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hanayori89 · 11 months ago

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The Healed Hand

You still didn't know who he was.

You had given him, at least what you deemed, a suitable sobriquet, calling him 'Blupee Boy' after the mythical glowing creatures you read about in books.

He took great humor in it.

"Have you ever seen a Blupee?" He asked curiously.

You shook your head. There was so much of the surface you hadn't seen. Maybe someday you will see one when you return, after you are healed, of course.

Your strange visitor with the shiny, green arm spoke of many unimaginable things. He told you there were islands in the sky. Here you were, so pathetic in your pursuit of wanting to see all of Hyrule's depths and surface, and now there were islands in the sky? What's more, he also spoke of a lost civilization, the Zonai, who were technologically advanced well beyond their time. He held his arm up, crediting the Zonai for his enchanted prosthetic appendage.

Every time he would come to visit, he would be armed with a gastronomical gift to savor, such as curried pilaf or fruit cake, which he would serve with a piping hot and wild fable.

Your favorite of them all was the one he told you over a comforting bowl of tomato stew. You watched his lips move, the rest of his face remaining inconspicuous, like his identity. He told you that the princess was actually a dragon who protected Hyrule from the sky.

You slurped a spoonful of your stew. "Sure, Blupee Boy, what's next? Ganondorf is a dragon too, and they are going to duke it out over Hyrule?"

He didn't seem to find this funny.

Over time, you both grew into comrades, bonding over your secrets that were safe in the cloaked darkness. But the scales of knowledge seemed tipped in his favor. Your insides tickled with mounting curiosity the more he spent time with you. You wanted to see the color of the lips that told you such vibrant stories. You wanted to know what the eyes looked like that seemed to regard you so highly.

What color were the eyes of the person that seemed to care for you so much, and would that change once you found out?

But he insisted on sitting, never too close to you, but in the shadows, as if he were more comfortable enrobed in them than the incandescent flames of your campfire.

One day, in a restless fit, you decided to try and coax him out of the darkness's womb. "I showed you what I look like; are you so superficial that you need to hide?"

He roared with laughter in response. "Superficial? Coming from a woman who won't show her face on the surface because of a little bit of gloom infection? Please."

Your reverse psychology had backfired. The smug and knowing way he reflected your question back onto you left you wounded. "I'm a woman; we are worth nothing if not for our looks. Do you think Zelda would receive all the praise she gets if not for the fact she's beautiful?"

He snapped a twig in between his fingers. "Zelda is incredibly smart; her soul exists to care for this land and its people. Her people. She would read a book before she would worry about something vapid like makeup." He pressed on, eager to defend her. "In fact, if she had to, she would sacrifice her looks in a heartbeat if it meant it protected her people."

"You are very close to her."

"You have no idea." He stood, dusting off his tunic, the fringe on the bottom rustled against the muscles of his thighs beneath it. He plucked a glowing flower. He threw it down before you as if he were throwing it onto a coffin being lowered in the ground. You knew you had upset him.

"This flower does not possess the beauty of the lush and colorful ones we know of. But here, beneath Hyrule, can you deny the beauty each petal holds as it brings light into a place where it is nonexistent? Perhaps on the surface, it would not be considered for beauty, but it's reason for existing, it's purpose is quite beautiful."

You twirled the flower beneath your chin; the light radiating from it captured some of the gloom's lesions that now inhabited your flesh. You could feel his eyes scouring your face and the vibration of his desire to touch you again.

He whispered. "I'm sorry if the only value you've been taught is that of your appearance."

You both sat in reflective silence. Your vanity; a poe propped on your shoulder, laughed at you.

~*🐉~*🐉~*🐉*~

As time droned on, you wondered if he was really going to heal you, but after your squabble, you decided not to bring it up.

He accepted you as you were. So why couldn't you show yourself the same acceptance?

You heard the familiar, heavy footsteps of him approaching your camp. As light as his silhouette appeared, he seemed to walk with weighted feet.

You looked up, and a necklace of blood dripped down his chest.

"Hylia! What's happened to you?" You took your shirt off in a panic, dabbing it into a pail of water you kept at your campsite. "Here, you're hurt, please let me."

Despite his extensive injury, he still preferred to hide from you.

"Please," you begged. "You've done so much for me; let me do something for you."

"Zelda has returned."

"What?" You covered your mouth in shock. "You found Zelda? Is that where you've been?"

He fell to his knees. "Please let me help you." As you ran toward him, you saw his emerald hand begin to glisten; he eclipsed his face beneath his palm, hiding it. You kneeled beside him, dabbing his chest and cleaning it. "You saved the princess. What on earth are you doing down here? Look at all this blood; you should seek treatment on the surface."

His face remained sheathed beneath his hand as you wrung your shirt out, watching some of the water that had been dyed crimson fall from it.

You tried to lighten the mood. "What about her knight?"

"What about him?"

"Did they find him? If you found Zelda and not her knight, he may have-"

"Have what?"

"Perished. And Hylia, what a shame; he was certainly my eye candy."

You heard him laugh beneath his hand. "Really? You find him attractive?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

He lowered his hand gently. "I'm not asking about everyone. I'm asking about you."

Your eyes were met with a dazzling blue orb, and you felt as though a vine of thorns was strangling your heart. Deciding he had revealed too much, he began to lift his hand once again. You nabbed it and stopped him.

"I want to see you." He remained beneath the curtain of his enclosed fingers. "Please, I've shown you the version of myself even I cannot accept."

"If you cannot accept yourself, then how will you accept me? His blue iris peaked through a crack in his fingers.

"I don't even care if you heal me. I don't care if I am to live like this for the rest of my days; I just want to see you." Your voice sounded unlike itself. A humbleness had grown inside of you thanks to this boy. You just wanted to be with him and his wisdom, which gave you a new sense of meaning. One that had evolved beyond merely occupying flesh.

"Y/N, Come with me." He mumbled. "Let's heal each other."

"What? You're in no condition to-"

He stood, facing away from you, as he yanked your hand and led you through the darkness. The only light you could see was coming from his arm. The artificial part of him had somehow become just as genuine as the lips that had been whispering kind tidings to you all this time.

You walked in silence, his hand quivering as it held onto yours. In the distance, you saw a giant bulb erupting downward from the ceiling of the depths. Roots scattered around it, plugging into the ground and fastening into the area. The light emanating from it was a ferocious presence that could never be absorbed by the gloom of the depths.

All of this time, you could have camped by it instead of being in the dark.

Your stomach churned as you faced the stark realization your healer had been trying to show you all along. You had cast yourself in your own darkness.

You chose exile. You chose to see yourself as a product of the gloom.

This ugliness, this darkness- it was never real.

You had created it.

And you had imprisoned yourself within it.

The closer you got to the monumental bulb and its uncompromising light, the more your enigmatic savior was revealed to you. Dull golden locks swept over his shoulders, gliding behind him as he walked forward swiftly with you secure beneath his grip. His tunic, evergreen, if you had to guess, was marred by splotches of dirt and dried blood. His back held scars and lacerations that told you grand stories in the same way he would. You saw his arm. There was a boundary where flesh ended, and metal invaded.

The glimmering green of his arm remained resplendent beneath the light, not competing to shine brighter but simply existing in the same pulse of vibrancy.

You arrived beneath the source of the light. He kept his back facing you. Your heart squeezed as it had earlier, and the longing to see his face threatened to consume you.

"This is a lightroot. This is what heals gloom. I need you to wrap your arms around me."

"What's going to happen? Will it hurt?"

"Don't be afraid." He put his hand on yours, his thumb stroking your hand, soothing you. How odd that you almost wished he were holding you with his other arm, which was just as much a part of him as his natural one.

"By the way-" His voice betrayed his nerves as it rattled slightly. "My name...is Link."

~*🐉~*🐉~*🐉*~

The whistling of clouds whirling overhead jolted you awake.

You had never seen light like this. Where light could be manipulated within the eternal glum of the depths, darkness could never be replicated here. You saw trees, crisp and unapologetically amber, following the rhythm of the clouds that danced by. You thrust your hand upward, closing your palm, pretending to capture a cloud within its grasp.

Your hand, your delicate digits, were now undressed of gloom. You jolted upright, capturing your face in between your palms. Your skin was so sleek, your hands slid off it, expecting to snag on a pock mock or abrasion. For good measure, you did it again. Your skin was as velvety as the encompassing clouds.

You ran toward a small pond lined with lily pads. You looked into the transparency of the lapping waves, touching your face for the final time.

You had been reborn. Back into the light, before the gloom, before the darkness. But this light wasn't the same as the one you knew, and the person peering back wasn't the same either. Her eyes were wider, as if they were now meant to see more than just her narrow-minded existence.

Your lips began to tremble. You had been returned to who you were, but that wasn't you anymore. Next to you, a handsome face appeared on the surface of the pond. A lily pad covered his reflection until it floated off, revealing the familiar outline of lips you'd grown accustomed to. Only now, these lips had a color, as did everything in this radiant land. The pale carnation mouth was pressed together, and a sharp nose sat above it with the same luminescent blue eyes that not even the cruel dusky depths could hide.

You turned, meeting Link's grinning face for the first time. The sight of his slightly crooked teeth bunched upward in a smile that made your belly quake.

Seeing the recognition flicker in your eyes, he cocked his head to the side in amusement. "So, it seems you've found the missing knight. You know, your healing was never about the gloom. I wanted to heal the way you saw the world. The way you saw yourself."

He reached his arm forward, touching your face as he had when he first met you, and it was encrusted with gloom. The loving feeling behind his fingertips was no different. He traced an area of your jaw where a spot of gloom used to reside.

He then grabbed his prosthetic arm, gently pulling it off and letting it fall to the grass with a thud.

"And maybe I agreed to heal you because I wanted to heal myself too."

You reached your hand up to feel the suctioned and severed flesh that had formed a mound where his arm used to be. He used his other hand to grab your waist and pull you into his body. "So, tell me, who is more magical, me or a Blupee?"

You looked up at him with a smirk.

"Neither. That most magical award goes to the bogus tale of Zelda being a dragon."

A breeze softly rolled past, and an elongated shadow appeared on the ground around you both, swallowing you.

🐉FIN🐉

Edited:12./29/23

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lunardragon00 · 10 months ago

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The Heir (Choi San x OC)

Masterlist

Lord!San x Princess!OC

Words: 2759

Warnings: N/A

Introduction --> Chapter Two

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔪𝔰 𝔇𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱

As the sun painted the sky with hues of gold, the realm prepared to celebrate the grand festivities in honor of the King's birthday. The air buzzed with excitement, and the sound of trumpets signaled the commencement of the much-anticipated grand tourneys.

The sudden appearance of a dark shadow and the thunderous roar sent ripples of awe and curiosity through the crowd gathered for the grand festivities. The atmosphere turned hushed as heads turned upward to witness the majestic and ominous sight in the sky. Gasps escaped the lips of the onlookers, and whispers spread like wildfire. Murmurs of disbelief and excitement filled the air as eyes followed the mysterious creature's flight path. The trumpets' triumphant notes were momentarily overshadowed by the enigmatic presence that captured the attention of everyone in the kingdom. Silhouetted against the golden and crimson hues of the setting sun, the creature revealed itself as a formidable beast. Its wings stretched wide, casting a shadow over the festive grounds. The creature's powerful wings beat rhythmically, propelling it gracefully through the sky, leaving spectators in awe of its sheer majesty. The King, seated on his grand throne, observed, a look of confusion spread across his face, but quickly changed to one of annoyance. The grand tourneys momentarily forgotten, the kingdom stood still, captivated by the arrival. The beast continued its flight, heading deeper into the heart of the kingdom, until it arrived on the outskirts of the Dragonpit. The beast lets out another roar, as a warning to the dragonkeepers approaching it and its rider.

"Gīda ilagon Noctis (calm down Noctis) , it is only the keepers." The rider descends the dragon with the help of the keepers, careful to avoid cutting themselves upon the scales. Its large, blade-like scales covered its body and face, complimenting its dark as night color that has a hint of a dark blue. There has been word that the people of Drake's Landing have decided on calling him "Midnight Seraph."

"māzigon Noctis, rȳbagon" (come Noctis, listen) The keeper grab ahold of the straps and leads the dragon back to the pits. I don't understand why we have to lock them up in that stupid thing. They're wild animals, they should be free. The rider starts to remove her gloves as a knight approaches her, armor shining every so brightly and sword swinging with his movement.

"You look relieved to see me Sir Jaime." She says as a slight jest, knowing the reason why the sour look upon his face is there.

"I'm always relieved to see you everytime that beast brings you back alive." He responds. She scoffs and gives her gloves to an awaiting women.

"He is not a beast, how many times must I remind you of that." Sir Jaime shakes his head in disapproval but does so with a smile on his face. She has known him ever since she could remember. He was a few years younger than her father, he has always remained by her side and has been there for her when her father couldn't. Her father had always said that there were very few people you could trust in this world. "Everyone, except us, is the enemy Hana. I want you and your brother to remember that. This world is filled with self-interested people who will not pay mind to whom they hurt, as long as they get what they want."

"How has the tourney been going so far?" The young girl and knight walk side by side towards the Red Keep.

"Well, he's certainly not pleased. Especially with you flying right over the arena." The girl hums knowingly. She knew it would be a mistake, but at the moment she wasn't thinking about it. Her time with Noctis was the only moments of freedom she had. Being up in the sky, flying through the clouds and looking down on the city, it was bliss to her.

"I suppose I should make haste then before mother finds out." Her mother had been bed-ridden for sometime. A babe was on the way, her brother wanted it to be another boy so that he could practice sword fighting. But she wanted it to be a girl, a girl her mother would name Visenya, the wife of their ancestor Aegon the Conqueror, a heroine of hers.

She walks quickly to her chambers where her lady in waiting has already begun picking clothes for her.

"Good Noon Arya." The older girl looks startled by her appearance

"My Gods' Princess, you should've been here a near hour ago. The festivities have already begun." Arya rushes Hana to her bath and has her disrobe her riding gear.

"Just let me change into the gown, all you'll have to do it my hair and we'll be finished." Hana tries reasoning with her, but the women was not pleased.

"You reek of dragon Hana, no one will be able to stand being near you." The princess lets out a laugh, only Arya would be allowed to talk to her this way. They had known each other since they were little girls, with Arya's father being the Hand to the King. She was another that the Princess trusted with her full heart. Once disrobed, Hana sinks down into the tub and leans her head back against the edge. Arya takes a bowl and places it under the hair that's dangling out, she then grabs another bowl of water and pours it on the hair.

"Besides, I know a special someone will be at the tournament." Hana's heart skipped a beat. He was here? As Arya tended to Hana's dragon-scented hair, the princess couldn't help but feel a mixture of anticipation and excitement at the mention of the special someone's presence at the tournament. Her heart fluttered at the mere thought.

"Who do you speak of, Arya?" Hana inquired, her eyes reflecting a blend of curiosity and a hint of bashfulness. Arya, always direct and unfiltered, grinned mischievously.

"You know exactly who, my dear Princess. The one who makes your heart race like a wild stallion. The one who tames even the fiercest dragons," Arya replied with a playful twinkle in her eye. Hana's mind raced as she considered the possibilities. The tournament was not only a spectacle of martial skill but also a stage for the unexpected. The idea that someone special, someone who stirred her emotions, might be present added an extra layer of excitement to the otherwise dreadul event. With a contented sigh, Hana leaned back into the tub, letting the warm water envelop her. The scent of dragon that clung to her was a reminder of her unique connection to the mighty creature she rode. Arya continued her playful banter, teasing Hana about the potential encounter.As the preparations for the tournament continued, Hana's thoughts were consumed by the mysterious someone who awaited her presence. The tub became a sanctuary of contemplation, and the air buzzed with the promise of both the grand festivities and the possibility of a fateful encounter at the upcoming event.

---

Adorned in the elegant dark red gown, Hana stood at the threshold of the grand arena, the cheers of the crowd echoing around her. The anticipation hung in the air as she took a moment to appreciate the meticulous details of her attire, courtesy of Arya's styling.The dark red dress, with its intricate gold detailing on the neckline and sleeves, exuded a regal charm. The v-line cut of the top portion added a touch of sophistication, highlighting the graceful curves of the princess. The ensemble was a testament to Arya's keen sense of fashion and her ability to enhance Hana's natural grace. The true treasure, however, was the golden necklace that adorned Hana's neck. A simple chain held a captivating ruby, encased in a star-shaped golden casing. The ruby gleamed with a rich, deep red hue, mirroring the color of the gown. The ensemble, both understated and striking, enhanced the princess's beauty and radiance. As Hana prepared to open the curtains and step into the arena, she couldn't help but feel a surge of confidence, the weight of the golden necklace against her skin a reassuring reminder. The cheers from the crowd intensified, creating an atmosphere charged with excitement and anticipation. With a deep breath, Hana lifted the curtain, revealing the awaiting spectacle of the tournament and the adoring eyes of the spectators. The grandeur of the moment was not lost on her, and the princess embraced the role she was destined to play in the unfolding events.

Once opened, she viewed who was sitting in the area and where. She sees her father speaking to Aryas', Lord Eddard, in the center. Next to him sat Sir Harwin, captain of the Kingsguard. On the left side sat her brother, Hongjoong, who wore a black ensemble with red detailing stitched into it, their house symbol hidden within the embroidery. With him were his close friends, Seonghwa, Mingi, Yunho, Wooyoung, Yeosang, Jongho, and San. She looked at them in wonderment, who would have thought these boys would be so close to one another. All of them from completely different regions of the realm, two of them even being bastards, which were looked down upon in most of the world. As Hana greeted her, the air carried a subtle tension beneath the surface. Her father, with a smile that masked a deeper understanding, acknowledged her presence. The exchange held a hint of jest, but beneath it, there lingered the unspoken acknowledgment of a familiar conversation about her occasional tardiness.

"Father..." she spoke, offering a curtsey that belied the charm she carried as a princess. His gaze met hers, and the smile on his face betrayed both warmth and a knowing twinkle.

"Ah yes, my lovely daughter, you have at last decided to join your father on his name day," he replied, his tone carrying a playful note that danced on the edge of jest and parental guidance. Hana, well aware of the unspoken nuances, feigned a smile, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

"My apologies," she responded with a lightness to her voice, "it seemed I lost track of time during my ride." The apology was delivered with grace, but both knew it wasn't just about the passage of time. It was a delicate dance, a conversation that transcended mere words. He returned to his conversation with Lord Eddard as you turned to take your seat. Sometime between your exchange with the King, Arya had entered and taken seat next to the younger boys. You made your way to sit but were caught by a hand grabbing your wrist. The grip on Hana's wrist tightened as she met the intense gaze of the Prince, otherwise known as 'The Pain in the Ass.' His voice carried a mix of frustration and concern as he questioned her about the stunt she had pulled.

"What were you thinking? Pulling a stunt like that?" he demanded, his eyes searching for an explanation. Hana, maintaining her composure, looked down at their entwined hands and then made eye contact with the Prince.

"I was simply riding with Noctis, brother," she replied, her tone steady but laced with a subtle defiance. The mention of Noctis, her dragon companion, hinted at the bond they shared, a bond that often led her to adventurous exploits in the realm. The Prince's expression shifted, a mix of exasperation and understanding crossing his features. It was a familiar dance between them, a clash of wills and a recognition of shared history. He was a constant presence in her life, both challenging and intriguing. As the conversation hung in the air, the grand event continued around them. Hana took her seat, aware that the complexities of royal relationships would persist, intertwining with the festivities of the day.

"I told you it was a bad idea going riding today, but you're too stubborn to even listen," Arya expressed, her frustration evident.

"Alright, I'll admit it, it wasn't the smartest plan on my part. But can we please let this go?" Hana implored, casting a pleading look at her friend. Arya sighed, relenting to the request.

"Alright, as you wish, Princess," Arya responded, bowing her head slightly before turning her attention to the boys behind them. The transition from reprimand to a lighter topic was swift, and Arya's tone shifted as she probed into Hana's personal matters.

"So... have you spoken to him yet?" Arya inquired with a sly grin. Hana, feigning confusion, replied,

"Spoken to whom, please Arya, you must be more direct on what you speak about." Arya playfully shoved Hana and wore a bright smile.

"Oh, don't give me that excuse. You know very well who I speak of. I only ask because he's looking at you."

Hana's eyes widened with feigned innocence, and a playful banter ensued between the two friends. The air was filled not only with the lighthearted exchange but also with the unspoken intrigue of the mysterious someone who had captured Hana's attention. As the festivities continued around them, the hidden glances added an extra layer of excitement to the grand celebration.

---

As the break in the tourney brought relief to the otherwise dreadful event, a feast was announced, and the highlords and ladies made their way to the courtyard. Hana and Arya found themselves standing by a tall pillar, surrounded by the architectural beauty of arched entries and a marbled floor that clicked with every step. One of Hana's favorite features of the courtyard was the installation her father had put in many years ago – the entire map of Mrythria laid out on the floor. From Castle Black near the Wall to the capital of Sunsphinx, Sunseth, every detail was meticulously displayed. As Hana and Arya conversed, a tap on her shoulder diverted her attention.

"Good evening, Princess. It is, as always, a pleasure to see you again." The voice was familiar, and she knew who it belonged to. She turned around to find him standing there, dressed in a navy blue vest that stretched down to his mid-thighs. A silver clasp adorned his chest, connecting the sides of the vest. Underneath, a lighter blue undershirt complemented dark pants and leather boots. His dark hair framed his sharp features, and when their eyes met, he tilted his head down and bowed.

"Lord San, a pleasure," Hana replied, her tone warm and genuine. As he stood straight, he gazed upon her face, his eyes scanning every detail. Hana, clasping her hands behind her back, tilted her head slightly in curiosity.

"To what do I owe your good company?" she inquired. His eyes moved from the intricate details of her dress to the necklace that adorned her neck – a beautiful ruby encased in a golden star-shaped setting. His hand reached out to touch the gem, a small smile spreading across his face.

"A beautiful piece, Princess. Where did you find it?" he asked, his fingers tracing the edges of the ruby. Hana looked down at the gem, now held by San, before stepping closer to him and making eye contact. A light blush adorned her cheeks.

"A good friend had it sent to me. Where they acquired I'm not quite sure."

"This friend must be special of yours; it seems they have an acquired taste," San remarked, his tone carrying a subtle acknowledgment of the uniqueness of the gift. The blush on Hana's cheeks deepened, and she became aware of the intimate stance they had taken, standing close amidst the bustling courtyard.

"Oh, he is. They sends me many gifts from their travels. The last one they sent me before this was a rather beautiful dress," Hana shared. San smirked and released the necklace, taking a step back, a playful glint in his eyes. He glanced around the courtyard before turning his attention back to her.

"I hear there were changes made in the garden, perhaps you could show me?" he suggested. A rush of excitement flowed through Hana's body, and she turned to find her friend Arya, only to discover that Arya had disappeared.

"Yes, of course. You will love it. My father has acquired some new flowers from Rosethorn..." Hana began to respond, but before she could finish, San took her arm in his, and with a subtle yet confident gesture, he escorted her to the garden. As they walked through the arched entries, the marbled floor clicked beneath their steps, and the courtyard gradually faded behind them. The realm's intricate map beneath their feet gave way to the allure of the garden, where whispers of new blossoms and the promise of shared moments awaited.

