to watch him perform his ministrations. Almost begrudginly, you remove your hand from it’s shelf, resting it on the swell of your breast while he passes the cloth along your inner thighs, erasing the sticky traces of himself. There’s a quiet pause, a moment of distilled nothing before—

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” you admit, small.

He soothes his thumb into the crook of your hip, voice blunt with guilt. “I know.”

Sighing, you nod a little thing, a half-gesture, practically creeping under the Mandalorian's radar undetectable. Thunder shouts, lightning cracks— the bombastic storm outside apathetic to the lull within. Din clears his throat, rasping. “Was that okay?”

You resist the temptation to snort. Din is such a juxtaposition—one you don’t imagine you’ll tire from any time soon. He’s dangerous and protective and clever and strong and kind, despite his best efforts to snuff his compassion to ash like the butt of a dead cigarette. Lifting your palm from its perch, you extend to him, measuredly sliding your fingers against the crate— stretching stretching until he meets you, dubious and toddling like a child’s first steps, orange-dipped digits touching nude flesh. Your everbright grin brightens all the more— bewitching, back-breaking—as you entwine your hands to mesh.

“More than okay,” you say coyly. “Was that-was that good for you?”

Din huffs out an airy chuckle rich with disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re even asking him—like you’d even have to ask at all. “That was—that was good. Very good,” he confesses gruffly, never a man for poetry, breathlessness still apparent in the bleed of his vocoder. “Even better than I imagined.”

A feline grin unfurls your lips, boldly quirking the droll corners of your mouth. “You imagine this often, Mando?”

Smirking wry and devastating, Din ushers you up by your woven hands, your body pliable and easy to his will; uprighted, his hips slot between your pretty knees, and he expertly twists your arm behind your back, snaring it there. Spine swooped, breasts brushing against his beskar, your nipples pebble cold. “Don’t let it go to your head, dala,” he gravels, visor tilted down at your dwarfed form, tenting you.

“Well," you tease lightly, "I’ll try my best.”

And you look at each other with all the tender awkwardness of two people standing on the edge of a brave new unknown.

Nervous, girlish, you smile.

Fluttering, pussy-drunk, he smiles back.

///

Nested in the pronged branch of a tall tree spindling up from the graveled soil, Din— a man, a boy too— reclines supine against the bark. His feet dangle like they did then, back when he wasn’t so afraid, and the air is dusted with a rosy haze as dusk settles upon the tired day.

The sun sets. The world twinkles a midnight blue, winking starshine as she spins.

Somewhere, behind him, his mother calls him home for supper.

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