#ateez #choi san #park seonghwa #kim hongjoong #jeong yunho #kang yeosang #song mingi #jung wooyoung #choi jongho #ateez imagine #ateez x reader #choi san x reader #choi san x OC #GOT #game of thrones #house of the dragon #hotd

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stormbabylore · 6 months ago

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Left to Right: New Benchmark, Current State, Original Benchmark

The new benchmark is leaps and bounds better than the original, in my personal opinion, and I'm exceptionally grateful to those who put in the hard work to bring us these massive updates so quickly. I've held out hope for the last month that the new benchmark would give me the ability to see Aeryn with the same excitement that others felt looking forward to their characters' graphic updates in Dawntrail.

But I'm just not there. Though she looks significantly better, there's still something "incorrect" about her expression causing my messed up little brain to reject her. I've stared at her with a highly critical eye trying to pinpoint why I feel this way, and I've landed on this: most (though not all) of the changes I personally see in her appearance are caused by an interpretation formed about how certain lines and features on her face must be due to how shadows previously appeared on them - shadows which are now drastically different and highlight her features in a different way from what I previously perceived.

Examples and additional rambling behind the cut, if you don't mind me being insane about this.

The new rendering of her eyelashes looks thinner, and the shadows they cast on her upper eye are less intense, making more of her iris visible. Additionally, her lower eyelids appear slightly more rounded, especially toward the inner part of her eye, where shadows originally made it seem the eyelids straightened out and then very slightly curved down - the opposite of now, which appears to be more of a continual upward curve. Combined, these all give her more of a wide-eyed expression than before.

The new shading of the bags under her eyes makes them (and her eyes in general) look more bulbous. They didn't seem to protrude quite so much before, with a focus more on subtle highlights that caused the bags to be most visible in brighter scenes or in stark, overhead lighting. (I'm looking at you, Prae.) These were often situations where it felt appropriate to showcase how tired she might be feeling; but otherwise, in most scenes, they didn't stand out so much. They're now very obvious, visible from every angle, and they stand out even in night views.

I personally see a slight change in the line of her nose, most visible in the 3/4 up-angle shots. It used to have a minuscule inward curve along the ridge and turned up the tiniest bit at the end. From the front, it looks like her nostrils used to tilt up more, giving the impression that her nose was slightly narrower, despite the fact that it does, in fact, take up the exact same space on her face. Finally, the bolder shadows along every part of the nose give the impression that it is larger and protrudes further along the bridge - though, again, that is definitely not the case.

I very much miss the wider dip of her upper lip (which I have learned today is called the philtrum). It gave her expression a certain softness, whereas her benchmark lips look gently pursed to me. There was also a barely-there upturn at the corners of her lips before, or at least the impression of one created by the stronger, "dimple-like" shadows at both ends of her lip-line. That slight upturn is very evidently gone (noticeable especially on her profile) and makes her look far more serious and even severe. The more I stare at her, the more I think this (perhaps along with her eyes) might be the change that bothers me the most.

I can't comment on her face shape with any reasonable accuracy. Sometimes I think her face feels rounder, but then I rotate her and think perhaps it's actually thinner? The chin throws me off, and I think the angle of her jawline feels higher - but that (like so many other things) might just be a false impression based on the illusion of lines created by cast shadows, which now just hit different.

Colors, of course, also play a role in some of this... but I'm not going to waste time comparing skin, eye, and hair tones now that we know there's been a shroud on the character creator that impacts how things look in the original (center images). I did briefly attempt to find a less "pink-leaning" hue for her skin now that the shadows don't dilute the warmth of the coloring in quite the same way, but I didn't find anything that felt any closer to the original iteration.

So there are my unnecessary and overly-analytical observations about my WoL's appearance. It's not a criticism of the graphics at all, which I admit look pretty darn stellar. Again, massive kudos to the entire team of individuals involved in all this work - it means a lot that they take fan feedback and really work to make this game amazing for us. And most of my alts look incredible! So does this character, in her own way? If I never had the original version of Aeryn and didn't know her so well, I'd probably be fine with how the character on the far left looks.

She just doesn't feel like my character.

Of course that might change. As I mentioned while I was trying to work through my dejection following the release of the first benchmark (here), there's a very real possibility I'll just "get used to it" once this is the only version of her I have available. I can definitely see her somewhere in there, trying to peek through; and maybe when I see her in the actual game environment, I'll feel differently. Or maybe I'll reevaluate and decide she just looks "older," or that she's tired, or some other such nonsense that would cause a change in her overall aesthetic as the story progresses.

But as it stands, I'm undecided as to if I will continue to play her or not. I had paused for a long spell on my goal to power through EW before the graphics update, and I think I'm going to resume it, now. I've been reasonably assured by a good friend that EW reaches a solid finale that could be a conclusion for the WoL's story. (Noooo spoilers, pleeaaaase.) If that turns out to be the case, it might be nice to give Aeryn an "ever after" and let this be the conclusion of her adventures... if I find I really can't resolve the notion of playing with her like this. (Goodness knows I have plenty of alts to fall back if I don't bring Aeryn into Dawntrail!)

But I will be so, so very sad to end my main's story, if I decide to do so. (ᴗ_ ᴗ。)

#ffxiv benchmark #ffxiv graphics update #further proof i am too emotionally attached to this character #yes i realize this is a silly thing to get worked up over #but here we are #aeryn stormwater #i just really love her a lot #i don't want her to change #i dont wike it #graphics update side by side #ffxiv #ffxiv oc #ffxiv wol #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv screenshots #i will be taking ten zillion screenshots of her before she changes #and answering wol questions #so lots to update here for a while even if i don't keep going with her

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blackbutlerfandomnerddomain · 2 years ago

Text

Angel Belladonna Cake

Many years have changed.

Many years people have changed.

Many years the world has change.

Ever since the closing curtain call of the century's end, many things has change. The outfits, the food, the way people live, everything big or small was slowly change for a new book cover shade.

People of London walk in groups, chatting their morning away as they work as busy bees as always, the daily gossip fresh on the lips of the maidens dressed so fine in dresses and hair built up and tight. "Lady Elizabeth's husband is back from a trip I hear." "Does this mean we'll finally see him, the mystery husband of the Midford name?" "I due hope so. I bet he's handsome thanks to that lovely angel they birthed."

Indeed, the topic is even different than years before. Before it was who the beautiful and talented Lady Elizabeth Midford was going to wed after the chaotic reveal of two fiances, whom she'll pick base on statues of love in her heart. However, that quickly change upon sudden news within her 18th birthday nearer of a mysterious noble waltz in and the two fell instantly for each other and quickly wed. The mystery groom, Sir Lord Banishes Calamities, however is never seen in public besides their wedding day and a few hosted parties.

Many assumed he wasn't real until the birth of the Midford Family's heir of the next generation and beauty of her parents, Bella.

The very same Bella that across the ways of London's street to a large home just by the countryside who dances across polish marble floors so elegantly and smooth, a silver sword in hand as her partner.

Much like the gossips, Bella Midford is indeed a beauty. Long raven black hair in wisps and curls that reach down her back like a elegant cape, skin as smooth and perfect as a fine statue of Ancient Greece in the flesh color of a light beige and almond, a strong thin nose with a natural pink flush many would envy years ahead of time, large dark emerald eyes of a natural glimmering glow, and natural pale red lips fill as a rose petal. She also happens to have grown quiet tall after the setting sun of her 9th birthday with a lanky thin build lots of women in the Era would kill to have in a healthy way without the works of corsets or many pounds of powder.

The man she fights fall to the ground in a hard echoing thud as the girl stands perfect still with a grin of victory. A clap catches both their heads as a beautiful woman with blonde longs done up in a bun dressed so beautifully in blacks and greens walking to them. "Wonderful work Bella, you're getting better everyday." Said she, her voice sweet and comforting like honey. Bella smiles bright and turns a heel as she speaks, her voice similar but a slightly deeper pitch, "I learn from the best teachers after all mama."

As the sun reached it's full peek the scent of floral heaven sweeps up into the warm summer air to any nose and lung living around the recent edges of two large manors beside each other with a creek and small patch of forest splitting between their large lands just the outskirts of London's busy life style. Blue bells and white roses of many colors and size grow along the walls and ground of the manors in beautiful harmony as a morning bird chirps and chirps and chirps.

A man dressed in black walks down the halls as the morning light seeps in through the windows of dark blue lace curtains creating a beautiful design dark blue hue shade of shadows, in front of him he wheels a cart of tea cups and plates of soft sweet treats. He stops at a door and enters after gentle knocks, walking into a room painted white with flares of blue shades of many and silver threaded twinkles across and dangle across the ceiling and walls like frozen dew drops of the morning rain of April, against the wall center farthest away from the door sat a bed of soft comfort with a figure of two lay comfortably within each other's warmth.

The gent in black pulls the curtains open letting the sun come in fully, "Young master, Lady Doll, it is time to wake up."

At the same time as them, a figure of dark skin and light lavender waves of a short mop of hair dressed in a white ruffled blouse and black pants with brown boots to match walks into a large room filled with lavender and bluebells with a bundle of blankets rests in the large bed center of the room. With gentle hands and a soft they spoke, "Wake up little one. The morning is awaiting your play." The small figure under the bundle of blankets squirm in circles and groan, "Untie...Leave me be..."

"Untie can't let that happy star-shine." They giggles and shook the body more.

As the figures snug in their bed arose, figures of three and six others that follow suit helps get the day started with laundry, food, and garden work in clockwork until things were ready within a lovely greenhouse sat built in between the lands.

A grown man with dark hair and a eyepatch walks in along side a lovely brunette both holding the hands of children who seem extra tired, one ten the other eight, one boy and one girl. After the four seated the other doors opened and a handsome blonde lad waltz in holding a very sleepy light brown curls of a boy in his arms. "Good morning loves." "Good morning Alois."

The two new comers sat down as the man dressed in black and a beautiful maid with her long light hair tied in a braid down her back and dark skin got the breakfast tea and foods ready while everyone talk among themselves back and forth.

Over the years Ciel and Alois have change quite a lot. No long are their bodies and faces soften clay but have no sharpened or bold themselves, no longer do they wear shorts and high heeled boots to try and fit the statue cue of height and status wealth but now reached the desired height they longed for with Alois, much to Ciel's dismay, still peeks over the dark haired man by a few inches. Doll, much like the boys, have changed very much as well. Her body is no longer covered in her gender but now shaped and curved as a proper woman's body with her brown hair long and always tucked away in a stylish up-do that shows her new found status as Lady Phantomhive.

Ah yes, yet another thing so different than before.

Before, the two would simply hide away in their teenage curiosity and yell at each other almost every second they see each other. But over time, much like their bodies, their minds and feelings have shifted to a more different shade of things such as now always cuddling close to each other and bore three children they adore. Yes, three. Another thing different since then again was also the relationship of Ciel and Alois. Much like Doll's and his relationship, they never got along despite the many run ins and things they have in common with one another. However, over time those feelings faded to a nice even ground where Alois also comes to accepting Doll as someone close to him. Though sometimes they bicker and playfully argue over Ciel.

The three children are just perfect copies of their parents; The first born son, Albert, and the little only daughter, Rachel, tend to look much like their father at his young age but with the nose and freckles from their mother though some argue Albert as more of Doll's blue eyes than Ciel's. The youngest son, middle child Anthony, has the brown locks and nose and eye color of his mother but the eye shape and lips of his father Alois as well as the curly hair gene but still share hand in hand the two types of freckles both parents share. To everyone the three children are Phantomhives, but of course behind close doors and the walls of both manors they are known as Trancy's and Kelvin's though Doll had a long road of using that title since her youth.

But one thing more different than the rest still scratches even the other servants' heads-

"Untie didn't let me sleep in..." Whined tired little Anthony as he rubbed his tied blues of marble orbs. His awakening friend pouts at the sudden drag of mud on their name. The three adults around the table chuckle as Alois rubs both Anthony's and their hairs, "Brair simply wanted to see you star-shine."

They, Brair, smiles at the words and stands beside the maid and another woman who's dressed in a dark purple gown with pale white skin smooth and unaffected by anything and beautiful violet eyes under her light light short lashes that goes well with her soft curly white hair tied tightly in a braided bun behind her head.

Another thing different than before that many can't believe is a demon madam from Hell, most feared even by a Lord of Hell himself, has taken a shunned broken angel as her wife.

Over the time since taking effect the contract of Alois Trancy, Hannah Annafellows has found and taken cared of Angela, a once well known maid of Lord Henry Barrymore and was once a enemy of Ciel for trying to arrange his demise. Despite everything, the two simply found home together. Angela has long since lost her connection of Ash, her male counterpart, and began working between the households and over time that love and acceptance grew a child between them. Their sweet little Brair Rose of the dawn.

Brair glanced to their left to the butler who speaks with a smile and smiles softly in measure, "Are you excited for the party Mr Sebastian?" They asked. The butler in black's smile grew wider by ten inches, a happy glow glimmering within his red eyes. "Indeed I am."

Sebastian still recalls the feeling of holding such a tiny life form for the first time. She was so small red face and crying from the cold, her little fists were clutch tight. He has held babies many times before and after was no break, hell he was there for all the births to come, but nothing quite match the feeling of awe he felt upon holding just that one baby girl.

Domestic life was never once a lifestyle he desired even thinking about having but of course a certain human has to ruin that idea when he became that boy's butler, for without him he would never dare meet the lady who captured his heart freely and gifted him such a wonderful baby. She's a perfect mix of him and Elizabeth it drove poor Sebastian nuts on how that can be.

Sebastian blinks out his thoughts when he heard a crow caw above his head, bringing back to the now as he drives the carriage down the road to the manor he sees in his view, a smile coming to his face as he softly rubs the ring around his finger under his gloves.

This is dedicated to @sebalizzie and @annoyinglyshinycherryblossom and honestly @nullb1rdbones cause they have helped me accept a lot more ships than I would assume

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libidomechanica · 8 months ago

Text

“Grave men, near death, desire breeds flames best look, set down”

A kimo sequence

To our Theme. Due adoration, and being too, the brindled bitch, they are found himself a fool.

Grave men, near death, desire breeds flames best look, set down his shadows, with pleasures in Stellaes face.

Those hours, that blows; and love, and are asleep. But more fit to the milkweeds’ honey terrifies me.

A pocket-book and silver snowy sentences, the woody hollow door, which was beheaded.

Want of foolscap subject of time. Own backyard like a quest, a land of the forestalled, get opposite!

Ye scorn my low estate, and dim hopes and petals of a winters in the fault? Don Juan, carpe, carpe!

And teach through the clouds, as mortals, love you. They fled with zeal. Whose diapason knells on scrolls of jet.

To love her; and, like a hawk, an’ it winna let a body be. Of thanks me not through a white?

Hill of moss before a tower of custom. For many an envoy either leaf, the diamonds.

In these hills round thy bier. Nor coldly passe in this hour the sea, till the death, if she doth go.

To shield him coming, near, she is not a genius or under a wide hat, dancer, had kept hold.

And down to every vessel could be any man in any room. Most importune wheeled, and St.

When move in women are, or, one dream within be fed, with a modern we are betrayed by deeds.

I probably didn’t bother. I hate those lips of thread in thy heart, and sighing, thinking Stephen Hill.

Have been a-telling statues of the night. It’s jet, jet black, an’ it winna let a body be.

A pure smooth pearl and boxing; and he who must I: for what was as sure, who threatned strings do break.

’ Whose spirits of these flowers, once a whole mother in the full as deep and when there by the dead.

Breeds flames of battle move? Did I hear it half starved. It looks from the lamps, then dazled were his life.

On the higher views upon the rise again, fair Lesley, the heroes, kings. With a tighter clasp?

Fast wither’d at a distant heard by fate and thus, my Katie? Mark but the ecstasy of death.

They won’t or can’t allow the feathers fair, and, as the wild hill side. And the taste me thus, my Love!

She is near; ’ and thee! You may for ever; for Nature’s law. With what an even think that good night.

—And maun I still have plenty: so let it then as well at once might insinuations bothers.

They refuse to listens, I hear, I hear it half so sure the dormitory. Such play at all.

There stood: he passion. Slaves of endless charmed, the shadow, he pursues! Beyond siroccos harvest.

Softest, Russian or Castilian? Of all that can ail thee, as the graves unnumber’d lie; the rest.

And let go. Who watch’d to trace the Soul is, and judg’d aright, because thou art a scholar, Lycius!

” “Now whether to faint things, and there is Love. You, a sparrows sends; by that to his neck three were dead.

Beyond what other women is, the ceiling. Whether my eyes can believes me, maybe can tell.

Change to chlorophyll, and round himself extremely fair; the true! Of all her ills—a scattering.

Drew forth streams,—even they were hardly bear it. Kick off their beds and fussed around shall I awake!

Mark where I am! The lava ravish’d, scarce seen the Lady Carolines and Franceses?

Span of the main, and there. Each life unblest kisses had got out on Shooter’s Hill; and singing of.

It once be seen, and the third errand sent. Come live with light, although I despaire at me doth breathe?

The color of that ground, I though the Night by his belov’d repose? Thou art out of that he said.

Too subtle for a change, o yearning to me for that black, an’ it winna let a body be.

Or all, what name, for shells and virtue is a garden, flowers, footless and weep. And tumble pat.

On speed and fell into that eve, as twas the thread the sad attendants; then the extremely sick?

That dead sands flashing chariot, rolling of her hand: true to th’ ears in snow: seas shall die.

Pale grew her here incessantly by playing like this arm-chair? Though ye be, yet, lilies and play.

A high building and of mine. More children, talents other cantos of this ever-diverse pair!

And nobody calls the wolf rages wide, and yet the Border? I woke— and chide my honest man.

Times such whom all hoped to find, each in his happy valley they pale, as mortal fruit? If you see.

Eyes there; that she made; heaven raining gilt from some will know that can be done? No stream’d from your knees.

The soldier went for death, if she doth throw. What can be old, for his turf, and long tunes and love is.

The milliners who furnish drapery Misses? Might each more beauteous hill of moss, just half starved.

The brief for afford to the world,—which, though, we were black where you can even grace. In equal grew.

For ever trust beyond, I wish I have gone her cry, oh misery! And fair Lesley, return.

And let go. ’ So I shall be its named mount Pleasantly with her robes flaunted for so large a mind.

They say his system t is time would understand. Not, but shudder in the sun, but waxing thighs?

Again precipitate thy soul the sky and has a crust. Warmed, but never, never breed the must.

Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy! The wife he sought of Platonic shades and trust their rents.

And withal, they sigh’d for want of my stout blood in a forests shook three A. My business were left.

” No, no: you would Wisdom be) shine opposite! Such miracle. And paid Where Chick Lorimer went.

To thy body’s weight of food and paid it. Car on this my purchaser suspect the daisies grow.

Wind into delight, light winds used to speak, ev’n from too wide and blinded rabbits, cows with surprise.

Fairer than on continent, because ye hae the hole, ’ would under the pile—make the might appal!

Like fog smothering darkness chariots hurl’d like Fairy Queen, the floor. But, trowth I care na by.

Of yonder weed took up the flower or henchman, oh Jack! See; but first thy heauy grace, the long weeks.

If merciful as your body’s end? For laik o’ gear ye lightly me, but, trowth, I care na by.

Or amber, but faire a vertue to every thing. Or a sail flung it from his swooning long you mine.

Bless you. In island dwelt a nymph, to whom I am confined doom. ’Er his future day—fond Thought!

Their average numeral; also the Fauns from Boston Commons turn’d his soul can be done my wrong.

Her exceeding pain. Lulled by the spring. And she wakes, is too-too cruelly to part, my Katie?

Without the end of the rest torn out. The desultory breeze that faint in his fame with half starved.

And sure in languages—as well as brighter eyes and live: Alas! Yet it was gold or silver.

My thoughts, sold cheap what is gift; creation’s blithe and fainted in the less gone? As he from your knees.

Guy calls the pen in the grass his features, couched upon a Harp of Song? Thine eye may stand away.

Eyes; light, and could ever turning saw the harvest. It sweeps plastic and vanish’d pleasure to meet.

Not silence best help I can: before it woo, and to an early exposure to Frankenstein!

Stay! To-morrow space to do it, then, much as ever yet was shut out, and lint, and went to sleep.

All kinds of life confined, some splinters in the surface-eyes were. Scarce that now you may for ever.

Perhaps to pick up. As some thing like a delusion; there by zephyrs, streaks running over you.

To proof makes us wish I could restrain her fearfully. Grounded on sinful loving, alert.

Master’s hand—as man’s ingratitudes and elegances terse. Oh woe is me! Than my knee.

My wailing cheer. And doth in it live. A fortune swells with a pious love of course must like that.

Diamonds, on the nightgown would understand. Stink of Rhyme, but do not, nor despised, whilst the dying.

I said to the most fairer than his way. Too gentle Euphues, who watch’d with disdain to tinder.

If facing, was forced to pray: so subtly is the spoils of country’s good—which no more. Fond Thought!

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #128 texts #kimo sequence

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acim-ed-ortsac · 2 years ago

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Blessed Creatures

How long has it been for you, walking on this mortal world endlessly, watching every age, every evolution, every human race, every species of animal, every type of plant, you watched it all be born, grow, then fall. The humans deduced that the Earth is around a thousand years old, but you knew the truth since you’ve been walking on it for millions of years.

You’ve had many friends whom you watched die from old age or from wounds too great or who have been unlucky and caught an illness with no cure. You’ve had many loved ones, all of who decayed with only you left standing. You wonder when is it your time to die since your life refuses to falter.

You watched the last rays of the bright morning star that was bursting with light and heat before it cooled on the cold darkening waters that entail evening has arrived, now a wash of cool cobalt blue soon to turn its midnight shade. You took a bite of a corn cob you brought from one of the vendors in today’s farmer's market, “ Humans are very stubborn creatures, aren’t they?”

Nothing responded to you, only a gust of wind decided to blow onto your skin and give you the shivers, despite the jacket you wore. The building you sat on was high enough to give you a great view of the land, it was a mural of little people and buildings that bustled with life, ready to turn in for the night.

Suddenly, from one of the many shadows that the building formed, came a clawed hand stretched out to you, dark tattoo marks decorated it like warrior paint. From the grey clouds, the moon makes its appearance as it decided to reveal the intruder in your peace,

“Indeed, my little lamb,”

You glanced at the now unveiled man, his mischievous smile of teeth laced with cruelty, his skin flickering from different skin tones; one moment he was of African color before it changed to a golden tan, finally, he decided on the ivory skin tone that only highlighted his black marks. They curled around him like snakes climbing a tree, swirls and swirls of it surrounding his body until it stopped past mid-neck, where a dark choker with the demonic pentagon was snuggly wrapped around.

His blood-red eyes flickered in amusement as his stance was relaxed, shifting most of his weight on one foot. Pale blond strands tied into a small ponytail that flitted around in the wind. His dark grey muscle tee wasn’t thick enough for the cold, yet he seemed unbothered.

“It’s been a good while, snake,” you said, patting beside you for him to sit.

He took your offer.

“Why the same look? I thought the Europeans were trying to make amends with the Indigenous. Or is it the Americans who made the African people into slaves?” you asked.

“Well, there’s not a major evil running around right now. And any race can be evil at this point, also I like this look,” he said, grinning a bit.

“They're not bad enough,”

“Yet it’s those people who are shown on media, especially that Donald Trump guy.”

“Touche,” you directed your eyes to the silver moon, shining whatever borrowed light it can have from the sun, “ Although, the world has become mixed in intentions, hasn’t it?”

“It sure has,” his eyes glazed over to you,” How about you? Being the living representation of what’s good, your appearance hasn’t changed from centuries ago.”

True, you haven’t changed your appearance since the last race that has been in need and were innocent, which were the native people of the colonized countries. You let a small smile lift your lips, you took the hand that was beside yours and lift it to your lips, “Well, representation of what’s evil, walking on this Earth for all these millenniums have made me somewhat. . .”

A hand cupped your face, tilting it until you face his own that was unusually filled with love, something that no evil thing should feel, “What, my lamb.”

“. . .Numb, I feel numb.”

He pulled you to him, wrapping an arm around you and into his side, an embrace if you will. His breath tickled the hair that was there on your head, spreading warmth to your forehead, “I don’t blame you, walking this Earth for so long only to watch the rise and fall of every human race can be boring.”

“. . . It makes me quite envious, actually,” you tilted your head into his neck, “ While they get to rest when their mortal bodies decay, we are made to walk on this Earth, not knowing when our time is.”

“ I suppose,” he kissed your forehead, “Human, stubborn but blessed creatures.”

You looked at your arms, seeing the white tattoos that littered your arms. When will you rest?

note: i made this while listening to digital dagger's 'still here'

#good #evil #supernatural #mystery #universe

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deputygonebye · 1 year ago

Text

Shane felt the very breath of his lungs abandon him once more than just Ana's wound had become completely exposed. As if stolen by some thief that couldn't be seen, a criminal who used the shadows of trees to great advantage, akin to the breathlessness of a love-struck fool. Never said aloud for the very idea was somewhat impossible to believe, there had always been a tension between the ex-deputy and the youngest Grimes child. A passion that burst with the bond of friendship - grew more and more as time passed - fervor that dared to adventure into sentiments far more romantic. Ana dressed only in her undergarment and pant, then, Shane wouldn't refute the claim should anyone else from the camp had brought it up. He did care for her. More than he probably should've; as a member to Ana's own family and as part of her life. So very protective over her, even from the start, when there was just a small boy and a baby bundled in blankets to consider, as medical cream was massaged gently nearest her stab, eyes of colored in copper couldn't keep from wandering just a bit. Across Ana, the firmness of her muscles and the curves of her frame, like a gluttonous vulture.

"Don't you start with that Alfalfa crap." Shane warned, but the gruffness of his voice was far from present, rather replaced with a youthful smile upon his lips, a hint of blush to his cheeks. "Damn well thought you forgot about it. Ever since you knew what that plant was, that's all you ever used to call me. I did try to tame it, you know. Jean used to put all sorts of products and things in my hair to keep it down. Nothin' ever stuck. Nothin' is gonna get it to stay stuck. Stubborn bastard's got a mind of his own. Maybe I should just shave it all off. Start rockin' a buzzcut or somethin'."

Fingertips finished with working the cream in further, next came the use of the washcloth that was brought. Frayed around its corners, having already seen the worst of the Outbreak, been used to clean the blisters and bruises of several from camp, it was the only decent cloth that the group seemed to have on hand. A small blessing to be counted among the few. A possession just as prized as old world gold or silver, like a priceless artifact from some country colonized, against Ana's tender skin did Shane begin to clean her. Excess brushed from her with delicate touch. Butterfly wings that fluttered in the breeze of that hot Georgia day - until there was nothing left to gather. Cotton stained from the efforts that they both shared, along with the rest of the laundry would Shane toss the pint-sized towel. Into the baskets that Lori and Carol folded and sorted. Their job to do.

Shane asked, slouching some on his thighs as he stayed in a kneel, a proud peacock of a man, "how's that for gentle? Aren't you startin' to feel better already? See, Ana, it's all in these magic hands. I know what needs to be done. How to be firm, how to be gentle... hey, that guy was askin' for it, anyways. I told him to stay away from you. I said, very explicitly, that I was gonna hit him if he didn't. It wasn't my fault that he was too damn stupid and didn't wanna listen. You were 21 years old. You were havin' your first couple of drinks. No way in hell was I gonna stand around and watch as some creep tried to feel you up. In hindsight, I guess I did get a little too carried away then. I'll tell you what, my knuckles sure did hurt the next mornin'."

Nameless and not so, there was no limitation to what Shane had done, and would do, for Anastasia. Menfolk of many different creeds and cultures come to be victims to the brutality of his fists, the soles of his shoes and the ruthlessness of his own head, forehead bashed into whatever could be landed, jealousy and protectiveness had been a true negative to his character. Chains that always kept him pinned whenever he tried most to move forward. Despite the change in winds, the passing of many seasons, still could Shane remember the boys of before. Those in windows that Ana tried so desperately to see from better viewpoints, like a bird perched onto a branch, smalltown heroes that he wished nothing but the worst for. Plain and bland as Grandma Jean's breakfast of oatmeal and unbuttered toast. Unimpressive excuses for boys their age, sometimes older, sometimes younger, but the very bane to Shane's existence, nonetheless. He wouldn't allow for them to get between what he and Ana had.

Certainly not when hormones were bustling, certainly not in the present, standing up from the grounds of which he knelt, Shane enacted a bit of late revenge. Pressed the back of Anastasia's hip between his pointer finger and thumb, pinched her skin there like a devil. Retaliation for all the boys that he was forced to endure for her sake, enviousness for the girl that they had but he didn't, for having been so worried over her since all the years of their first meeting. Forever handcuffed to her would he be. Shackled to the very person that Ana had become, was born into despite his prayers for her to be less of a brat, a tease and torment, a punishment that wouldn't be traded for anything. Very much did Shane welcome her company. It was warm and safe. The stars that guided him when all else failed, the reason that he could continue on in the battle against the undead, the unknown and the unclear. Ana was the beacon of hope he craved.

"Let's go show that brother of yours the state of yourself before we do anythin' further." Shane said as he led the way, into the thick of camp where the fires of yesterday stood in ashes. "After that, I'll see if we have any bandages we can spare. Ed fell and busted his cheek while you were gone. Not sure how many he took from Dale's RV, but from the wrappers I saw flyin' through the air, he used about five in various attempts to get one to stick to his skin. Guess he finally managed one. If we have nothin', I can use my shirt to wrap you up in the meantime. Don't worry, it ain't the one I'm wearin'. Lori washed my second. It's dryin' now on the clothesline. I could always kiss your boo-boo better, if you wanted. That's always seemed to work. Granted, last time I did such a thing, you were about four years old, and what I was kissin' wasn't so much a stab wound as it was a papercut. But, hey, it wasn't like I was the only one. You made sure everybody did it. The more kisses you got, the quicker you'd be healed."

"You were a cute thing." Shane grinned, shaking his head at the memory, watching as he walked through the dirt. "What happened? Well, guess you ain't so bad now, though. You're a hell of a woman, Ana. Were a damn good cop, too. Almost as good as me. Come on, girl. Seems like Rick's been waitin' to see you."

Ana needed to get around. she needed to be normal again. She hadn’t felt like that In months... She craved the sense of normalcy, so when Shane got up and left, she needed to get up and start moving. Something like her brother always did. Keep moving. Keep moving along. The voice of her brother rang in her head as she smiled ever so slightly. She waited for him to come back, her eyes scanning the environment around her as she smiled. A sense of normal. A sense of.... before. Shane was always her protector. Something that she hated, she always had to prove to herself and to her brother that she didnt need protecting. But Shane was always there to help. To be there for her, wether she knew she needed it or not. She always ran to him for everything. Hell a few times, she got drunker than shit and she crashed on his couch, her waking up with him next to her with a bottle of water and some aspirin. Or if she got thrown in the drunk tank for drinking underage and she called him inconsolably crying and blubbering. He was always there. And now he is again.

“My ass got numb waitin for your slow ass.” She teased as she looked at him with a smirk. “Plus I need a get lay of the land again don’t i? Y’all changed things up since I’ve been here last.” She shrugged as she looked down at him. “Plus I don’t think you’ve called me that in a few years huh?” She chuckled as her face heat up a soft red. She could blame it on the blood loss, but she looked away anyways, turning her face away from his gaze so he couldn’t see her face flush. He always had that reaction from her. Something she couldn’t get a handle on but she didnt really see why she would’ve had too.

“You gonna stitch me up, Walsh?” She asked, her voice soft as she pulled up the side of her shirt for him. she couldn’t help but shiver as he touched her. The flesh of her lip getting caught in between her teeth as she hummed. She actually let her eyes flutter closed for a second until she realized that she let her body take over and her eyes snapped open again. “I don’t remember you being this... gentle.” She teased. “If i remember right.. there was a few times that i had to patch up your bloodied knuckles for beating the shit out of that guy that tried to grab up on me a couple times when you took me bar hopping for my twenty first.” She smirked as she remembered that birthday... god it feels like so long ago now..

“I was a medic. Hell i still am, i know what has to be done to a stab wound, Shane.” She laughed before she thought for a second before just opting to pull her shirt off completely and tossing it to the side. “I need a new one anyways..” She mumbled as she sat back, messing with the strap of her sports bra as a small nervous tic. “I always didnt listen to you, I’m stubborn as a mule, you know this.” She smirked as she looked at him. She resisted the urge to run her hand through his hair, it seemed caked in dirt and grime but there was that one stubborn piece that always stuck up like an alfalfa plant. “Little Alfalfa...” She mumbled with a small giggle. “Missed that nickname huh?” She teased.

“You’ve known me since Ma brought me home. I still remember the stories Rick would tell of how you tried getting used to me.” She smiled at the memory before she tried her best Shane impression “Who’s baby is that? Where did you find it? Can you take it back?” She giggled as she chewed on her lip. “Cause you always made me feel better.. no matter what, i always could come to you with anything.. you’re my sense of safety, Walsh. Don’t make me repeat that either.” She rolled her eyes playfully as she chuckled. “He was cute! I had to make sure he still looked cute from the house next door too. And i got up that tree like a bear climbin it. It was just getting down was my problem. Plus that fuckin branch busted under me..” she huffed as she rememebered that Time. She really only looked at that boy cause she knew that it made Shane jealous. “Yeah you guys came for family day and i had that black eye and a busted lip from getting in a fight with that guy in the chow hall.... thought rick was gonna have an aneurysm just seein me that day...” She sighed softly.

#hellsxbellsx #Muse || Anastasia Grimes #Judge and Executioner || Post Apocalypse Era #Location || Atlanta Survivor Camp

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zoethespiritwolf · 3 years ago

Text

Chapter 2 - Regrets and nuisances

Crossroads - Jack Frost x autumn spirit! reader

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Artwork possibly made by sakimichan on Deviantart as notified by a lovely reader.

<- Previous chapter

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The destiny I had chosen was not one that was favorable in the long run. Had I known how hard I would fall from grace and become abandoned, perhaps I would’ve chosen a different path.

I have been reduced to almost nothing. A husk of what I once was.

The damage Pitch had done when he left me in the dark, within the shadows that swallowed and lacerated my body, mind, and soul, ripped all my innocence, hope, and wonder from me.

But what does it matter now?

What’s done is done, and no matter how much I or anyone else wished, no one can change the past. All that can be done is move forward with the consequences of past actions.

And so, writhing in shame and guilt, I am forced to hide in leafages, hiding from sight from both the spirits and the living. Although I doubt that the latter could see me in any way, even before I had fallen like the morning star. Less and less children tend to believe in those who have been long forgotten, especially after so many decades and centuries of change.

Regardless, I still continue with my job - painting leaves in wondrous colors wherever I go, sending the migrating birds to warmer lands and the animals to sleep, and most importantly, ensuring the passage from summer to winter. Fortunately, even though the job itself is most of the time boring and repetitive, that hadn’t been taken from me in my darkest times.

But with the job often came some nuisances in day-to-day life.

“You know I can feel you nearby, right?” I called out, gaze staying on my waving palm just above the leafage of a bush, turning the green colors into an assortment of oranges, yellows, and reds.

“Is that how you greet your friends, leafy?” a snarky and youthful male voice teased from a short distance, making me produce a tight smile, still not facing the teen spirit.

“First of all, you are not my friend, more of a bother,” I countered his question, standing up from my crouched position and placing my hands on my hips to admire my handiwork, “and second of all. “Leafy”? Seriously?”

I spun on my heel and raised my head to the branches of a nearby tree where a blue hood-clad man had crouched down. Like always, he had that damned grin on his face, his storm blue eyes narrowed, a clear sign of trouble coming.

“Well, what else am I supposed to call you then, hm?” the boy inquired, tilting his head to the side before jumping from the branch and landing on the softly yellowed grass, producing a small layer of frost on the patch.

“Perhaps I should call you...” he stalked forward, twisting his wooden staff in his hand and placing it horizontally behind his neck. I raised a brow at him expectantly, crossing my arms in front of me in waiting. “Windy?”

“No, absolutely not!” I shot it down without hesitation, shaking my head from side to side.

“Okay, that did sound a bit weird,” the silver-haired boy chuckled, scratching the nape of his neck with his free hand, “Alright, how ‘bout this - chlorosis?”

“No,” I rejected the statement.

“Grumpy!” the teen yelled out excitedly, his blue eyes lighting up like ice on a sunny day.

“Very funny, Frost,” my face had twisted into a tight-lipped smile to his suggestion. I sighed and turned my body away, ready to continue with my job.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” I heard his lithe footsteps crunching the withered leaves from the trees yet I strode forward towards an unfinished tree, already raising my gloved hand above its bark. “What about something sweeter? Like...pumpkin?”

My body froze upon hearing his last words, my hand still hanging in the air. Something about what he said was troubling in a way. Yet I don’t understand how.

Could it be because I haven’t had someone interact so pleasantly with me in so long? Is that it? Has my loneliness rendered me so vulnerable?

What if he is just playing with me? Using me for his own game in the long run?

What if he turns out exactly like Pitch?

The last idea seemed to pierce through my thoughts like an arrow pierced the air to get to the target. On one hand, there could be a chance that Jack isn’t like that. That perhaps, it was just my paranoia speaking.

Yet a different thought wouldn’t leave my mind - what if he is?

“You okay?” The boy’s worried tone broke the train of thought and my eyes widened from it. For a moment I had forgotten that he was still here.

“I’m fine, just tired,” I sighed out, rubbing my face with the hand I had previously raised. From the corner of my eye, I could see his eyebrows furrow and the corners of his mouth tug downwards. “I have a lot to finish and would prefer to be left alone a bit.”

“Well, um,” the winter spirit started unsurely, I’m guessing he couldn’t find words in that empty brain of his. After a moment he sighed and I saw his face relax a bit, yet his eyes still shined in worry, “don’t overwork yourself then, okay? It’s okay to take a break sometimes-”

“I’m fine,” those two words seemed to trip within my throat as they tumbled from my lips. I rubbed my face in my hand and cautiously continued, “But I….suppose that your suggestion isn’t entirely bad.”

“Is that your subtle way of thanking me?” The smug grin had returned to his face as he twisted the staff vertically and leaned against it, his mischievous eyes still gleaming at me.

“Not a chance, snowman!” I shot back at him almost immediately and felt the corners of my mouth lift upwards.

Perhaps, these sorts of nuisances aren’t so bad.

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[Next chapter ->]

A/n:

Hi everyone! I'm back from the dead!

But seriously, I'm sorry that I've been gone for so long. Once again, I have unexpectedly been swamped with work and mental struggles, which is why I haven't been able to post anything for a few weeks.

However, I hope that you enjoy the new chapter of the series! I can't promise, that I'll post regularly from now on, but I'll try my best to have new chapters come out as soon as possible.

Feel free to leave feedback about this chapter and the series as a whole as it will help me improve my writing abilities.

That is all for now. I wish you all a wonderful day and to be safe during this pandemic! :)

#rotg jack frost #jack frost #jack frost x reader #sandy rotg #rotg tooth #rotg #bunnymund #rise of the guardians #toothiana #x reader #xreader

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samstree · 2 years ago

Text

Dark Bird (3)

Jaskier gets captured by Nilfgaard. Geralt tries to fix things.

(The Time Traveler’s Wife AU, see tags and warnings on ao3)

The first things Jaskier notices upon waking are the ironclad shackles around his wrists. They are pulled tightly above his head, pinning his arms to the wall.

“What—” Jaskier calls out, pain shooting from his shoulders. “Geralt?”

His head throbs with every pulse of his heart, his temple covered in something sticky and cold. He must be bleeding.

And held prisoner, apparently.

“Anyone?”

The walls of the dark prison cells don’t answer him, and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the aches of his body to stop. The shackles dig into his wrists, rubbing his skin raw. He lets out a pained gasp, struggling against the restraints, his breath shuddering.

“How?” Jaskier asks the empty room.

He remembers their honeymoon at the coast, the flowers in his hair, and those short blessed days that followed. They were married, away from the war, and they were happy.

Until the day Geralt was pulled through time and came back shaking, his face pale as a sheet.

Oh, yes. It all changed quickly. Too quickly.

Geralt asked Jaskier to pack in a panic, but there was no time. Nilfgaardian soldiers found them in their home. Jaskier climbed onto Roach’s back before realizing Geralt is not doing the same.

His eyes lingered on Jaskier’s face. “Go,” Geralt whispered like he was saying goodbye. “I won’t let them have you. I won’t.” He kissed Jaskier’s ring finger. “I can’t.”

Before Jaskier could protest, Roach started to run, taking him away from Geralt. Jaskier looked back at his husband, silver hair lined with gold in the sunset. The soldiers surrounded Geralt in no time, drowning out the glint of his sword and the dance of his attacks. It’s always a joy to watch Geralt fight, his movement always precise and elegant. Not that day, not when fear seized Jaskier’s throat, and all he could hear was the sound of Roach’s hooves hitting the ground.

She took Jaskier away from the coast and she ran for the whole night.

Until the dawn brought them right into the next trap.

An arrow pierced the air at the first ray of sun, missing Jaskier’s ear but enough to startle the mare into a halt, throwing Jaskier off her back. He hit the ground hard. There was blood in his eyes as soldiers dressed in dark colors pulled him up.

The last thing he remembers is shouting for Roach to run before someone knocked him out from behind.

And now, Jaskier is here, in a cold prison cell, not knowing what became of his husband.

“Geralt…” Jaskier’s breaths pick up from panic. There were too many of them for Geralt to fight alone, and Jaskier was away.

Geralt sent him away.

The world spins, and Jaskier blinks away the spots in his vision.

“Hello, Jaskier.” A tall figure pulls open the door. His face is obscured in the shadows, but his voice chills Jaskier to his core. “The witcher thought he was clever, but you see, you are here. It won’t be long until we have him too.”

Jaskier’s legs give out beneath him, his shoulders sagging.

Geralt isn’t here. Geralt is safe. Geralt is safe…

He repeats it like a mantra, under his breath, until the words disappear into a laugh.

“You won’t,” Jaskier smiles, grimacing. His wrists can’t take all of his weight. He can’t feel his fingers already. “You will never find him.”

A punch lands in his gut, knocking the wind out of him. Jaskier grunts, biting into his lips. He spits into the man’s face and gets another punch in return.

“Tell us where he is, and I could spare you.”

Jaskier draws a breath, and another, his lungs seizing. He laughs, the half-choked, half-broken sound echoing in the dark cell.

“He is safe. He is safe…”

And Jaskier needs to keep it that way.

“Tell me.” The man’s voice grows dangerously cold. “Where did he hide the princess?”

Jaskier lifts his head defiantly.

“She’s dead.”

Magic hums in the air and the chains suddenly drop from the wall. Jaskier falls like a rag doll, his back hitting the stone floor. The mage kicks Jaskier in the ribs, his anger exploding. He kicks again, much harder this time, not giving Jaskier a chance to suck in a breath.

Something cracks under the man’s boot. Pain lights up deep within Jaskier’s side, blinding like white-hot flames.

“Oh, little bard. We both know she isn’t.” Slender fingers grab Jaskeir’s arm, digging into the wound at his wrist. “Tell me where they are, and it won’t come to this.”

Fire flickers alive in front of Jaskier’s eyes, held in the mage’s palm.

Jaskier whimpers, his mouth full of the metallic scent of blood. He tries to hide, to retreat, but the mage pushes him against the ice-cold wall with a twisted smile.

“She’s…dead,” Jaskier says stubbornly, and the mage’s twisted smile fades.

Fire licks up the tips of Jaskier’s fingers.

He screams.

☆

Jaskier is left on the ground, his hands still bound, the burnt fingers held at his chest.

The trembling won’t stop, and neither will the fog in his mind. The fire mage has come in more times than Jaskier can count, and his consciousness fades in and out until there are no coherent words from his broken lips. There is no use for him anymore. They can’t get to Geralt through him, and all Jaskier feels is relief.

The pain doesn’t matter. The tortures don’t matter. He could die here, knowing Geralt is far away from this place, keeping Ciri safe.

So he dreams. Curled into himself on the hard stone floor, he dreams.

Jaskier is eleven again, seeing a witcher’s golden eyes for the first time under Lettenhove’s darkened sky. He is seventeen, kissing Geralt in the warm greenhouse, safe within his witcher’s arms. He is eighteen, meeting Geralt in a dingy tavern in Posada, his heart broken at the lack of recognition in those golden eyes. He is twenty, thirty, and then, he is Geralt’s husband. They find each other through time. They find each other, always.

They went to the coast.

Jaskier opens his eyes. His cheeks are soaked with tears.

“Oh, but you see, Rience. You have it all wrong,” A woman speaks above Jaskier, her hand pressed against Jaskier’s temple, magic flowing between her fingers. “You needn’t ask the bard at all. The witcher shall come to us on his own.”

The fire mage said something—Rience. They are arguing, but Jaskier can’t keep himself awake long enough to catch it. The magic works still, penetrating his mind, pulling at his memories. He is too tired to fight.

“I can break him,” Rience says. “The witcher—”

“The witcher is linked to him by destiny. It’s a temporal bond, far beyond the understanding of the likes of you.”

Voices are raised, and the fire mage is lashing out. Fire flashes in the dark room, and Jaskier flinches.

“We cannot just wait!”

“That’s precisely what we should do. This human is the anchor of the witcher’s existence. He will be pulled here whether he wants to or not. Destiny will send him if the bard is in need. I’ve seen in all in his memory.”

A hum, and footsteps retreat into the hallway. “I’ll prepare the dimeritium.”

“Sleep, bard.” The woman’s spells seep into Jaskier’s mind. “You may be of use to us yet.”

☆

Dreams turn into nightmares. Jaskier is hot all over for one moment, and freezing cold for another. An infection settles in, the fever burning bright.

Jaskier is Geralt’s anchor, and now he will betray Geralt simply by existing.

Don’t come, Jaskier pleads. Not for me.

Neither of them can control when destiny brings Geralt to Jaskier through time, and for the first time since being captured, Jaskier feels real fear rising in his chest.

He listens as the guards lay traps around his cell, dimeritium cuffs clinking at their hips. He struggles against the chains until blood drips down his arms. He screams at them. He curses the mages. If they are hurting him, they won’t be thinking about getting to Geralt. He yells at them to hurt him.

And Geralt can’t end up here. With the cuffs, he won’t be able to escape, and Ciri…

Ciri.

“Don’t worry, bard.” The woman stands above Jaskier’s head, tall and proud. “The lion cub will join us soon.”

Jaskier’s fists wrap around the chains, the burns on his fingers blistering, keeping him lucid.

“You’ll pay for it,” he says, voice low. “If you hurt them, you’ll pay for it.”

The woman only lets out an amused huff. She leaves. The door is sealed shut, and Jaskier is alone.

He stays on the floor, touching the patch of bruises stretching from his sternum down to his stomach, where Rience likely broke his ribs. He’s fevered and sensitive, like an exposed nerve.

The air is getting thin.

Every breath is more difficult than the last. Still, Jaskier breathes, and waits.

The night settles in, silent and lonely. They’ve taken away all the light sources. Jaskier blinks his eyes open in the pitch-dark room, not wanting to fall asleep, but he doesn’t realize when he’s closed them. It could be minutes, or hours. Jaskier wakes from his fitful rest, shaking like a leaf, his back covered in cold sweat.

In a brief moment of weakness, he wishes Geralt was here.

He wishes Geralt would come to him.

It’s selfish, and it’s wrong, but Jaskier is tired to the bones. He just wishes his husband could hold him again. He just wishes a gentle hand could touch him again.

The familiar swoosh breaks the silence, and the next thing Jaskier knows, Geralt’s weight appears next to him, solid and real.

Just like that, Geralt is here.

No.

“No,” Jaskier says in anguish, realizing what he has done. “No, not here. Not for me…”

“Gods, Jaskier,” Geralt lets out a horrified gasp in the dark. “Where are we? When are we? You are bleeding. There is too much blood.”

Despite how much fear is in Geralt’s voice, despite the mistake of the situation, despite their doomed fate, Jaskier weeps at his husband’s voice.

“Geralt…”

“Hey, Jask. I’m here. Don’t you worry. I’m here.”

A hand cradles Jaskier’s face, and he nuzzles into it.

“You are,” Jaskier croaks, his throat ruined from hours of screaming. He allows himself a moment of respite, just a moment, to feel Geralt’s skin against his. Jaskier catches Geralt’s hand in his broken ones, holding it to his bloody lips. “You are not a dream.”

“I have to get you out. You are hurt. Jaskier, how—”

“There is no time,” Jaskier interrupts. “You shouldn’t be here. You need to run.”

He can’t see Geralt’s features, but he can picture the frown on Geralt’s face as clear as day.

“What are you talking about? Jask, I won’t leave you like this.” Geralt’s hands travel down Jaskier’s arms, finding the chains.

In a panic, Jaskier’s lungs seize. A coughing fit rattles against his chest.

“It’s a trap—” He draws a painful breath. “They found us, at the coast.”

“We’ll run. I’ll send you away. Roach can take you to the next town within a day.”

Jaskier shakes his head, his chest heaving.

“It’s…too late.”

“I’ll keep you safe, Jaskier. I’ll send you away with Roach. This can’t happen. I won’t let them get to you.”

Oh, but they did. It was all Jaskier.

“It was me. I wished... I’m the reason we are here.”

Geralt is here because of Jaskier. He went back and sent Jaskier away, because of Jaskier. That’s precisely how they will find all of them now. Time is playing the cruelest trick on them.

“Stop it, Jaskier. Just…let me save you.”

Geralt pulls off one of the chains from the wall with a grunt. Jaskier’s head lolls to one side from exhaustion. “You are more important, Geralt. Think about Ciri—”

Light splits the darkness and a portal opens in the middle of the small cell, the brightness forcing Jaskier to look away. He hears shouting, from the mages, from the Nilfgaardian soldiers.

Geralt is gone from his side.

Aard sends half of the guards flying, but the rest keep coming in. The fighting begins, but Geralt can’t beat all of them. He isn’t carrying any weapons.

They were on their honeymoon, after all.

“Geralt…” Jaskier calls out, but he can’t keep himself upright. His other hand is still chained to the wall, held behind his back, keeping him away from Geralt, but he reaches forward.

Geralt screams a deep, rumbling scream as they knock him off his feet, his face pressed to the floor and arms twisted back. A guard brings the cuffs, and Rience clicks them shut.

“Didn’t I promise you, little bard?” Rience smirks in the cold light of the portal.

All Jaskier can see is his husband, whose eyes are equally fixed on him. Geralt looks guilty, like he’s failed Jaskier, somehow.

Why can’t he see? He can never fail Jaskier.

“You can’t keep him,” Jaskier whispers.

“But we have, and there’s nothing you can do,” Rience continues. “Now, witcher, where is our princess?”

“You will never find her,” Geralt growls at the mage, the rumbling in his chest animalistic and furious. “You will pay for this.”

“You two sound too similar. Is that what they say about married couples?” Fire ignites in Rience’s palm, illuminating his crooked smile and Geralt’s face. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, the princess.”

In the bright light, Geralt catches Jaskier’s gaze. Something flickers in his eyes. It’s subtle, followed by the faint hum of magic in the air. It’s the sound that Jaskier used to hate when he was a child. All he looked forward to were the little pockets of time they got to spend together, until the hum of magic pulled Geralt away each time. Right now, the same hum is music to Jaskier’s ears.

Geralt’s time is up.

“I’m coming back,” Geralt says, the promise solemn. “I’m coming back for you.”

It all happens within a heartbeat.

Geralt throws his head forward, knocking Rience off balance, the fire in his hand turning into sparks. Several guards charge forward to keep Geralt in place.

Only to stumble into nothing. Dimeritium cuffs fall to the ground with a clunk.

Geralt is gone, back to the coast.

Jaskier lets out a whimper, rolling onto his back. He could laugh at Rience’s dumbfounded face, so he does.

Bony hands wrap around Jaskier’s throat in anger, cutting off his air. They loosen after a brief moment, and Jaskier gasps violently, but he pays no mind to the mage anymore. They can’t keep Geralt.

It doesn’t matter what they do to Jaskier now.

☆

Rience no longer bothers with Jaskier anymore. The chain that was broken by Geralt is left as it is. Jaskier spends his days fighting to breathe but mostly failing.

He touches the tender parts of his side. The broken ribs put a strain on his lungs, shooting pains into his limbs with every rise and fall of his chest. He has heard about this condition. It happens amongst injured soldiers who slowly die from a chest cavity that no longer draws breath. It’s like drowning on dry land.

He drifts in and out of consciousness, not knowing the passage of time. They send him water but he doesn’t remember drinking it. The fever comes and goes, preventing any of his wounds from healing. The burns on his fingers are swollen and sensitive. He wonders if he can still play the lute after this, and then, he wonders if there is an after at all.

He worries for Geralt, his Geralt, always placed out of time. What happens after he dies? Will he still be the anchor? Will Geralt be pulled to his presence, but only find his tombstone?

Jaskier clutches the fabric at his chest. He pictures the child by the road, with brown curls and big eyes, being pulled from his quiet life only to watch a sad, old bard die. The idea makes his stomach roil.

Bile rises up, and Jaskier gags. He spits out the bitter liquid until he tastes blood.

When rescue comes, Jaskier barely registers the noise.

There is an explosion, he thinks, and the ground shakes with raw, unbridled chaos. The guards are drawing their swords, but the sound soon becomes their wailing. The scent of lilac and gooseberries fills the air. When the door to his cell opens, Jaskier meets violet eyes.

“Jaskier?” Yennefer is gentle with him. It’s a rare sight. “Can you hear me?”

Jaskier only stares, searching. In the distance, swords clash, and he catches the shouts of a little girl. Ciri.

“Ciri…” He opens his mouth but no sounds come out. His throat feels like sandpaper.

“Ciri is fighting. So is Geralt,” Yennefer says, her hands weaving a spell. “You better not give up before a little girl, bard.”

Jaskier wants to laugh at her joke, and the coughs wreck his body again, choking all the stubbornness out of him. He wheezes, not being able to get air in. Yennefer’s spell settles in, and suddenly all the pain disappears.

It’s like he’s lying on top of the clouds. He could sleep right there and never wake up.

“Stay awake.” Yennefer sounds desperate. If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d even think she’s worried for him. “Geralt!” she shouts. Now, he’s sure the great Yennefer of Vengerburg is worried.

When Jaskier opens his eyes again, he is held in Geralt’s arms, his body hanging limply. There is daylight in the corridors of the prison, and Geralt is beautiful. His hair is a mess with soot and blood, his eyes bruised from exhaustion, but he is, and Jaskier tells him so.

“Beautiful…”

It comes out a hoarse whisper, and Geralt looks down at him.

“Keep breathing, Jaskier,” Geralt kisses his forehead before crossing a portal. It jostles Jaskier, making him grimace. “Just keep breathing.”

Oh, but how difficult that is.

It’s like a mountain sits on top of Jaskier’s chest, squeezing out all the air. Every step Geralt takes sends shooting pains from Jaskier’s ribs, pulling him apart from the inside.

His airway grows tighter and tighter, but he can’t give up. Geralt is here, and they can go back now. They can go back to the coast, to the little cottage they call home.

“He can’t breathe. Yen, he can’t…”

“…Get him to Triss…have to…quickly!”

It’s like his head is bobbing at the surface of the sea. The waves drown out the sound, muffling out the world.

Jaskier drifts, and lets the waves wash over him.

☆

There is murmuring, and herbal water poured down Jaskier’s throat.

Too many people are handling him. He recognizes Yennefer and Ciri. Their hands are soft, wiping the blood and sweat from his face. Magic seeps into his lungs, easing air into him. He breathes gratefully at the faint outline of Triss’s hair. Her eyes are warm and reassuring.

When sword-callused hands finally wrap around Jaskier’s wrist, darkness sinks in again. It drapes over his eyes like a heavy curtain, forcing him to sleep. When he comes to, the night has receded, and golden light kisses the back of his eyelids.

The bed beneath Jaskier is soft, and the covers light, but he startles awake in fear.

The coldness that surrounds him is gone, but his skin remembers the phantom touch of the stone floor and the ironclad shackles. He struggles against it but gentle hands stop him by the shoulders.

“Where—”

“Yen’s safe house. You are okay,” Geralt says, his face impossibly close. “We got you out of there. They won’t touch you again.”

It’s morning already. Light spills through the window, casting long shadows in the room. Jaskier’s vision blurs when he looks at anything that is not Geralt, so he looks at Geralt again.

Jaskier’s fever dream was right. His husband is the most beautiful man Jaskier has ever seen.

He’s keeping his hair down for once, letting it drape to one side like a waterfall made of silver. There are dark circles under those golden eyes and tight lines around his lips, and all Jaskier wants to do is to soothe them. Geralt looks drained, exhausted.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. “Darling, are you alright?”

He’s surprised to find his voice. It’s still rough, with barely any force behind it, but it’s his voice.

Geralt looks incredulous like he’s just heard a terrible joke. “Am I alright?” he huffs. “You gave me quite a fright yesterday. Can’t say I’m too well.”

Jaskier reaches out from under the blankets to touch Geralt’s face, only to notice the thick bandages around his wrist and the spasms in his muscles. Geralt catches his hand to stop him from trembling.

“My hands?”

“They’ll recover. It’ll take time and exercise, but you will play again, I promise.” Geralt kisses the bandage. “Your voice will come back too.”

“You’ll be here when I sing again?”

“Of course.”

Jaskier nods, satisfied. “Your hands are cold,” he says a moment later, frowning, and Geralt softens.

“Well, you nearly died from a collapsed lung. Guess we are even.”

Jaskier is not amused. He hates it when Geralt doesn’t take care of himself. Even with his enhanced biology, there is no need to be uncomfortable like this. He must have sat at Jaskier’s bed through the night to get this cold.

“Here.”

Jaskier pulls Geralt’s hands into the covers where it’s nice and toasty. He wants to rub some warmth into them, but his wrists are too weak. They end up holding hands near Jaskier’s heart, letting his body temperature do the work.

“Easy. You are on a lot of potions. You may not feel all the wounds yet.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, the expansion of his chest pulling at the aches in his side. He grimaces, winking in mischief. “Oh, I feel them.”

Instead of smiling, Geralt’s face falls. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a bit funny.”

Geralt’s shoulders tighten. His expression looks like a kicked puppy, and that’s how Jaskier knows he’s crossed a line.

“Jaskier,” Geralt starts. “You were tortured. For days. They broke three of your ribs and left you to die.” Guilt sits between Geralt’s brows. “It was all because of me.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Not your fault.”

“I disagree.”

“It was me.” Jaskier takes in another labored breath. Talking still takes a lot out of him. “In that cell, I wished to see you, and there you were. Don’t you see, Geralt? This happened because of me. They found out about us from my memories. They knew all they needed to do was wait, and they were right. All of it happened because of me.”

Geralt’s fingers link with Jaskier’s, careful with the bandages around his burns.

“I sent you away with Roach, because of what I saw. I tried to prevent you from getting hurt, but I sent you right into a trap.”

“You almost fell into their trap too, because of me. Rience almost had you.”

Jaskier shudders, a few coughs bubbling up in his throat. Lying down puts too much pressure on his chest, so he struggles against the covers.

Geralt wraps his arms behind Jaskier to help him sit up. He also brings a cup of water, and Jaskier drinks it gladly, his throat soothed from the coolness. He looks down to find his torso also wrapped in heavy bandages, the aches throbbing underneath. A sheen of sweat has broken out on Jaskier skin when the coughs die down.

“He’s dead now,” Geralt says, dabbing Jaskier’s forehead with a soaked cloth, avoiding the healing wound on his hairline.

“And the woman?”

Geralt’s lips press together. “Fringilla. She’s gone. Yen wanted to track her, but it could expose all of us.”

Dread sits between Jaskier’s breastbone, but he stays quiet.

“You look pale. Is it the fever?” Geralt presses their foreheads together to feel Jaskier’s temperature. “It hasn’t gone down yet.”

“Just thinking.”

“You are never this quiet when you’re thinking.”

Jaskier smiles tiredly. “Just want to go home now. Back to the coast.”

Geralt sits back, his expression grave. “Oh,” he says, “we can’t. They found us there.”

“In a few years, then. When the world has forgotten all about us.”

Now, Geralt looks properly pained.

“Jaskier, they burned down our house.”

The morning light blinds Jaskier’s sight for a moment, and he has to look away.

The small cottage on the cliff, the home where they were handfasted by their family, is gone. It’s not rational to mourn a building, perhaps, but Jaskier mourns anyway.

“I see.” Jaskier closes his eyes. “Of course, what was I thinking? Of course they did.”

“Jaskier…”

“If only—” his breathing quickens. “—If only we were still there. Just a few days ago, before everything changed. No destiny, no wars, just us. If only we could go back.”

Geralt guides Jaskier’s lax body to lean against his, letting his head rest comfortably. Jaskier lets out a whimper, his chin wobbling. It’s pathetic to be sad about something as inconsequential as a small cottage. Everyone is alright, after all. It shouldn’t matter, but Jaskier is too hurt to care.

“I’m sorry, Jask.” Geralt says under his breath. “It’s all my fault.”

“Again, not you.” Jaskier will repeat as many times as he needs. “It was just bad people, doing bad things. They used us both.”

“What if we could—”

Geralt cuts himself off before finishing the sentence, and Jaskier hums.

“What if we could…?”

A sigh, followed by a kiss. “Nothing.”

Jaskier looks up, confused. “You were saying?”

Geralt is wearing that determined look on his face, the look that is equally tragic and doomed. He only does it when he’s decided to do something incredibly self-sacrificial, and therefore incredibly heroic and stupid. Jaskier hates that look.

Geralt opens his mouth and closes it.

“We’ll talk later.” Geralt rubs Jaskier’s back to soothe him. Or dismiss him. “You must want to rest.”

“That’s all I’ve done,” Jaskier argues. “And you said half of it already, so you must tell me now. It’d be incredibly rude to toy with a bard’s curiosity like this, you know?”

Jaskier’s attempt to lighten Geralt’s mood fails, and the shadow in his husband’s eyes only darkens. He might as well be walking towards the gallows.

Geralt sits next to Jaskier, cradling his hands gently. He looks like he’s trying to muster all the courage for what he’s about to say. It’s becoming really unnerving.

“Jaskier,” he says. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jaskier answers, his frown deepening. He waits for Geralt to continue. “And?”

“Yen has been studying Ciri’s power, helping her control it.”

“Yes, I know this.”

“She believes Ciri has the ability to manipulate time. The past, present, future. All of it.” Geralt pauses. “She believes she can harness it.”

“It sounds like a powerful thing,” Jaskier says, not sure why Geralt would look saddened about this fact. They’ve been studying Ciri’s magical abilities for a long time, and there’s finally a breakthrough. “But what does it have to do with me?”

Geralt touches the bandages on Jaskier’s wrists, his thumb running the familiar soothing motion. He’s so nervous that Jaskier wants to let it go for a second.

“Yen thinks, with Ciri’s help, there could be a way of undoing the bond between us, and I want to let her try. The temporal magic is ancient. It’s as old as destiny itself, so it will be tricky and the spell won’t be ready for a while yet, but there is a chance it could work. We’d need to look after Ciri in the process, of course, but she has enough chaos to protect herself…”

The world narrows down to the words I want to let her try, and the rest fades into the background. Jaskier’s heart beats steadily in his chest, and for a few moments, he does not register the meaning behind those words.

“…it’ll be for the best. The Nilfgaardians are still searching for me. We can’t let them get to you again.”

“What are you saying?” Jaskier hears his own voice from a mile away. “Surely, you can’t do that.”

“We can. The bond is strong, weaved into destiny itself, but more powerful things can break it. A Djinn, perhaps,” Geralt says. “Or a Source.”

Jaskier stares, unblinking, and then he’s laughing at the first truly funny thing he’s heard since being captured. It’s nearly hysterical.

“Oh, Geralt. How silly! Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter how Yen can work her wicked spells. The past is in the past!” he explains, as if to a child. “Everything we’ve been through together has happened already. If she breaks the bond, what of the past? Our lives are weaved into the same, tangled since the beginning. The same bond brought you to me when I was a child. What of those days? Will they just disappear into thin air, like they’ve never exis—”

The laugh freezes on Jaskier’s face, his stomach twisting.

“Oh, Jaskier…”

The look on Geralt’s face is now of sympathy.

“They will just disappear, like they never existed,” Jaskier repeats. “Our days together will be erased.”

Geralt’s nod is almost imperceptible, gentle, but it may as well be a punch in Jaskier’s gut. He flinches, recoiling from Geralt’s touch.

Jaskier curls into himself, inhaling sharply, one breath after another. Distantly, he notices the pain in his ribcage. It begins as a spark, only a faint stinging of his broken ribs, but soon it takes life, radiating through his core.

“We never would have met,” Jaskier murmurs. “But I waited for you. I waited for you my whole life.”

“You wouldn’t have known I existed, Jask. You’d just grow up in Lettenhove—”

“Alone. Without you.” Jaskier swallows, his throat constricting. “The past will be lost.”

“It’s the only reason you are in danger. If we had never met,” Geralt explains gently, a faint smile on his face, “they’d never have hurt you like this.”

He looks like he truly believes it to be a good idea.

“Is it because of me?” Jaskier asks, his breath hitching. “Because it was my fault. They used our bond because I was weak.”

“No, Jaskier—”

“But it was only a moment. I know better now. I won’t make the same mistake,” he pleads. “You mustn’t blame me, Geralt, not too much, not for long.”

Jaskier is panicking, and he’s breathing too fast. He realizes that, but he can’t bring himself to care. Geralt wants to leave.

Geralt wants to leave again, after all this time.

It was only a moment of weakness. Jaskier was hurting and he couldn’t stay strong. He only missed Geralt, just a little, and let his mind wander.

Surely, his husband should forgive him.

“Jask, no. Listen to me, it was not your fault.” Geralt’s eyes have gone round, his hands holding Jaskier’s cheeks, making sure their eyes meet. “My brave Jaskier. It’s not what you think. It was never your fault, only mine. I’m the reason you are hurt, over and over again. I’ve been selfish enough to let it happen for decades, but when I found you in the cell…I—I couldn’t live with myself anymore. It was too close this time.” Geralt swallows like he’s going to be sick. “Too close.”

“You got me out of there,” Jaskier insists childishly.

“Barely.” Geralt’s eyes are vacant, haunted by memories. “Had we been a moment late—”

“I’m fine now.”

“You are very much not!”

The words come out too loud, and Geralt winces, ashamed to have raised his voice. The room is quiet, except for Jaskier’s rattling breaths.

Panic morphs into anger, licking up in the midst of pain.

“Don’t I get a say in it?” Jaskier says, voice low, teeth clenching. “I don’t care if it’s the price of being with you.”

If it’s the price of loving Geralt, he’d choose to bleed and burn a thousand times over. He’d choose it any day. It’s the same choice Geralt made once, the old aches in his joints a solid proof.

“Oh.” Geralt’s thumb ghosts over Jaskier’s split lips. “It’s not a price I’m willing to pay.”

And yet…

He’d deny Jaskier the same choice.

The room spins in front of Jaskier’s eyes, dizzying in the bright sunlight. Out of nowhere, Jaskier musters the strength to push away Geralt’s hands, his body toppling to the other side.

“No!” Jaskier shouts, panting violently. “You don’t get to—” He coughs, hoarse and painful. “—you don’t get to give up on us.”

Jaskier clutches at his collar, gasping for air, his lungs rattling pathetically like an old ship in a storm. It’s like Rience’s hand is around his throat again. Waves of nausea crash into his trembling body, but Jaskier holds himself upright out of sheer spite.

Tentative hands rest on his shoulder, trying to help him. “Jaskier, you are hyperventilating.” Geralt sounds scared now. “Shit. Something's wrong.”

“You…” Jaskier rasps. The world blacks out for a second. The ringing in his ears grows louder and louder until it drowns out his own voice. He isn’t sure if the words are spoken, or if they are just an echo of his anguish. “You promised me.”

Geralt promised, under the pine trees of Kaer Morhen, on the grassy cliff by the sea. He promised with their hands wrapped together. He promised not to leave.

Geralt is choosing to leave now.

“…Jaskier…you need to breathe…”

He will leave the child who waited at the lake, in the cold mansion of Lettenhove. He will leave Jaskier to the lonely days of his childhood. He will leave, on top of a mountain, and never return.

“…Please…breathe…”

The ringing pierces Jaskier’s mind, and the world quiets.

“You promised,” he whimpers.

Warmth rises from Jaskier’s throat, metallic and cloying, filling his mouth. He throws his body forward, splattering the sheets with crimson. He coughs and chokes, watching helplessly as blood drips onto the bandage around his fingers.

Jaskier feels strangely calm.

He looks up, and finds people rushing into the room.

Ciri is standing by the door, her eyes wide with fear. Jaskier must be quite a sight. He has been tortured and starved, and now, covered in blood. He never wants to upset Ciri. She has gone through too much already.

Yennefer is yelling at Geralt, that much is sure. Her mouth is opening and closing, and she looks cross with him. She opens a bottle of potion, but Jaskier doesn’t care about the pain anymore. Triss’s hands are around him, her magic vibrating against his skin.

And Geralt…

Geralt looks as scared as Jaskier feels. He’s calling Jaskier’s name, again and again, begging him to answer, but Jaskier can only remain still.

It’s like he’s floating outside of his body, watching himself break apart in silence.

Can’t Geralt see it? Rience’s fire couldn’t do it, nor could Frigilla’s magic and destiny’s cruel jokes, one after another.

But Geralt can.

He breaks Jaskier easily, by holding his heart within his palms and casting it aside. Jaskier shutters into pieces right there.

The pain spreads through his limbs, seeping into every cell of his body, reaching every inch of Jaskier’s soul. It makes sense it’s the worst pain he’s ever felt—he’s grieving a part of himself. It’s the best part, tangled with Geralt from the root. It is now being pulled out alive, leaving an empty, gaping wound.

Tears trail down, salty like the blood on his tongue.

Jaskier collapses in despair.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #the time traveler's wife AU #jaskier whump #hurt jaskier #i've been waiting for 40k of words just to get to this scene :'D

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mithrilhearts · 3 years ago

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The sneak peek everyone has been waiting for!! @stardryad and I are ALMOST ready to unleash the first chapter of our highly anticipated fic...

....WDSB (The Onion)

No, that’s not the name of the fic, but we’re going to let you guys sit and simmer on this a little bit more.

Under the cut you’ll find a small glimpse of what we’ve spent a good deal of time working on, but do remember that sneak peeks are subject to change!! We hope you enjoy our little teaser and can’t wait to show you the rest!!

Check out this awesome art by Star to get us even more excited!!

BONUS: Let us know what you think the fic title acronym stands for! 😂

Both hands soon clutched at the arms of that stone throne, knuckles white beneath the regalia, and a scowl that could rival the snow itself with how chilling it was. “You ask me to feed them hope where there is none simply by appearance alone, it is a cruel thing, Balin,” Thorin growled, moving to pop the crown from his head as a visible act of defiance, not only to the holiday but to his title as King Under the Mountain.

Bitter as he was, Thorin wasn’t going to deny one pleading shade for a simple task, regardless of how it struck at his heart as being painful. “I will do as you ask, but I am not staying, nor am I acting as a superior.” Which explained the crown being placed on the arm of the throne.

“That is all I ask,” Balin gave a cordial bow in the face of frustration, but this wasn’t the first time he’d been snapped at, and he doubted it would be the last. “Just don’t dash anyone’s hopes along the stone should they present you with good tidings.”

All Thorin could present was a grunt and his eyes shut once more, dismissing Balin with a wave before resting his chin atop a closed fist yet again. A few moments and he would honor his word, just as he did each and every time through a painful mask.

The moments of silence ticked by, the room feeling just as cold and empty as it did even when Balin was present. It mattered little how many of those shades entered the room, the feeling always remained the same. “Another year, another celebration of failure,” Thorin muttered to himself, disdain coloring his tone as his features seemed to sharpen and sour. “When will it end?” Sadly, eternity was the only option for him, and despite his misery in watching these memories of people who once were whole pass him by, he could not abandon them to dissipate into nothingness.

The only reason Thorin remained here was to preserve what little fond memories he had.

That jaw of his tightened, nearly shaking from the force at the thought, and with a quick huff, he was on his feet and making for the Hall of Kings that always hosted these parties.

Thorin could hear the echo of his metal capped boots scraping against smooth stone, an unwanted sound that contrasted terribly against the festive and joyous hoots and hollers from within that great hall. Thankfully, the gut-twisting sound of metal against stone was drowned out upon his entry. The vague scent of food wafted through the air, songs were being sung, and more eyes landed on Thorin than he wished.

“Oi! There he is!” Bofur called cheerfully, a stein in his hand and raising it proudly, not even bothered by the sloshing of shadow-produced ale that tipped out of one side. “Thought you might have gotten lost on your way here.”

Thorin just let a small breath of mild amusement escape his lips in response, forcing the corners of his mouth upwards, but the expression never met his eyes. “You get lost in your own mountain one time and they never let you hear the end of it.”

“It was twice, if I remember correctly, Thorin dear,” Dis’ voice was like a breath of fresh air after having been stuck in such a stagnant room for far too long. Melodic and soothing, but that was how she always had been. A comfort among the chaos. While she couldn’t hook her arm through Thorin’s as desired, she did drift and remain as close as possible, dropping her voice to a whisper for a few words meant just for Thorin. “Balin always has had some magical way with words when it comes to you, I see that hasn’t changed.”

“He’s wise beyond even my years,” Thorin sighed, not letting his eyes roam too much to the faces of those who were trying to enjoy themselves. It didn’t mean much when you couldn’t truly lock eyes with someone when you could simply see through them. “Besides, I’d hate to disappoint anyone, even if it is an outrageous holiday you all have concocted. I’ll play along, as I always do.”

#bagginshield #thilbo #thorin oakenshield #bilbo baggins #the hobbit #fic: sneak peek #fic: wdsb (onion)#maeve writes

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yostresswritinggirl · 4 years ago

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Readers: We want Red Xiao x Reader x Green Xiao content PLEASE

Exiled: Well yes but actually no

Intermittent

Pairing -> Red/Green Xiao x Reader

Word Count -> 2088

Themes -> Okay, get this: Fluff, Angst, Suggestive scene (but not too bad). It's a trifecta.

Series -> #SojournerSpecials (masterlist)

Credit: @m370N4 for Header

Warnings -> Spoilers, violence, oh gawd there's so many violence

Your lover is going through a phase.

Perhaps you should have expected this much after the things that he's gone through, and the things that he is going through. The Archon War does not pick its victims. Saints and sinners, weak and strong, participants and bystanders; they all have one thing in common, they all can die any day now as the war rages on.

The thought of impending doom puts your heart into great unease as your arms tighten, lips softly pecking the red diamond on the Yaksha's forehead as he sighs in what you hope was relief.

The adepti are strong and aid in this war under the stead of Rex Lapis, but on the forefront of greater danger leads the Yakshas. The fateful battle between Osial and the Geo Archon ended not too long ago to put an end against the Lord's destructive ministrations, but Gods do not die, only slumber; his hatred in great intensities brought forth demonic plague that now haunts the blood bathed lands of Liyue. With his indispensable power and contractual obligation, Xiao became one of the five known Yakshas devoted to conquering those evil.

You were no beast in the battlefield but alongside Cloud Retainer and Ganyu you hold well in ensuring the well-being of mankind, but you only wish there was anything you can do to help the true warriors of the Harbour.

"How are you feeling?" You ran your hands through his chopped hair as his body leans against you, still tense. Xiao produces a strangled groan upon the question, a sound you still have yet to grow accustomed to.

It was a side effect even the glorified Archon did not expect. Yet it was too late to back down from the duties, to turn away from the chaos.

"Still standing, nothing I cannot handle," leaning away from your hold, his honey eyes then sets upon yours in gentle reassurance. Exposed fingers softly brushing against your cheekbone reminiscent of a flutter, so light it sends your heart into a faster pace. "And on your end? I have heard of the mortals establishing a new type of governance, how is it faring?"

Xiao hooks his fingers under your chin in full attention, and the pairing with his tantalizing smile sent your mind melting. "It's going-," your cleared your throat of the strangled pitch you produced and tried again, "Going great! Ganyu made it her duty to oversee it as the secretary."

"That is a fine arrangement." He hums inquisitively but you both know his attention was on somewhere else, what with the way his sharp orbs kept flickering to gaze on your lips. And with how his face was slowly, surely drawing near.

"Indeed, indeed." Breathed you as you closed your eyes, ready to capture his lips for a longing kiss, his other hand rests on your lower back to guide you to his lap—

When the shutter doors slammed open, the interruption causing you to yelp as Xiao embarrassingly hides your head to his exposed chest. That did NOT lessen the warmth of your cheeks.

"Conqueror of Demons! I- I'm sorry to interrupt-"

"Pervases, go on."

"The Yaksha of flames-" A rumbling roar of a scream had all three of you shoot your heads up in alert. And within seconds you had scrambled to your feet, rushing out of the shrine to investigate the commotion. The atmosphere had you choking from the scent of arson, black smoke erupting from the burning grass and natural flora around the area.

But in the middle of the ruins had you almost dispelling the contents of your stomach, your hand shooting up to cover your mouth at the the sight. Besides you Xiao dashes past in a vain attempt to quell the flames— the lick of fire that burned the Pyro Yaksha whole, who screams in both agony and anguish over the deep unknown, skin and clothes turning black and charred.

Xiao's swings barely made a dent to the wall of fire that prevents anyone from coming close to the Yaksha. "Please, leave me alone! Let me go! Stop it!" There was an illusionary sense to her words as she screams at the empty void in front and within her, piercing and aching. You called for her name, shouted, in hopes that she may snap out of it.

Dried up tears came upon her ruby gaze as it flickers over to yours. She heard you. Her lips quivered into those of familiarity and she opens her mouth- only to scream her loudest, one last painful cry, as her body drops as a smoking corpse.

Charred and pure black. Twitching and steaming, but not alive.

You didn't realize you were crying until you felt the comfort of Xiao's hand wiping at your cheek, his red fingerless gloves catching the dampness as you released your sobs.

You didn't notice the gradual decrease of red in his clothing until you looked at him one day without feeling a pang on your chest. When you looked at him with only curiousity upon him calling your name, he offered a smile as he cups your cheek; it didn't feel like the same traumatic time when the Yaksha died, your cheek leaning on his cerulean palm.

It wasn't red. Maybe that's what drove away your thoughts.

"It looks good on you," you mumbled as you watched his now black and green hair sway from the breeze.

"Thank you."

The clouds of Jueyun Karst brings peace to all that gazes on it. That may be the reason why it was Menogias' favorite place to sit by upon finishing her duties for the day, and at times she invites you over when you are done with your own; 'your presence soothes me, it's unfair that Xiao gets to keep you to himself, even if he is your lover!' you giggle at the verbatim the Hydro Yaksha always spouts everytime she drags you away from the other, with a cute yet teasing pout on her pristine face.

Those moments always has you laughing guiltily as you wave to Xiao, who only dons a gentle smile at you two's dynamic.

But she was beautiful and elegant despite her slaughtering hands, with a mind vivid and witty.

And so you find peace next to her, as both of your hands weave cloth into apparels to calm your minds. She had always been an avid fan of stitching and knitting even her own clothes, the only reason you knew how to weave the needle was because of her incessant teachings. Right now she knits a sleeve of beautiful patterns while you took on the duty to make a wooly scarf. Jueyun Karst is cold.

"How are you faring, dear? I have heard you and Xiao-" your hands paused at the implications, "-were witness to the passing of the Yaksha Indarias. Changes are glaring among that of the Conqueror of Demons, but you are a special case who is not under the influence of the karmic binds."

Her cold blue gaze seem to pierce your soul unintentionally and you couldn't bring yourself to look upon them.

You gulped and ceased on finishing the blanket to look at her own work. It was pretty. Tiring and fearful, not just for yourself, but for her too. And especially Xiao.

She holds you close in a soft embrace as you poured your honest confessions; it felt unfair for them to suffer like this, driven to self-destruction or to eternal agony. Menogias strokes your hair affectionately as she reassures your worries.

After all, they knew their oath would come to this.

And they still honored their duties to protect Liyue, for both the mortals and the realm of the Adepti.

"H-How about you?" You sniffled, looking up at her now gentle gaze. "Have you been feeling well? I don't want you to be destroyed by your own mind too."

The Yaksha's gracious smile parts after a pause to finally reply, when a glint from the side suddenly interrupted your peace-

azure pupils dilated upon recognition;

your body flies back upon her powerful push;

blood spurs from her right thigh as a jagged pillar of rock pierces through;

your back and hitting the cliff's compact ground as your vision swims.

No, no, no, no, you recognize that glow even if it was similar to another. Your body whimpers as you struggle to get up, rolling to your side to see the inevitable— the floating silhouette of the Geo Yaksha raises his arm where an orb glows over it, a single eye glows from his shadow...

The last you saw was the flash of neons and black before the world was engulfed by a blinding light.

The next thing you know you were desperately trying not to puke as you cradled the mawled and still bleeding corpse of Menogias, weakly patting her cheeks as your desperate attempts to wake her- to convince yourself that she was still alive. That the spears of stones impaled through numerous part of her body was nonexistent.

Behind you Xiao flicks his head to the side as his mask disperses. His jade spear dripping with blood as her gentle eyes hardened as it squeezes out the tears.

"(Y/N)," your wails turned into whimpers and hiccups, loose arms wrapping around your waist as Xiao pulls you away from the bloody mess. You didn't have the spirit to protest, your eyes still trained on the deceased Yaksha's face as you wept in your lover's arms.

A familiar censer that wasn't there before hangs by his waist.

And when the pain didn't make you weep anymore, a beautifully woven sleeve of blue and clouds adorn his left arm. Those who live after a millenia would not be aware of a reminiscent and deep scar hidden beneath it.

"I was not aware you were out of your domain," the moment he landed, a firm hand grasps your waist to keep you steady on the balcony's railings. Where you're currently perched on, precariously.

You were still unused to the purple cloth that flows behind him. But it matches the wind that comes with him, and the beautiful clashes of colors that makes up who he is now. He was not reminiscent of the red gentleness that he was 2000 years ago, but a teal shadow that lingers at the edges of your vision as a blur.

"I wanted to thank you for purging the malignant monsters that haunted my domain by the cavern," your gaze falls away from the moon as you swing your legs up and over, turning to face the Inn and him yet still remaining seated on the railing.

His eyes were hostile, not at all indicative of the lightness it had long ago. Chest covered in white, and the many memorabilias that dangle with him. Xiao's hands rests on the railing by your side as your fingertip traces the Vajra hanging by his neck, chunky to pointy; Pervases, the name leaves your lips in a whisper.

A guttural growl leaves him in intensity that had you reeling yet still worried for him. Behind his lidded eyes were pure hurt from the fear you conveyed, but he shook his head at all the thoughts that invades. Xiao lets loose a tired yet mocking laugh, "I just remembered something unpleasant."

Before he can turn back to gaze at your ethereal form, you've thrown your arms around his head to pull him against your chest. Your grip and uneven heartbeat alerted him of your will to not cry at his misfortune; such sympathy is wasted on him, yet he wraps his arms around you close in a gentleness that once again reflects his deepest trait.

"...your blessings, not your flaws."

At the sound of your familiar lyrics, as if with a mind of its own, the tension on his shoulders drop immediately into your warmth.

"You've got it all, you lost your mind in the sound;

There's so much more, you can reclaim your crown;

You're in control, rid of the monsters inside your head;

Put all your faults to bed."

Urged the strokes of your hand on his head, the voices quiet into almost nothingness. The Conqueror of Demons smiles again.

"You can be king again."

To the realm of the Adepti and those who knows even the slightest of him, it was nothing to debate about when it is claimed that you were the real reason that the golden-winged king, the Conqueror of Demons— that Xiao still exists today.

If you recognize the song 🤝 big sad

@moaa @dandelion-dreams @witchsungie @lehra @zelos-simp @legionqueensav @snackgod @rxsalinee @cala-ran @wind-wheel @lilydewi22 @yellowflowre @traveler-lumine @nonniechan @creation-magician @hanniejji @gojos-baby @just-some-stars @volleybloop @kookieyachi @xiaophilia @bunniesrorange @anormalguyreader @scarletroseneko

#genshin impact x reader #Xiao x reader #genshin impact Xiao #exile.flower #Angst #Fluff #segcy #Xiao² #I have given in to the temptation #gender neutral #xiao genshin impact #sojourner special

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elriell · 4 years ago

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A little compilation of the amazing parallels, between former books and ACOSF, these are just a handful of the amazing throwback mentions Sarah gave us of Elriel.

A massive reason why I think Elain and Azriel will be telling their story next is that SJM is bringing back a lot of their important moments, to remind you of how far they have come and how much further they will go!

Azriel mastered himself enough to say, “Thank you.” I’d never seen his hazel eyes so bright, the hues of green amid the brown and gray like veins of emerald. “This will be invaluable.”

She hadn't bought her mate a present. But she'd gotten Azriel one last year—a headache powder he kept on his nightstand at the House of Wind. Not to use, but just to look at. Which he'd done every night he'd slept there. Or attempted to sleep there.

Az ran a hand through his dark hair. “Are we …” Unusual for him to stumble with words. “Are we supposed to get the sisters presents?” “No,” I said, and meant it. Az seemed to loose a sigh of relief. Seemed to, since all but a breath of air passed from his lips.

He offered her a smile back. "I wasn't sure if I should give you your present." [...] The golden necklace seemed ordinary—its chain unremarkable, the amulet tiny enough that it could be dismissed as an everyday charm. It was a small, flat rose fashioned of stained glass, designed so that when held to the light, the true depth of the colors would become visible. A thing of secret, lovely beauty. "It's beautiful," she whispered, lifting it from the box.

A low snarl slipped out of him— “Relax,” Rhys said. “Azriel isn’t the ravishing type.” Lucien cut him a glare.

Azriel offered her a small smile that Elain quickly looked away from. Cassian tucked away his puzzlement. Lucien was certainly not here to snarl at any male who looked at her for too long.

“I’m getting her back.” Nesta slid her gaze to the shadowsinger. Azriel’s hazel eyes glowed golden in the shadows. Nesta said, “Then you will die.” Azriel only repeated, rage glazing that stare, “I’m getting her back.”

Azriel stiffened. “I know. I helped rescue Elain, after all.” Az hadn’t so much as hesitated before going into the heart of Hybern’s war-camp.”

“What if”—I jerked my chin toward the window, to my sister and the shadowsinger in the garden—“that is what she needs? Is there no free will? What if Lucien wishes the union but she doesn’t?”

"What if the Cauldron was wrong?”

“And I think Elain—Elain would like it, too. Though she’d probably cling to Azriel, just to have some peace and quiet.” I smiled at the thought—at how handsome they would be together. If the warrior ever stopped quietly loving Mor. I doubted it. Azriel would likely love Mor until he was a whisper of darkness between the stars.

He was still happy to be Mor’s buffer with Azriel, but there’d been a change lately. In both of them. Mor no longer sat beside Cassian, draped herself over him, and Azriel … those longing glances toward her had become few and far between. As if he’d given up. After five hundred years, he’d somehow given up. Cassian couldn’t think why.

“Azriel won. His one-hundred-ninety-ninth victory, apparently.”

Your eyes are sad, Shadowsinger. He offered her a grim smile. "I lost the snowball fight today."

Azriel and Elain remained in the sitting room, my sister showing him the plans she’d sketched to expand the garden in the back of the town house, using the seeds and tools my family had given her tonight. Whether he cared about such things, I had no idea, but I sent him a silent prayer of thanks for his kindness before Rhys and I slipped upstairs.”

The river house had finally fallen quiet after the raucous Winter Solstice party, the faelights dimming to cast little pools of gold amid the deep shadow of the longest night of the year. Amren, Mor, and Varian had finally gone to bed, but Azriel found himself lingering downstairs. [...]

Soft steps padded from under the stair archway, and there she was. The faelights gilded Elain's unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. She halted, her breath catching in her throat.

“Why not make them mates?” I mused. “Why Lucien?”

“The Cauldron chose three sisters. Tell me how it's possible that my two brothers are with two of those sisters, yet the third was given to another." He had never before dared speak the words aloud.

“Mor whirled on Azriel. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Azriel held her gaze unflinchingly. Didn’t so much as rustle his wings. “Because you would have tried to stop it. And we can’t afford to lose Keir’s alliance—and face the threat of Eris.”

Lucien, as Beron's son, has the right to demand it of you.""I'll defeat him with little effort." Pure arrogance laced every word, but it was true. "I know." Rhys's eyes flickered. "And your doing so will rip apart any fragile peace and alliances we have, not only with the Autumn Court, but also with the Sprint Court and Jurian and Vassa."

Silence again. Then Azriel tipped his head back and laughed. I’d never heard such a sound, deep and joyous.”

“Nesta’s and led her toward the family room, where Azriel stood in the doorway, monitoring them. As if he’d heard Elain’s sharp laugh and wondered what had caused it.”

“You sure about that?” I asked quietly. Azriel’s Siphons guttered, the stones turning as dark and foreboding as the deepest sea.

Nesta saw the blow land, like a physical impact, in Elain’s face, her posture. No one spoke, though shadows gathered in the corners of the room, like snakes preparing to strike.

Elain bit her lip and then smiled sheepishly. “It’s for the headaches everyone always gives you. Since you rub your temples so often.”

Two small, bean-shaped fabric blobs lay within. Elain murmured, "You put them in your ears, and they block any sound. With Nesta and Cassian living there with you . . .”

The lurking shadows vanished entirely as Azriel’s head dipped a bit—his night-dark hair sliding over his handsome face as if to shield him from that mercilessly beautiful grin. Mor gave no indication that she noticed and curved her fingers toward me.

Elain sucked in a soft breath that whispered over his skin. His shadows skittered back at the sound. They'd always been prone to vanish when she was around.

“Why?” Not a flicker of emotion. “He is Elain’s mate.” I waited. “It would be an invasion of her privacy to track him.”

He left the rest unspoken. Because her mate was here, sleeping a level up. Because her mate had been in the family room and Azriel had needed to stay by the door the whole time because he couldn't stand the sight of it, the scent of their mating bond, and needed to have the option of leaving if it became too much.

[...] Azriel scowled. “I think Lucien will never be good enough for her, and she has no interest in him, anyway.”

Azriel, graceful as any courtier, offered her an arm. I couldn’t tell if she was looking at his blue Siphon or at his scarred skin beneath as she breathed, “Beautiful.” Color bloomed high on Azriel’s golden-brown cheeks.

She looked up at him, her face so trusting and hopeful and open that he knew she had no idea that he had done unspeakable things that sullied his hands far beyond their scars. Such terrible things that it was a sacrilege for his fingers to touch her skin, tainting her with his presence.

There are so many more feel free to add them! ♡

#elriel #elain archeron #azriel #acosf #acosf spoilers #acotar #elain x azriel #azriel x elain #acomaf #acowar #myelriel #myacotar #anti elucien #tobesafe

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mandoinevarro · 4 years ago

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NO APPOINTMENT, NO MEETING

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Words: 9.4k

Rating: E

Warnings: so ok descriptions of blood (it’s only one sentence and I don’t think it’s too bad but just in case), remembering trauma/triggering memories, angst. now for the fun part: SMUT, one (1) thigh spank, a sprinkle of dirty talk, a dash of praise kink, spitting, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, maybe cockwarming but for like two minutes

a/n: happy 2021!!! only one chapter left after this one so enjoy. for the hornies who only want fun and sexy times: scroll to the bottom and work your way up, smut is like 3/4 in.

……………

In the blue morning light, Nevarro is almost beautiful.

The deserted lava fields spread in flat terrain as far as the eye can see, bumps and dips where magma cooled creating waves like a black ocean. Among the tide, obsidian turtle shells shimmer like dark mirrors, where Din Djarin studies his face. It startled him when he crawled from the tent to take the pram inside; when he glanced at the ground and the ground glanced back. His face cloudy and warped by irregular volcanic rock, he barely recognized it. It’s not rare for his features to blur in his memory sometimes, especially when he’s out working for days at a time unable to catch a glimpse of himself. Vanity is not one of his many shortcomings—hiding your face for decades is a mighty vaccine against it.

But today something’s different. The reflection peering up at him belongs to a stranger. Relaxed eyebrows, a hooked nose (has the curved always been so pronounced?), lips that faintly curl up. Content brown eyes. His mirrored counterpart is a sentient being below him, plump with blood and oxygen. Alive.

He looks happy.

However, morning weighs heavily on Din, he can see it in the bags below his eyes. It stings like a hangover, like the only hangover he ever had, back when he was an eighteen-year-old idiot and used the credits of his first bounty to get a flask of spotchka from some seedy bar. He remembers sitting in his crammed quarters at the old Covert, chugging the bottle on his own, methodically forcing himself to swallow against the burn. Waiting. Waiting for the alchemy to kick in, for the magic toxins that flushed drunks’ faces, lubricant that oiled their scowls into easy smiles. Waiting to feel what everyone else felt, just for a moment.

Lifting his head, Din peers ahead. Shadows of the city’s buildings creep above the horizon like a bad omen. The opposite of a promised land. Hunchbacked buildings stain the blue-gray sky, abruptly interrupt the intricate lava patterns, Nevarro the planet versus Nevarro the city. Din’s stomach crumples. One, maybe two hours by foot. One, maybe two hours, and last night will fade into a distant memory, a collection of ghost sensations.

But not yet. Right now, last night is still real. You are still real.

Crawling back into the tent, he licks his lips for the millionth time today. He can still taste you: that thick, salty-bitter taste, so much better than he could’ve imagined. He hopes it stays on his lips for a long time; or, at least, that he can replace it soon.

Inside, you’re curled up with his cape, a blooming bruise above your shoulder peeking out, the baby’s pram hovering next to you. He sits down, careful not to awake either of you, and runs a finger down your shoulder, feels the skin prickle. He buries his nose on the back of your hair and inhales: rain and earth as usual, but his soap too, a part of him that clings to you. Lips on the crook of your neck, Din smells himself on you, wonders if you’ll want to wash his scent away, or if you’ll want it to stay on you. You stir, your soft exhales gain a rasp. Din smiles. You do snore, after all.

He’ll have to wake you soon. He knows. He knows. You need to talk about last night. You need to have the frank conversation that you’ve both been postponing for way too long, back when you floated in dead space, no deadlines, no rush at all to make decisions. But things have changed, and he knows what he wants now, and he knows it can’t wait. Yet every time his fingers brush your shoulder to nudge you awake, he pulls them back. He’s never seen you so peaceful, not moving except for your expanding and contracting chest, the light fluttering of your lashes. All the fight in your body gone, those tall bridges around you down and inviting. So different from when he met you.

If there’s one thing Din’s good at, it’s sniffing out trouble. He had to be, if he wanted to make it in the Fighting Corps. In the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. He can sweep a room with a mental black light, spot the people who flare up white and bright, the ones he needs to stay away from—or approach, depending on the situation. And that day at the cantina, the first time he laid eyes on you? You glowed with it. Talking big game in Karga’s booth, laughing with your pretty smile and shuffling cards, you beamed with trouble, bright as radiation and just as dangerous. What needed to happen was clear as day. The Mandalorian needed to turn on his heels immediately, strut out of that bounty hunter hive without a second look, and never, ever, ask about you.

He’d been there before.

Mandalorians, despite common belief, are not made of beskar. Not on the inside, at least. They’re all warm blooded organics, burdened with flesh and internal organs and skeletons; pain and pleasure receptors. Older Mandalorians cautioned younger ones when they came of age and finished their training, when they were ready to become providers. Tall stern warriors, his superiors, warned that there would be temptation, situations that would make him doubt the Way. “Even the briefest taste,” Din’s former Alor said with that cavernous voice he had, “can be the point of no return.” And he was right.

Outside the Covert, there was so much…stimuli. Voices and colors and movement, a twenty-four-hour beehive, the galaxy buzzed and vibrated to no end. It was equally wonderous and grotesque, like a circus. The strenuous noises that rattled his ribcage, the strong smells, the different food, his senses had never felt more exhausted. The faces…stars, the faces. How muscles stretched in a big smile, the glint of teeth, the deep creases between eyebrows that signaled anger. Always moving, always changing, Din hadn’t seen so many uncovered heads since he was a child. His first few weeks outside he’d stare at people for hours until they scurried away or tried to fight him. Tried.

Then, when the initial shock wore out, he noticed other details. The way children’s eyes filled with admiration when they’d look at their parents, how that dimpled girl in Alderaan would blush and stutter whenever he bought something from her stall. And Din would wonder, despite all warnings, what it’d feel like to be one of them. To share so much of himself with the outside world. With time, curiosity morphed into obsession, obsession into desperation, and soon enough he found himself with Rand and the others, running rampant in an already chaotic galaxy.

One war, two decades, and a thousand regrets later, the curiosity died down. The helmet helped him tune out the outside world, made it easier to retreat into his memories. The galaxy seemed duller by the day, emptier. Lonelier, though he didn’t dwell on it.

That is, until he met you.

Until his resolve circled the drain and he asked Karga who you were and where to find you, walked into your store without an idea of what he’d say. Behind the counter, eyes shining and that silky voice asking what you could do for him, you reset the galaxy for him. Every time he visited you felt like his first day outside all over again.

But last night—that was stronger, set in stone. It felt like commitment. Something was born last night, something burgeoned in his chest and took root. Din can feel the fullness in his body, like he grew an extra limb, similar to the swell that tangled in his insides when he went back for the kid. He doesn’t have a name for it yet, but it reminds him of the day he swore the Creed. The fresh sense of purpose, the carved-out path in front of him, knowing what needs to be done:

When the siege is over, he’ll take you with him.

“Are you watching me sleep?” you mumble, cotton mouthed. “Kinda creepy.”

Din chuckles, then remembers. Stars, his heart stops beating for a second. Dread and natural reflexes throw his palm whip fast over your closed eyes. Maker. What the hell was he thinking, sitting next to you without the helmet. Maker, one second too late and you could’ve opened your eyes and—

“Didn’t see anything. Promise,” you say with a smile and pull his cape over your face. “Cover up.”

He pats around for the helmet (where the hell did he drop it last night?), finds it abandoned by your feet. When he fits it around his head, the familiar padding hugging his skull, he swears it feels heavier than it did yesterday.

“You decent?”

“Yeah.”

You lower the pseudo blanket, sleepy eyes and easy smile. As if you purposefully want to make it harder for him to strike up a conversation. But do I really need to— Yes. Yes, he does. He has to know where you stand and ask the big question: If you’d be willing to leave with him once the siege is lifted. Stars, his hands are sweating. But he can’t imagine you’d say no. Not after last night.

“Listen…”

As if on cue, whimpers and sniffles float from the closed pram. Great timing, kid. The baby’s ears droop like wilting leaves when Din places him on the ground, and the little bundle waddles with his eyes cast down until he reaches your ankle.

“What is it, kiddo?” you ask softly, your voice gentler than Din’s ever heard, sitting up as you hug his cloak tighter around your shoulders.

“I think…” Din begins, watching the baby sniffle and hug your bandaged calf. “I think he’s apologizing.”

A pair of eight-ball eyes blink at you, shiny with unshed tears, and Din feels an ache deep in his chest. This sweet little kid, all he’s been put through…

“Oh, don’t worry,” you coo, as one of your hands wriggles out the cloak and cradles the baby’s cheek. Your thumb brushes away a fat tear. “I’m tougher than your dad.” You wink at Din: Just kidding. But it’s true. Living in this planet for so long, all on your own. “Tough” is a survival skill for you, not a choice.

Also…dad. He should probably correct you. Din is not the kid’s real father, even though he’s caught himself thinking about the baby as his son once or twice, when he’s not too aware of his inner monologue. But he can’t bring himself to tell you the truth. Actually, he belongs to a race of wizards that I’ve been quested to deliver him to. Can’t adopt him if I’ll eventually give him up. Not when the kid’s shedding quiet tears into your leg and you’re doing your best to soothe him. Nevarro’s not child friendly, and Din can’t imagine you’ve got much practice with baby stuff, but he can tell you’re doing your best. And that’s enough to spread warmth through his chest.

What a troop you must make: Mandalorian bounty hunter, black market dealer, magic green baby. You could set up a three-person circus and retire. Yet the image tugs at a memory tucked away in his mind, something familiar but blurred.

His rumination’s cut short when Din notices the kid’s pudgy hands extending strategically on either side of your right leg, his eyelids beginning to flicker. Shit, shit, shit.

“She forgives you,” he tells the kid hastily as he scoops him and lays him on the open pram. He doesn’t need to be the little womprat’s real father to tell he was about to whip out his favorite party trick: healing witch powers. So far it doesn’t look like it permanently harms him, but it does weaken him, and Din can’t take chances. Plus, he skipped the part about the baby having supernatural powers when he told you his story, and there’s not a hell of a lot of ways one can explain fresh wounds disappearing.

“So,” you say after the baby’s settled in his pod. “What are we going to do,” you start, and Din’s throat knots with dread and excitement, “about the jammer.”

Oh. Stars, straight to business

“You said you have one.”

“I said I might have one,” you answer, grabbing for your discarded skirts. You fumble with them under the cloak, one hand clasped tight around it. It’s funny—after everything you’ve shared, you won’t undress in front of him during the day. “I mean, jammers aren’t picky like motors, they’re more one-size-fits-all.”

“But we still have to rewire it,” Din completes, wiping dry drool from the kid’s cheek with his thumb.

“Right.” Holding the cloak with your chin while you clasp your tunic, you seem to slowly draw your way out of a maze. That restless abacus in your head adding and subtracting. Your brows relax, and Din knows you’ve figured it out. “But I’ve got my equipment in my workshop, and we’d save time not having to remove it from a ship. And, no offense, but the Crest’s jammer was an antique. Way more complicated than newer models.” You finish dressing and hand him the cloak. “Only problem is the potential trooper stakeout outside the store.”

“I’ll take care of troopers.” Din takes the cloak and hesitates. It’s day nine, that time bomb still ticks in his head. Could it be that easy? Could you really do all this in one day? “What if we don’t finish on time?”

“Then,” you say, “we’ll figure something out.”

We, Din thinks, and smiles. Somehow, that’s all the reassurance he needs.

≈

Nevarro couldn’t look more deserted if tumbleweed rolled in the streets. The city’s a populated ghost town, no man’s land that’s filled with men. Well, men is a strong word. How did Viszla put it that time? We live hidden like sand rats. Yes, rats seems more fitting. Packs of them, scurrying around the former Covert, stealing Mandalorian armor to be bartered for scraps. Karga didn’t have to spell it out when he told him about people finding the Covert. Mando is familiar with the ways of the Outer Rim: Anything unclaimed is up for the taking, and beskar’s too tempting to resist. Knowing doesn’t make his blood boil any less, though. If Din focuses, he can almost hear their squeaking echoing from the sewers, the scavengers of this gray rock serving themselves to the abandoned armor of his people.

Movement to the left. The Mandalorian draws his blaster and bars you with his forearm, to see…a tunic. A short tunic. Tiny red lights. A Jawa. He exhales and sheathes the blaster. Stars. With the vembrance turned off, he has to rely on bare eyesight to scan for danger.

The Jawa drags a sleigh behind him. On it lies a dead or unconscious trooper (it makes no difference to these creatures), its gloved fingers drawing traffic lines on the mud and ash of unpaved streets. Red stars below the cowl focus on you for half a second, the bounty hunter’s hand approaches his blaster, and…

…and the Jawa waves at you, says “hello” in its squeaky language. You wave back, smiling, and the lump of shadow continues on its way. A neighborly gesture that in this context is plain bizarre.

“Old friend of yours?” Mando asks, walking again.

“Associate,” you correct, running a finger along the kid’s left ear until it twitches and he giggles. “Jawas scavenge parts straight from the wreckage, eliminate the middle man. And they don’t report to the New Republic.”

You mean steal from the wreckage, Din almost says, but bites it back. He supposes he can’t judge you for trading with Jawas. Prospects on the Outer Rim are bleaker than ever, and everyone’s got to eat. Especially during a siege.

Maker, sometimes he can’t believe he convinced himself to leave you here. Marooned in the type of place Core World citizens only talk about with shaking heads and disapproving voices. The type of place that makes people feel better about their lives, because hey, it could be worse, at least I don’t live in Nevarro. Granted, Din didn’t know then there’d be a siege. After the fight, after he bid goodbye to Cara and Karga, he hovered on the atmosphere for longer than was safe, gazing down at your store’s roof from the Razor Crest’s cockpit. His head a seesaw, weighing his options and unable to make a decision. You were still so close. He could fly back down to the surface, knock on your door, and take you away with him like he did with the kid.

Would you say yes? Reject him?

But most importantly: what about his quest? What kind of life would you lead travelling with him, a fugitive of the Empire and the New Republic? Life for Din has been defined by survival. Every day he’s had to get up and fight; fight to an inch of his life, fight with concussions, frostbite, shattered ribs. Knife wounds, blaster wounds. Personal wounds. He didn’t want that for you. You’re young, clever, resourceful. After that day, maybe you’d decide Nevarro was too dangerous. Maybe you’d pay your passage on a cruiser and start over in the Core Worlds, make your luck own there. Find a good man, if that’s what you wanted.

So he started the thrusters—the same ones he bought from you so long ago—and jumped into hyperspace with a semi clear conscience. This was best for everyone. You probably wouldn’t have accepted his offer, anyway. For five months he lived with his decision. And then he learnt about the siege.

In the sky, a string of river pearls forms a pattern like a necklace. Imperial cruisers, tie fighters, every ship that Guideon commands, solemnly presiding over Nevarro, itching to shoot down runaways. They’re too far up in the atmosphere to make out anyone in the surface, but Mando grabs your arm and coaxes you behind him all the same, his grip on the pram tighter. The memory of that imp’s blaster on your forehead is still too fresh. The dried blood on your legs.

Din glances back at you briefly. You catch his eye and smile—not grin, not smirk—but smile, a pretty, kind smile that would put to shame any of the imaginary Naboo girls you were so worked up about two nights ago. He should know, he’s been to Naboo, and none of the women there had your kaleidoscopic face, those hints of life that send his pulse on a sprint. The Mandalorian wonders what else you could be hiding under that sharp tongue, behind those clever eyes.

“Mando,” you call and point at a blackened mass to your right. “Nursery’s this way.”

All buildings in Nevarro emerge from volcanic rock, pushing away from clumps of hardened magma. They’re half-manmade, half-volcano hybrids—it’s a useful layout that gives their structure grip against constant earthquakes. It also, however, makes the buildings look like tumors growing on the navel of an ill planet. Your store’s the only one that’s never looked malignant, more like a sprouting flower than a parasite.

And now, the cantina too. Burned to a crisp, blacker than night, the former Church of Nevarro seems to have been swallowed by its unwilling host: the volcanic rock it was built upon. It’d be near impossible to know there’s a cantina inside, if not for the wide window peering inside. And it’s far from impossible for you or Mando, who know by heart where all the doors stand. He pushes one open for you, and together you walk inside.

“Thumb on the bottom, middle and ring fingers on the top, index to the side,” instructs Cara from behind the cantina’s crisp black counter. “The other side.”

Greef Karga sits on a stool opposite her, fumbling with a deck of cards. “Got it. Then what?”

“Then…” The veteran moves aside a flask of ardees and places a matching deck on the bar. “Pressure with your index, release the thumb.” She acts out her instructions and creates an arched ribbon spread on the surface. The Mandalorian can’t remember the last time he walked into the cantina and didn’t see the hypnotic patterns on cards, didn’t hear the wing-flapping noise of their shuffle. Although if he thinks about it, it makes sense that sabacc is the local sport around here. Dumb luck is the only god in the Outer Rim, where inhabitants gaze perpetually at their uncertain future and never look back. Tomorrow they’ll get a better hand, yesterday’s lost credits are forgotten. Everyone here seems to shed their past like snake skin.

“Nice spread, Dune,” you call. Greef and Cara follow your voice, realize they have visitors. “You should job hunt at Canto Bight.”

“Oh yeah?” replies the ex-shock trooper with an impish grin, both elbows on the counter and a rag over her shoulder, all bartender swagger. “What do you know about Canto Bight, hot stuff? Heard you’ve never been off this rock.” She spies a sly glance at Mando, enough to confirm that she’s annoying him on purpose, openly flirting with you. He squares his stance, rolls the helmet to pin her down with the visor, but (he really should know this by now) it does little to intimidate her.

“No trash talk before nightfall, ladies,” quips Karga, walking towards the pram. “And certainly not in front of babies. Hello, little one!” Said little one coos and lifts his skinny arms to be lifted by the Guild Leader, who sits back down delighted at having the baby’s favor, the little rascal on his lap. “He likes me!” Greef Karga smiles wide, flashing those white glinting teeth that’ve always reminded Din of a wolf’s. He’s not happy to leave the kid here, but he can’t take him if there’s a stakeout in your store. Beggars can’t be choosers and so on. But Cara’s here, and Din knows he can trust her with the baby. Though not with you, evidently.

“Tell you what, Mando,” Cara continues, apparently not done peacocking around you. “We arm wrestle, just like last time. Winner gets a flask of spotchka and the opportunity to take the lady to Canto Bight after you lift the siege.”

“Help us lift the siege and I’ll consider winning that flask.”

Dune lets out an long whistle, giving you a complicit look. “Big words.”

Your eyes rake along the Mandalorian’s armor slowly, boots to helmet, a dark tint in your eyes. Din flushes, the oppressive heat of his clothes suddenly thicker.

You shrug and answer, “Big man.” Your fingertips dance idly around the nape of your neck, which makes Mando think about last night, about his tongue on your neck and the purple bruises he sucked, the salty taste of flesh, the heady one between your legs. The memory steers blood into…into awkward places. Which, knowing you, was your intention. Maker, he needs to talk to you about teasing him in public.

“Help you how?” asks Greef, lifting the baby into the counter, whose six little claws hold on to two of his gloved fingers.

“Look after the kid, we won’t be more than a few hours.”

“Sure thing!” booms Karga, at the same time as Cara says, “Fuck no.”

You fold your arms at the veteran. “You scared of an infant, Dune? It’s only one of him, and…” you squint at the cantina’s black shell, like something’s out of place in its burned remains, “…two of you. Where’s—” you start, before glancing at Mando and swallowing the second half.

“Duma?” supplies Karga, tapping the corners of the deck on the counter. “Don’t know, probably boiling beskar to make broth. Rumor has it she’s running out of supplies, fast. Did you ever take her up on that deal?”

Your eyes shoot vibroblades at him, your mouth a flat line.

“What deal?” Mando asks.

“Nothing,” you reply, still glaring warnings at Karga, who sighs, shakes his head, and tickles the baby’s tummy. The kid giggles and kicks half the deck off the counter. “Nothing important. We should get going.”

Outside, you guide the Mandalorian through a maze of back alleys, the ugly underbelly of a planet that’s already the galaxy’s own underbelly. Mando glues a palm to his blaster’s grip, lifting it only as muscle memory to turn on the vembrance and activate the setting to scan footprints, frustrated when he remembers his own piece of equipment would immediately snitch on him. Yet you glade past dark corners that beg for their own knife-brandishing mugger with the grace of someone frolicking in D’Qar’s moorlands, postcard-calm.

Once in your store’s backdoor, the Mandalorian ventures a glance at the front street. Empty. Like the rest of the city, it’s like curfew was declared, not an imp in sight. Certainly not a stakeout in process. Behind him, you push the door open, the busted security panel no more than a prop to discourage robbers.

“What?” you ask when he doesn’t walk inside.

“There’s nobody here,” he answers, studying the connecting alleys like a web of arteries, waiting for a trooper squadron to materialize and ambush you.

“It’s quiet too quiet?” you tease with a lopsided grin. “Lay off the thrillers, Mando. Come on.”

You step inside, he hesitates. “Could be a trap.”

Hands on the doorframe, leaning forward, your face almost touches the helmet. “Then you’ll shoot them and we’ll be back to square one. Not much of a choice here, Mando.” Those pretty eyes, your shining, wet lips. It’s a siren’s call he knows he shouldn’t answer.

The Mandalorian follows you inside.

It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings.

Your store hibernates in the dark, stale air floating around its vault. Your store, which used to buzz with drills and neon lights and life around the clock, looms like a beast’s hollow belly, crypt-still. Lights off and furniture wrapped in sheets, it looks abandoned, the way all those family houses in deserted villages were hastily vacated during the war. He wonders how long you’ve been out of business because of the siege. Because of him.

You walk across the reception in tomb silence. In the reception signs hang next to the front desk—store policies that gave Mando more than one headache—dark and colorless, like they turned in their badges and no longer preside over this place. Only “NO IMPS” twitches, one or two agonizing flashes of neon green, before it shuts down like its colleagues. Six rules in total, although in Din’s opinion there’s a seventh that foregoes the need of a sign: “NO QUESTIONS”.

That’s a rule that everyone in Nevarro—bounty hunter or not—subscribes to. It’s the rule you followed when the Mandalorian walked into your store, still crafting some half-assed excuse about thrusters when he came face to face (helmet to face?) with you. You never asked about New Republic guidelines or what he wanted them for. Not even for his name. No questions when he came back two weeks later. No questions as weeks passed and then months, as tension thickened between you until his internal barometer cracked.

No questions when his thinning resolve broke one night. That night. He pushed you onto your workbench, you undid each other’s belts, pawed at each other’s sides. No questions when he slid into your wet heat, when he had to stop for a second to avoid a heart attack. No questions when he finished inside you, blood roaring in his ears, your sighs clouding his visor, your hand gently pushing him back.

And then, his question: “Where are you going?”

“Upstairs,” you answered, pulling your trousers back around your hips.

It dropped on his head like freezing water. Upstairs. Upstairs to your apartment, to rest. Alone. Meaning your encounter was a one-night stand, a shortcut to let off some steam. Stars, you were basically swinging the front door wide open for him, putting away a couple of wrenches and switching off the lights to signal the night was over. The Mandalorian didn’t need questions to know he’d overstayed his visit.

But…what if he’d spent the night anyway? Maybe the next morning he would’ve been upfront with you, confess he’d wanted you for so long and that he wanted it to evolve past one furtive encounter, that he wanted it to be real. No, he probably wouldn’t have. As a bounty hunter—as Mandalorian—there are things he simply can’t have. Things that are better off unspoken, better off—

“Tucked away,” you say behind him, making the Mandalorian jump.

“What?”

“The planner.” You walk behind the front desk. “I was saying I don’t remember leaving it here. I thought it was tucked away in some box.”

Oh.

It is strange. A light sheen of dust covers the counter, yet the planner is glossy clean, a painted depiction of the Manarai Mountains on its cover. A souvenir from Coruscant. He wonders who brought you that. It tugs at something sweet but sad in his chest, the fact that you have to rely on others’ cheap souvenirs to explore the galaxy. That’ll change as soon as this mess with the siege is settled.

You flip through the planner, empty for the most part but for a few scribbles on the first pages. It’s dated 5 ABY, four years ago. The Mandalorian knows from experience that your appointment rule works mostly to turn away unsavory clients. Or to get on his nerves.

“Look at that,” you murmur as if reading his mind, your finger pointing at nothing on a page. “You don’t have an appointment, Mando.”

“We don’t have time for this,” he answers, though he knows he’ll make time for it anyway. It used to drive him up the wall whenever you refused to see him using that stupid excuse. But, as with everything with you, it was more complicated than that. It took longer than he’s willing to admit to understand that it was a game. That you liked him riled up, after the push and pull, the hot and cold, the challenge. You had a taste for difficulty. Although it didn’t take as long to figure out that he liked it too. “Just let me in.”

“I don’t know,” you drawl, glancing at the dull signs on the wall. “Rules are rules.”

The Mandalorian has played this game with you enough to know what you want. He thinks of all those memories in this building. You, pinned between his armor and the doorframe; him, sitting on that battered couch upstairs with your hands on his knees. Even those calm nights, when you’d only sit and talk and make him laugh, and sometimes he’d get a laugh from you too, if he didn’t try too hard. All the sweating and the panting and the talking that these walls have witnessed. Maybe there’s time for one last memory before you both leave this planet for good. Not maybe—there’s definitely time. If this were an ambush, you’d be dodging blaster shots by now.

“So bend the rules,” he says slowly, gripping his edge of the counter and dropping his voice to the low register that gives you goosebumps. “For me.”

Your eyes twinkle like copper at the fact that he’s playing along. “And what do I get in return?”

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. “Whatever you want.” Perhaps he’s known for a while, in the back of his head where he could ignore it, but last night the idea rushed to his front lobe. He’ll give you anything you want.

“I want…” you begin, mischief shining in your eyes, before a shadow clouds them. Slowly, your face goes soft, a special kind of longing in your pupils. You swallow, your voice becomes throaty, and the words sound truer than anything Din’s ever heard: “I want you. I just want you.”

He almost trips on his feet when he rounds the counter, his head already swimming. The hunter crowds you with his body, backs you up against the counter until you’re caged and looking up at him, hooded eyes and parted lips. Hot stuff. Cara’s shallow pet name. When he heard it he thought it was inappropriate. But now. As your mouth nestles on his clothed neck and breathes hot, damp air through the fabric—a mild sensation for most people, he guesses, but almost a mating call for him—he realizes it’s not untrue. The name fits you like a glove, hot stuff. It’s just…incomplete. If he’s learnt anything these nine days is that there’s so much more to you, enough sailor knots of emotion and personality inside you to loop around the galaxy if unraveled.

“Touch me,” you breathe, rubbing up against him, searching friction. “Please, please, touch me. There’s nobody here, we—we have time.”

Gloved palms on your waist, down to your hips, lower to your ass, Din tries to fondle you as best he can. He pins you between the counter and his hips, your leg curls around his back and holds him closer. His erection starts to bulge against your belly, your breaths start quickening, your hearts start pumping faster. The tell-tale signs that indicate you’re both ready to go hit all their usual beats. But something’s missing. There’s a step you’re skipping, something…something he’s not doing right.

Tentatively, you press a small kiss on his covered neck, and he can only feel its frustrating whisper, a promise of more.

A lightbulb flicks on.

Mando holds your hips and spins you around, the desk’s edge on your waist. “Bend over,” he grouses next to your ear, his voice sand-coarse. “Don’t turn around.”

Gloves off first. One palm cradles the back of your neck, feels you shiver. His left hand runs down your back and around to your tummy, savoring all those warm, secret places on you, the way your body opens up to him on instinct. The power trip when he cups your heat through your skirts and you moan into the counter. You nestle your hips on his lap, and he stiffens on command, a tug between his legs that he knows is far too insistent for foreplay. Stars, it’s like he’s conditioned to get hard in this store.

“Don’t—” he chokes out “—not so fast. Or I—I won’t—”

“What?” you pant. Din hears the grin laced in your voice and knows it’s bad news for him. He drops to his knees and both hands walk up your bandaged calves, squeeze the tops of your thighs. “You…you don’t…” He throws your skirts over your back. You inhale sharply at the cold air—or at his hands pulling the soft flesh of your backside. When he removes the helmet, your pitch sounds broken up, more desperate. “You d-don’t want…”

It’s a small victory when he parts his lips against your clothed core and it’s you, for once, who chokes on words. Small victory, but he’ll take it, especially after the way his cock twitches in his pants when he smells you. He kisses you again, just a peck over your clit, and your legs shake. Fucking…stars. If this is how you feel when you tease him…well, he gets it. You mewl and push back on his face, but he hardly thinks you want it that easy.

“Stop moving,” he tells you sternly, with a voice he’d use on quarries.

A shiver runs down your spine. “But—” You break into a whine when his open palm slaps the side of your thigh. It’s probably the surprise rather than the sting that makes you inhale sharply, and a combination of both that dampens the cotton between your legs.

“Stop moving,” he repeats, mouth pressed against your core so you can feel the vibration; that, he learnt from you. “Or you don’t get my mouth.”

Above him, you let out a displeased little grunt, too throaty to mean much. But you open your legs wider and brace yourself on the front desk, grant him full access to you. His index hooks on your underwear, moves it aside, and he buries his lips deep into the softest part of you. Din barely hears you gasp. He circles both arms around your thighs and pulls you closer, until his tongue is buried between your folds and you just have to take it. Fuck, it’s just…decadent. The taste, the smell, how soaked you are already, your little purrs and whimpers when he sucks on your lips. They’re not things he ever thought he’d get to feel. He doesn’t deserve any of it.

“Mmm, stars, Mando,” you sob, sneakily rutting your hips like you just can’t help it. He allows it, but only because he’s so rock fucking hard he’s practically doing the same thing. His cock trapped down one pant leg, he squeezes his thighs to try and soothe the ache. “Move—move up a b-bit.”

“No,” he grunts, and licks a slow line from the spot right below your clit to the back of your slit. It wasn’t so long ago that it was your mouth on him, you teasing him mercilessly inside this very store, him moaning and grunting and losing his mind. That’s how he wants you: sloppy, desperate, begging.

“Maker, don’t t-tease,” you moan, but it only encourages him. His tongue slides deep inside you where you’re hotter than sin, enjoying how your walls swell and tighten around it. You’re so fucking wet, he could push into you right now and relieve the pressure building between his legs. But not yet.

“Beg me,” Din groans, mouthing at the inside of your thighs and sucking tiny bruises there. You moan above him, deep in your throat, and he wonders which one of you is more turned on right now. “Put—fuck—put that smart mouth to use. Beg me.”

For a moment all he can hear is your labored breathing, the wheels turning in your pretty head, laying out a plan to make him give in faster. Then, soft and sweet, you hum, “Mando.”

One word. Probably the word Din hears the most, so generic and impersonal that everyone from friends to strangers to enemies call him that. That word coming from your lips makes his heart sprint, his cock pulse and scream at him to hurry up. Stars, but if it was his name—his real name—on your lips, soft and purring like you pronounced his nickname, he knows he wouldn’t be able to hold back a second longer.

“You always make me feel so good,” you continue, arching your back a little to test the waters. “You’re so—so good with your mouth, stars. Want you to kiss me again—kiss me everywhere. Taste me like yesterday—” Your breath catches when he sucks on your inner lips again, closer to where you want him. Maker, if you keep talking like that… “Used to th-think about it all the time, how—mmm—how your—your tongue would feel. Never, ngh, never thought you’d use it th-there, though.” Din laps at your cunt, drinks from it. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time he got this hard. An airy laugh before you continue. “You can be so d-dirty sometimes. I’d let you do—do anything to me.”

Really, Din doesn’t know what pushes him to do it. He doesn’t know what makes him pull back and spread you open with his fingers, stare at your glistening, deliciously swollen folds, and spit at their very top. You moan raggedly above him, a complete mess of sobs and whimpers, as Din simply stares. He watches the trail of spit run down your slit, the lower it goes the more precum he feels sticking to his trousers. Half-drunk on your words and your slick, Din thinks: What did you do to me? Maker, you have him wrapped around your finger.

Saliva trails down until it teardrops on your clit, clings to it, and he doesn’t need another sign. His lips latch on to your bundle of nerves and suck. You sob and whine and cry, rocking your hips hard against his mouth, and he continues sucking through his teeth. Your knees give out, but he holds them before you can hit the ground, holds you in place as he feels you give him everything, your pussy clenching around nothing. Slick trails down his chin, all the way to his neck, and—shit. He’s going to burst in his pants just from feeling you cum in his mouth.

It takes every last ounce of self-control he has left to detach his lips from your cunt and stumble to his feet. You’re still shaking, still panting, but he can’t hold it back a minute longer. Fuck, not even a second longer, he needs to have you right now.

It’s a struggle to get a hold of his fly, fingers trembling and teeth grinding. When he finally pulls the zipper down, the sound snaps your head up.

“Are you—Mando, are you going to—”

“Yes,” he grunts, digging into his waistband for his cock, lining it up against your cunt. Stars, he’s so pent up, it hurts to touch it. “Is it—is it o-okay, can—can, I—”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” you mewl, pushing your hips so tightly against his groin the head of his cock catches against your entrance. Fuck. “Please, please, please, put it inside, let me feel your big, thick, co—”

One hard shove, deep enough that he feels himself poke your cervix, and he’s cumming—hard. His spine doubles over and he grunts and moans into your hair, giving you short, stunted thrusts as he fills you to the brim. You were already so swollen before, now you feel unbearably tight, squeezing his cock so harshly his eyes roll back on his skull. And his balls keep pulling up and giving you more of his load, his teeth grinding so hard they might crack. One last thrust, nice and deep so his cum stays inside you, and his palm presses down on your eyes. Din uses that hand as leverage to turn you around and tilt your head like you showed him, just enough so he can reach your lips. And he kisses you.

Your bodies spasm and throb against each other, you clench around him involuntarily and he flinches, too sensitive to handle the aftershocks of your orgasm. Still, he could stay like this for days. Gently sucking on your tongue, running his along the roof of your mouth, feeling how your lips curve against his in a smile. Then, an alarming thought. Maybe this is the only way to do it that feels right now—sex, he means. With the helmet off, his lips on yours, his nose on your hair. Bare hands drawing circles on your hips. Every sense devoted to you. Even the briefest taste can be a point of no return.

You peck his lips and flutter sweet, short kisses around his jaw, working your way up to his ear, where you whisper, “We’re running out of time.”

The jammer. Those words are quickly becoming the bane of his existence. “I know,” he whispers back, but presses one last, long kiss to your lips that feels inexplicably sad, like a kiss goodbye. Din shakes the thought off his head. He’s too pessimistic sometimes.

You both hiss when he pulls out, slowly so he won’t hurt you.

“Keep ‘em closed,” he tells you before removing his hand from your eyes. For all he knows you could open them right there, and there’d be nothing he could do about it. Somehow, however, he’s certain you won’t. His trust is rewarded when he pulls the hand back, and your eyes are screwed shut beneath it.

It takes an awkward choreography to straighten yourselves. You try to pull your own underwear back on, but in your position it’s near impossible. So Din kneels behind you once more, fishes his helmet from the floor, tucks himself back into his trousers, and lifts your panties until they hug your hips. You push your own skirts down before Din’s upright, which results in the long fabric covering him like your furniture. You share a quick laugh before standing straight and facing each other.

“You can open them.”

Now, he tells himself, watching your sated smile and blinking eyes. The words are on the tip of his tongue: When this is over, would you like to come with me—

“If there’s a jammer here,” you say, before he can get a word out, “it’s in the workshop.”

You walk around him and open a door behind the reception desk to reveal the staircase that leads to your apartment. Din’s still telling himself that he’ll just ask you later, when you climb one step—and stop. You turn around like you can sense he’s about to ask, for the second time in this store, where you’re going.

“Gotta get some stuff from upstairs, but I’ll be down in a second.” Your voice wobbles, your foot hesitates on the step. You’re nervous. “But if you find the jammer before I come back, don’t…don’t leave.”

“Of course not.” Maker, of course he wouldn’t leave without you. Do you really think he would?

The workshop is darker than the reception. A single window, currently boarded up, so he has to use the helmet’s light. The cone of white light creates a sinister effect, like creatures lurk everywhere it doesn’t touch. Rubber tubes hang from the ceiling like lianas, circuit boards glimmer green like leaves, and yellow sensors blink from several components. Your own little ecosystem watches him dig into boxes of clutter to search for a jammer. Stars, he’s never known how you manage to find anything here. It’s probably best if he waits outside; he wouldn’t be able to find his own ship in here without you.

He’s turning to the door when the helmet’s light catches on a dark glint, like it reflected on a mirror. It stops him on his tracks. Din’s not sure what prompts his feet to carry him toward your worktable, where the mystery item lays center-front. He sees himself reflected on the dark T-visor. It’s a helmet. It’s a blue Mandalorian helmet.

At first he’s confused. Surprised to see a Mandalorian helmet here—and is it even a Madalorian helmet? Yes, yes it is. His brain lags behind his eyes, goes through different scenarios, each less likely than the last.

Is there another Mandalorian here? Did the Alor bring this? Is the Alor a client?

And then, truth.

It falls abruptly on his back like atmospheric pressure, gravity that crushes. A hot rush of blood enveloping his head, poisoning his thoughts, a ringing in his ears so sharp he thinks he might pass out. A million thoughts in less than a second—convoluted, scrambled, furious. Then an image, so clear that the Maker himself might’ve played it for him like a holo: Thieves, scammers, criminals scurrying through the tunnels of the Covert, the empty halls where his people built a refuge, where they could feel safe. The pile of beskar armor unguarded—the high price that brave Mandalorians paid to help Din, help the child—served in a silver platter for these scavengers, these fucking honorless lowlifes.

His gloved fingers grip your worktable so hard his knuckles might crack—or the table. But the Mandalorian can’t feel the pain on his joints, not when his bloodstream’s turned to acid, when it feels like somebody jammed live wires into his head.

This fucking place. This planet with its fucking people, their fucking cynicism, this fucking landfill for hazardous waste, this piece of shit skughole—

Above, the Mandalorian hears footsteps. Your footsteps. You.

He looks down at the helmet, the empty T-visor limp and black, dead. You did this. Thinking of you clears the red cloud from his mind, trades it for a gray one. A headache creeps behind his eyes, his shoulders go slack. He feels hollowed out. Like a spoon reached inside his chest and scooped away everything essential, left him a carcass. Like something died here today.

You did this.

And then the helmet is not a helmet, but a severed head. A head with a pool of blood around it, guts sprayed all over, and there’s the corrupt smell of blaster residue coming from his neighbor’s house, the taste of copper after biting his tongue running, the durasteel giants shooting red death, the deafening explosions, his parents’ screams, his school going up in a cloud of smoke, his father holding him, whispering one last sentence that he can’t hear through the sounds of war and carnage, his mother’s cheeks stained with tears and dirt and blood, their blurring faces, the darkness, the fear.

Holding the helmet, Din feels tears sting in the corners of his eyes, then hot on his cheeks. Nobody understands, why can’t anybody understand? The warrior that owned this helmet is lost forever, condemned to live like a phantom, empty without the Creed, without the Way. It’s worse than death. It’s the curse that most of the Covert was forced to carry, to walk this galaxy like living dead, violently stripped of everything that mattered. And the relic of their sacrifice sits in your workshop next to the rest of your junk, ready to be sold off to the highest bidder, somebody who’ll want to hang it in their wall like game they hunted, and how could you do this to him, how could you, how could you do this—

“Find anything yet?”

When the Mandalorian turns, his helmet’s white light locks you in place like quarry. Like guilty quarry.

You squint and raise a palm to shut out the bright beam. “Stars, Mando,” you laugh. “Are you trying to blind me? Turn that off.”

Your words are muffled by the rushing blood that wraps around his ears, loud as a waterfall, but he can understand them. The Mandalorian grips the helmet tighter between his hands and keeps the light on so you can see what he found, what he knows about you. The ugly, festered truth about you.

Once your eyes adjust to the bright light and they’re able to stay open for more than three seconds, you give him a quizzical look. The visor gives you nothing, so you drop your gaze to the hard evidence between his hands.

And you have the nerve to look even more surprised. Furrowed eyebrows and everything to add to the performance.

“Where did you get that?” you ask.

A thousand responses climb into his head in a savage, foul clutter, like army ants. I should ask you the same, where do you think?, how much are they giving you?, was it worth it?, what’s wrong with you?, what’s wrong with this fucking planet? He opens his mouth, but they swarm in his throat all at once and tie a knot around his windpipe. More tears on his cheeks, another attempt at words—nothing.

Finally, quietly: “How could you do this to me?”

The crease between your brows digs deeper, and there’s genuine worry in your eyes. Of course you’re worried, he just caught you red fucking handed. “Mando, I really don’t understand—”

“Me neither,” he hisses through his teeth, “because this is a Mandalorian helmet, and you’re no Mandalorian.” The first insect out, the rest follow like a waterfall, crawling out his mouth. “How long did you wait after I left to steal this from the Covert? An hour? Five minutes?”

Trapped under the light, where you can no longer hide in shadows, you look stricken. The harsh light shines on circles under your eyes, creases where you frown. Bleak features he never noticed before.

Your voice is low and icy when you say, “I never stole anything from the Covert.”

“Scavenge, loot, I don’t care what you people like to call it.” How could you, after everything, how could you.

“Listen to me,” you say steadily, but your eyes are hot coals and your jaw is set, your own anger rising. Good. Masks off. He wants to see who’s been hiding under his noses these nine days. All those fucking months. “I didn’t take a thing from the Covert. I have no idea where that helmet came from.”

The Mandalorian is barely listening. He’s heard more than enough lies for two lifetimes, he sure as fuck doesn’t need yours. Instead, he focuses on the one thought that manages to float in the red sea of anger and despair. He holds on to it like an anchor, clutches it until his palms bleed, but truth hurts.

“Duma.” He doesn’t ask this time around—he tells you. He knows and there’s nothing you can do about it—nothing he can do about it. Greef Karga’s words shine painful light on fog. Boiling beskar…did you take her up on that deal? “You’re selling it to her.”

“Stars, of course not.” The stoniness of your features melts for an instant, hurt revealed underneath those layers. You look devastated, tired. Maker, you’re good. Those hours of sabacc are sure paying off. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“How can I believe you?” he snarls, his head suffocating in dark quicksand—grief, anger, betrayal all clogging his nostrils, making his head throb. How could you how could you how could you. “When I know what type of people sprout from this planet, I make a living hunting them. I know you—” his voice breaks, but the words keep flowing and he hardly hears them “—I know the kind of company you keep, I know you have no principles, I know you can’t commit to shit—”

“Commit?” you snap, face hardening cold and twisted like the magma outside, but he knows too well what lies beneath the surface. Lava, hot and bubbling, your anger as raw as his. Rawer. “You wanna talk about commitment? I waited for you for five months!” The light from the helmet no longer makes you squint, but it turns your eyes red and watery. “You left. You left me here to starve through a fucking siege that you caused—”

“I came back for you!”

That gives you pause. Then you shake your head. “No, you came back because that piece of shit official asked—”

“He asked to meet me in Belderone.” Belderone, same sector as Nevarro, not even ten minutes away in hyperspace. “Told me Nevarro wasn’t safe because there was a siege, so I insisted we meet here.” The memory drains him. How worried he was about you, the type of worried that stirs bile in the stomach. How guilty he felt. “To see you again. Make sure you were okay.” The Mandalorian looks down at the helmet in his hands, a strange mirror staring up at him. Harsher than the one from this morning. His ears ring, his mouth tastes sour, his rising headache plateaus into an unbearable, incessant throb. A ghost limb aches somewhere in his body, all over it. He wants to leave your store, your planet.

How could you?

Mando doesn’t raise his head to look at you when he walks out the workshop. You don’t stop him when he reaches the main door. You don’t stop him when he walks out to the street.

The sky is jaundice-yellow when he steps outside. Gone are this morning’s blue hues, suffocated by the sickly coughing of a million volcanos, by their fumaroles and their sparks. For all the Mandalorian cares, this planet can burn.

On his way to the cantina to pick up the kid, he stares at the marker that identifies the entrance to the city: that crooked, arthritis-ridden arch. Beyond it, he spots the outline of a ship. A sleek civilian shuttle, probably a rental. The official isn’t stupid enough to fly a Republic starship past siege lines, so if the tiny shuttle fooled Guideon’s platoon in the atmosphere, well, it’ll have to do it again. Tomorrow, they’ll just have to tempt fate and avoid tempting the batallion of Imperial cruisers. Or fly out in the Crest and hope they can jump into hyperspace before imps pulverize them. All he wants is to put as many lightyears between him and this planet.

Din’s head pounds when he walks inside the cantina. The only thought hammering against his skull: How could you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 5…’tis the end

Taglist: @rosetophighlander @hellomothermoon @newyorksins @leo-moon @benedrylcumbersnatch @corrupt-fvcker @seratoninforyouseratoninforme @multifandomlife22 @justanotherblonde23 @abysshaven @equalstrashflavoredtrash @16boyfriends-and-me @ihaveashield @dinispunk @bananaagurl @mstgsmy @absurdthirst @cowboy-kylo @roxypeanut @heyitmelexie @readsalot73 @krazykatkay456 @elusive-danger-noodle @lola-wolf @nikkiparthena @lifeisapitch15 @teaofpeach @auty-ren @anewrule @hyp-oh-critical @pascaliprincess @geannad @coaaster @frietiemeloen @yourbucky084 @brynnstudies @elfwoodfae

im pretty sure i forgot someone so please message me if i did!

#the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando smut #mando x reader #mando x you #mywriting #rule maker rule breaker

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cherienymphe · 4 years ago

Text

Rapture (Sherlock Holmes x Reader)

WARNINGS: NON-CON, loss of virginity

!!! DNI IF THIS OFFENDS YOU !!!

➥ {page breaks done by @firefly-graphics }

summary: taking on the case of the disappearance of your father, Sherlock Holmes finds himself drawn to you, the daughter who holds more mystery than any riddle he’s ever encountered

“Y/N, keep your chin up, dear.”

Swallowing down your ire, you listened to your mother and did just that, raising your chin and pushing your shoulders back. A soft breeze ruffled the skirt of your dress, and goosebumps erupted over your arms underneath your sleeves. You could hear your mother fussing over your sister, lightly scolding her for the dress she’d picked out, something about the color.

“We want to look our best for when Mr. Holmes arrives,” you heard her say.

You heard your sister let out a soft huff, having no desire to hide her annoyance. Those classes your mother made her attend weren’t doing much for her character, but she was young. No longer a child but not yet a woman, instead stuck in that place in between. You did not yearn for those days…

You did once, longed for the innocence and ignorance that clouded your childhood, but adulthood had long taught you that ignorance was not bliss. Ignorance kept people blind from the truth, and some truths needed to be known.

Your mother’s change in tone alerted you to the carriage that was being pulled into the yard. A soft sigh escaped you as it drew near, a far cry from your sister’s intrigue, eyes wide and neck strained in order to get a better look. The three of you were poised on the steps in front of the grand house, having been patiently waiting for Mr. Holmes’ arrival.

Sherlock Holmes.

The detective whose name was known far and wide was arriving to help none other than your family. Out of all of the possibilities that had taken up residence in your mind, the infamous Sherlock Holmes taking on the case of your missing father had never been one of them. You supposed that you shouldn’t be shocked that the mysterious disappearance of the wealthy patriarch had caught the man’s attention. It was all anyone could seem to talk about these days…

All three of you watched the mountain of a man step out of the carriage, but for three very different reasons. Your sister was curious, intrigued by this new person, a new puzzle to figure out, a thing to study and observe. Outside of father, your sister had never interacted with many males in her life. Your mother looked at the dark-haired gentleman like a beacon of hope, a savior to bring her peace in some form or another. You, on the other hand, you watched him like a snake would a hawk.

If you didn’t keep an eye on him, he could very well eat you alive.

“Mr. Holmes,” your mother rushed to greet him, and the contents of your stomach tossed at the relief you heard in her voice.

In her mind, he had already solved the case and returned your missing father to you. She was comforted by the detective’s mere presence, and you grimaced.

“It is an honor to have you here. Truly. You do not know what it means to me and my girls,” she told him, voice already shaking.

“It is no great deal to me, madam. I wish to find your husband just as much as you do, to bring peace and relief back to your household.”

You shifted on your feet, hands clasped in front of you as the low timber of his voice reached your ears. It was smooth, soft even, but no means wavering. His steady diction exhibited his refined background that you’d heard so much about, and you warily eyed him.

He towered over your mother, making the strong woman look so incredibly fragile to the point that it scared you. You suddenly had the urge to push him away. As your mother conversed with him, your sister tiptoed to your side, admiration in her voice as her lips brushed your ear.

“He is quite handsome, isn’t he?” she said, surprising you.

She had never expressed any interest in boys, but Mr. Holmes clearly struck something in her that even she could not ignore. As you ran your eyes over him, you found you were unable to deny the truth in her words. His features were indeed striking, the kind of face that artists begged to paint. His dark brows and hair complimented his eyes, strong jawline and pink lips moving fluidly as he talked to your mother. His curls gave a boyish quality to his otherwise manly countenance, and you had the brief thought of touching them, wondering if they were as soft as they looked.

“…and these are my daughters,” your mother’s voice reached you as she neared, the imposing man a step behind her.

Both you and your sister greeted him properly, your sister’s name falling from his lips as your mother honed in on her. You sent him a small smile when your mother gestured to you, and he returned it, eyes alight as she introduced you.

“This is my oldest, Y/N. My pride and joy,” she praised.

Your sister squirmed beside you, and you frowned.

“Mother,” you quietly admonished to which she quickly brushed off.

“Oh, hush. She will bring greatness to our name just as her father did. Rest assured, she will be a great help to you,” she told him.

He eyed you with something unknown as your mother continued to speak praises to your name, and you looked away, gaze landing on your sister instead as you took her hand. She had begun to shrink in on herself, and you swallowed down a sigh.

Your mother wanted her youngest to be something she was not. She wanted her to be you, but the young girl couldn’t ever be anyone but herself. And you didn’t understand why mother would want her to. It was a great source of insecurity and frustration for your sister, to constantly be compared to yourself, and it hurt you to see the adventurous girl make herself small.

“Do come in,” your mother ushered him inside.

Mr. Holmes followed her, and you and your sister him, your eyes never straying from his broad form. You’d heard of his skills, his observation, but of course you had never seen the man in action before. At first glance, it seemed like an innocent perusal, as if he were simply taking in the new scenery, admiring it. However, it didn’t take long to realize that he was taking note of every detail. Every plant, every painting that was askew, even the liquor cabinet, eyeing which liquors were consumed the most.

Your mother was prattling on about nonsense, and Mr. Holmes had already begun to work.

“Tell me, when did Mr. Y/L/N disappear?” he suddenly murmured, fingering a plant on a nearby table.

“Tomorrow will make it…what is it? Three weeks without him?”

She looked to the two of you, and you both nodded.

“Three weeks,” she confirmed. “We only noticed his absence the next morning, so it had to have been that Wednesday night. At the very latest, the early hours of Thursday morning.”

“…and you are sure it was a Wednesday?”

She thought for a moment before nodding.

“I’m sure of it. It rained all day the next day, finally making the ground soft enough for my dear Y/N to start her garden. She adores plants,” she told him with a smile.

Your heart sank to your stomach, and you resisted the urge to roll your eyes as you realized what was happening here. Leave it to your mother to prioritize finding you a husband while investigating your father’s disappearance. Mr. Holmes’ gaze met yours, and you held it until he was forced to look away. At least she thought highly enough of you to think you worthy of someone like Sherlock Holmes.

All three of you watched him pace around the living room, a soft hum leaving his lips here and there. Again, he returned to that plant that he’d been fingering, eyeing the carpet beneath the table before finally looking to your mother.

“I’d like to take a look at the rest of the house.”

With a wide smile, she was all too happy to oblige. Your sister bid him goodbye with a soft smile, and you did the same when his eyes met yours, face falling as soon as he turned his back to you.

“Do you think he will find father?”

You glanced up from your breakfast to gaze at your sister, her anxious eyes already on you. You swallowed, wiping your mouth before offering her a shrug.

“Who is to say…”

“He must! He’s the best detective there is. He’s only been here for two days, and already he seems far more diligent than the others,” she quietly argued.

“I cannot argue with that,” you admitted.

You were unnerved by the unfamiliar man. He was indeed great at his job, and his acceptance of your mother’s offer to stay in one of the many rooms here only gave him more time and free reign to gather clues as to where your father could have gone. He spent the first day with your mother, having her recount everything she could remember, anything that could help. The next day was your sister, so you knew it was only a matter of time before he demanded your time and attention as well.

You didn’t like the thought of being alone with the man. His piercing eyes were scarily perceptive, taking note of much more than you could possibly give him credit for. They were ever watchful, and that unnerved you to no end. True to your suspicions, he entered the dining room just as you were finishing up, heavy gaze finding yours, and you bid your sister adieu.

“Your mother said that you went to bed early Wednesday night,” was the first thing he said as soon as you sat down across from him in the dimly lit living room.

The dark curtains allowed for little sunlight to peak through, and shadows casted over his aristocratic features.

“I did.”

He hummed, a faint smile on his lips, so small you could miss it if you blinked.

“Tired?”

“Extremely. I don’t sleep very well,” you honestly told him. “…and so I figured the earlier I rested my head, the earlier my eyes would follow suit.”

He nodded at that, eyes trailing over the room.

“Does gardening help with that?”

“…sometimes,” you answered.

“Does your mother or sister help out with that? Or is it just you?”

“It’s just me.”

His eyes were on yours again, gaze inquiring, yet guarded. He was probing for something, and you knew it was his job, but it filled your mouth with distaste.

“…so you are the only one who attends to the plants in the house?”

“Yes.”

He stared at you for a moment before releasing a small sigh. He stood, and you did as well, eyeing him as he paused at your movement before slowly beginning to pace about the room.

“I am here to help…Ms. Y/L/N.”

His voice reeked of well-hidden frustration, and you sighed as well.

“I know that,” you responded, briefly closing your eyes. “…and I am cooperating, am I not?”

He paused, and his eyes met yours again, flickering between your irises before humming.

“Indeed, you are, but I want you to cooperate because you want to. Not because you feel like you have to. I am merely here to help, to find your father’s whereabouts, so I want you to feel comfortable around me.”

“I am,” you lied.

He knew that you were lying, if the look in his eyes was anything to go by, but he let it go.

“Your mother and sister said that you all searched the grounds for him all day. Enlisting the help of the police for the next week and a half before the search was eventually called off,” he suddenly said, moving on.

“Yes. No stone was left unturned. My mother felt it was best to leave this in the hands of detectives, but the lot of them were…incompetent at best.”

Disdain and disgust coated your words, and Mr. Holmes eyed you.

“…and at worst?”

You crossed your arms over your chest, pursing your lips.

“Greedy perverts trying to get their hands on our money,” you admitted.

You threw him a humorless smile, and the corner of his lips quirked up just the slightest as he turned away.

“None of them sparked your fancy?”

He was teasing, and you fought back a smile.

“No. I don’t daydream about marriage, Mr. Holmes. Of course, it is what my mother wishes for me, and I know that I am to settle down eventually for it is the way of the world, but I am certainly in no rush. Marriage does not appeal to me in the slightest.”

It was the one wedge in you and your mother’s relationship: your lack of prospects. However, no amount of snide comments from your mother about your age would sway you.

“Surely, your parents’ marriage must have softened your heart just a little…”

When you looked up, his eyes were once again on you, something in them that you could not name, and you held his gaze, a fond smile on your lips.

“Their marriage was like any other, I suppose. Of course, they had the occasional spat over the most trivial of things like all married couples do, but they were happy,” you replied.

He simply nodded, gaze lingering before pulling his eyes away, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say reluctantly so. His casual interrogation that wasn’t really an interrogation didn’t last for much longer, and somehow, you felt more nervous leaving the room than you did when you entered it.

Your mother and sister did not seem to share your sentiments. Indeed, they were ever comfortable around the dark-haired man. Part of you wondered if the holes in their heart that were left by father were temporarily being filled by Mr. Holmes. Having a man around the house again surely brought some mild comfort to them, even if they knew it was only momentary.

They happily invited him to eat with you all, participate in small talk, even showing him your garden. You felt that it was all unnecessary, distracting even. Mr. Holmes had a job to do, and the sooner he left, the better. You didn’t know how much more of his analyzing gaze you could take.

It didn’t matter that he would be engaged in conversation with your sister or mother for his eyes always found their way back to you somehow. He wasn’t a man of many words, but it seemed that you were an exception. Your mother did not miss how he always attempted to draw you into conversation, get you to talk more. It was becoming rather tiresome to explain to her that the man was simply doing his job.

Hell, it was becoming tiresome to remind yourself of that. It was his job to pry, to observe, to snoop even. The day that you’d found him in your chambers, standing by your bed, gazing around with his hands folded behind his back, you’d almost suffered a heart attack. It took the will of God to remind you that he was a detective, and that he was simply doing his job.

Sherlock Holmes was doing what he was hired to do.

And that was the problem.

You could hear footsteps approaching from below, and you paused on your reading, sticking a finger in the page before closing your book. The branch that you’d chosen to lounge on was higher than the usual, and you craned your head ever so slightly to look down below.

Mr. Holmes decided to make himself at home beneath the tree, leaning back against the trunk. His suit jacket was gone, one knee bent, and you watched as the autumn breeze ruffled his soft curls. You blinked, wondering to yourself how he managed to look both intimidating and vulnerable at the same time?

“No one in town seems to have any legitimate idea of where your father could have gone.”

His voice traveled to you from below, and you chuckled before you could stop yourself.

“No, I would imagine not. Despite what they may think, none of the townspeople know my father, at all,” you told him.

You could feel his eyes on you as you descended, and you brushed your dress off when you finally made it to the ground. He looked up at you with such intrigue, brows furrowed in a mixture of confusion and concentration. You cleared your throat.

“You’re staring, Mr. Holmes.”

He slowly blinked at you.

“Indeed, I am,” he said, rising to join you. “I do apologize. I was having a rather strong sense of déjà vu.”

Now it was your turn to frown in confusion, and he continued.

“My sister…she loves to hide away in a tree with a good book just as well as you.”

He ran his eyes over your face, drinking you in, and the hair on your arms stood on end.

“…you remind me of her in some ways,” he murmured.

“Well, she sounds like a remarkable young woman then,” you complimented.

“She is getting there,” he replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “Although, just like her, so much of you remains a mystery to me.”

You squirmed under his scrutinizing gaze, looking away from his narrowed eyes to walk towards your garden. You could both feel and hear him behind you, and you felt your face grow hot as the weight of his stare pressed down on you.

“You have a rather impressive garden,” he praised.

You looked to him, a small smile slow to spread along your lips.

“Thank you.”

“Crown Imperials,” he noted, and your smile fell. “They seem to be a favorite of yours.”

“They are. The bright blooms are so pretty to me,” you truthfully replied.

“You spend a great deal of time out here,” he hummed.

You bent down to finger a petal, a genuine smile on your face now.

“I find comfort out here. Looking at this garden, basking in its presence, puts me at ease. Flowers that bloom in the colder months, when all the leaves have fallen and the animals have scurried away to hibernate, symbolize rebirth to me. New beginnings,” you whispered, eyes unfocused as you let your hand fall.

You slowly stood, stomach flipping when your eyes met his as you turned around. His hands were at his side, broad form much closer than you remembered, and your eyes zeroed in on the way he flexed his fingers. Mr. Holmes opened his mouth to speak, but you interrupted him.

“I should get back inside to assist my sister with her studies,” you told him.

You bid him goodbye and scurried past him before he could utter a word.

The next night, you made your way downstairs in the darkness as you did every night. Your mother and sister were fast asleep in their rooms, Mr. Holmes having long gone to bed as well. With a soft sigh, you approached the front door, locking it with a resounding click. You pressed your hand against the wood, heart aching for your mother, pitying her even, before you turned around.

“Why do you lock the door every night?”

A scream threatened to escape your throat, but you swallowed it down as light flooded the foyer. You pressed your hand to your chest, glaring at the detective as he stood across from you…dressed for bed. You blinked at the sight of his bare chest, and you quickly looked away, face heating up.

“Mr. Holmes,” you slowly began, forcing your heart to slow. “…you frightened me.”

“You did not answer my question,” was his only response, and you frowned at him.

“I beg your pardon?”

He took a step towards you, and you resisted the urge to take a step back.

“Mrs. Y/L/N leaves it unlocked every night in hopes that her husband, your father, will return. She told me so, and you come down every night to lock it. Why?”

You heaved a sigh, guilt flooding you.

“…because it is sad. I hope for his return just as much as my mother, but I will not be so foolish as to leave me and my family completely vulnerable while we sleep.”

He didn’t respond, so you continued.

“My father, her husband, is God knows where, and I understand that she is worried, but she is beginning to lose all sense of reason ever since his disappearance. Someone must keep this house together,” you complained.

He eventually nodded at that, seeming to accept this, and your eyes fell to the floor, uncomfortable with his close proximity and inappropriate state of dress. Your eyes caught the end of your nightgown, and you realized with a start that you both were inappropriately dressed for this conversation. Especially one so late at night. You shuddered to imagine what your mother would think if she came downstairs this very moment.

You looked up, startled, when he stepped closer, and your throat felt incredibly dry all of a sudden. Your sister’s words that first day came back to you, and you thought to yourself that Sherlock Holmes was much more handsome than she knew. You took a step back, back grazing the door as you eyed his face, him doing the same.

“You brew medicine for your mother, making salves as well,” he suddenly murmured, and you frowned. “I saw them in her room. The herbs used to make them I found in the kitchen.”

Your frown deepened, unsure of how this was relevant to anything.

“I did not know she was unwell,” he probed.

You cleared your throat, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“She isn’t…unwell, I mean. At least…not really. As she said, it rained that Thursday after my father’s disappearance. She was worried and distraught and did not take note of the slippery steps. She fell, and the salve and medicine are simply to help with the bruising and the pain,” you explained.

He only hummed at that, and you made to move around him, a bidding of goodnight on your lips, but he blocked your path. You looked to him with wide eyes, heart beginning to race again, although you didn’t know why.

Even in the thin and exposing nightgown, you felt your body heat up under his heavy gaze, his eyes running over your frame in a way that you were familiar with. However, the disgust that normally coursed through you at such an action was nowhere to be found. Instead, something unfamiliar swirled in the pit of your stomach, and this scared you.

It must have been written on your face, that fear, or at the very least visible in your eyes for Mr. Holmes took a step back. You noticed that his jaw was clenched, face pinched in a pensive manner that was becoming all too familiar to you. He suddenly wished you a goodnight, and you did the same, feeling his heated gaze searing into your back as you ascended the stairs.

Sleep did not come easy to you. In fact, it smoothly evaded you for days, and the already dark circles beneath your eyes became even more prominent. Your mother and sister were used to your inconsistent sleep schedule, accustomed to the haggard appearance your face would take sometimes. If Mr. Holmes noticed, however, he did not mention it. Of course, that was a silly thing to think. He noticed everything, and it was no surprise to you to find him in the lounge room late one night.

The flames licked at the inside of the fireplace, casting a low light over the room. His daunting form was seated in your father’s chair, and neither one of you greeted each other as you made your way into the room. Sometimes on particularly trying nights, you liked to curl up with a book by the fireplace in hopes that it would lull you to sleep. You had a sneaking suspicion that Mr. Holmes knew this, hence his presence, and you sighed.

You didn’t wish to be alone with him, and you had every intention of making your way back to bed, but some part of you scolded yourself for your treatment of the detective. He was only doing his job, after all. You knew that your wariness of him was no fault of his, and you guiltily made your way to your father’s bar.

“Would you like a drink before I head back to bed?” you asked him, already reaching for a glass.

He didn’t respond, and you glanced up to find his gaze still on the roaring flames, a hand resting against his mouth, eyes thoughtful. You reached for one of your father’s more expensive selections just as Mr. Holmes spoke.

“He’s beneath the garden…isn’t he?”

You did not falter in your movements, but you could not stop the way your stomach churned, threatening to expel everything you’d eaten that day. You set the bottle down, and your hand shook around it. Your lips parted, but no words came out, and you snapped them shut, swallowing.

“I beg your pardon?” you eventually responded.

“I took on this case to pass some time really. It seemed simple enough to me. Your father had been murdered…that much was clear,” he quietly said.

Your throat felt incredibly thick all of a sudden, and your heart clenched in your chest, painfully so.

“However, it was only a matter of who.”

You felt tears spring forth, but they held off, collecting in your eyes as he continued.

“Your mother seemed the obvious choice, too obvious even, and I was proven right when I met her. She loved your father dearly, and I’d be a fool to think she could ever bring harm to him. I considered your sister next. Naturally. She is impulsive and wild, but that is precisely why she was ruled out. She’s not, how would my brother say it, refined?”

You briefly closed your eyes in defeat.

“No. Not like you…”

He stood to face you, and the tears finally spilled over when his troubled gaze met yours in the low lighting.

“She has not mastered the skills to truly be a lady. She has not learned to hold her tongue or hide her thoughts or school her features so that they are the picture-perfect vision of decorum and poise…to show the world only what you wish for them to see.”

His smooth voice did not bring you comfort, and you fought to hold his gaze as he neared you.

“…but you have. You’ve mastered it quite well, in fact.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out, only a shaky exhale.

“Many people in town mentioned your mother’s clumsiness. Her constant aches and faint bruises…bruises you’ve been tending to for a while…”

He stopped before you, eyes somber.

“He was hitting her. Probably much more than that. When did you first discover it?”

Again, words failed you, and he shook his head, a dark curl brushing his forehead.

“That tidbit is not relevant, so don’t bother to answer that.”

“Mr. Holmes-.”

“You referred to their marriage in the past tense. You lock the door at night because you know that he is never coming home.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself.

“Crown imperial is an interesting flower to plant, most people avoiding them because of the putrid smell. Of course, a flower like that would cover up the smell of decaying flesh rather nicely,” he mused. “I know it happened in the living room.”

Your eyes widened at that.

“That plant on the table…there’s hardly any soil in it at all, the only one in the entire house like it. That and the pinches of soil on the carpet beneath it tells me that it had been knocked over. It matches the few grains found in your sheets,” he explained.

You blinked at him.

“You were evidently in a hurry to clean it up and get back into bed. After all, it must have been rather early in the morning at that point… This was after you buried him correct?”

Reluctantly, you gave a shaky nod, confirming his accusations for the first time. He pressed his hand to his mouth again, the other on his hip as he paced, brows furrowed.

“The only thing I cannot seem to figure out is how you did it…”

“…belladonna,” you softly said, speaking for the first time that evening.

He looked at you, and you held his gaze, tears at bay for the moment.

“My father never misses a nightcap,” you told him with a shrug. “Large doses of belladonna can be-.”

“Fatal,” he finished for you, and you looked away.

“So…what happens now? Surely you mean to turn me in…hand me over to the police to answer for my crime,” you tearfully said.

He didn’t say anything, and the only noise in the room for a while was that of the crackling fireplace. Eventually, you heard him approach you again, and you flinched when his hands landed on your arms. Reluctantly, you looked at him, and his eyes flitted over your face, unsure of what to settle on. His thumbs brushed along your bare skin, and your throat bobbed.

“I should,” he whispered to himself, brows drawn together as he studied you. “I should turn you in immediately.”

He stepped closer, and you could feel his body heat, practically feel his heartbeat beneath his chest. His hands tightened on you for a brief moment before loosening his hold.

“…but I can’t,” he confessed through clenched teeth.

Confusion filled you, and your lips parted in shock. His eyes seemed to be drawn to the action, gaze lingering on your mouth for far too long.

“I…I don’t understand…”

He drank you in, gaze vexed, like you confounded him. One of his hands slid to your neck, fingers brushing your jaw, and you sharply inhaled, lips trembling.

“Even now…I still cannot figure you out,” he murmured to himself.

Your confusion grew, frown deepening, and you watched as he suddenly blinked, taking a step back. It took longer for him to finally let you go, and his face appeared strained, movements stiff as if it took everything in him to do so. He took a few more steps back, getting as far away from you as possible before he spoke again.

“There is no doubt in my mind that you very well could kill me in my sleep, but I trust that you won’t.”

Your eyes widened when he made to leave, and you called to him. He paused in the doorway, fists clenched at his side as he refused to look at you.

“W-what…what will you tell them? What will you tell my mother?”

Your voice was but a whisper, disbelief coursing through you at this turn of events. His shoulders heaved as he sighed.

“…nothing for you to worry about…Y/N.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the sound of your name falling from his lips, and before you could process what he had said, he was gone.

“He…he’s simply run off?”

You leaned your head against the wall as you listened in on the conversation taking place in the dining room, and your heart constricted as her soft sobs reached your ears. You couldn’t imagine the feeling of fretting over someone for weeks, fearful for their wellbeing only to discover that they weren’t hurt at all. The opposite, in fact.

Only, it was a lie.

As you listened to Mr. Holmes spin the believable tale of your father running off with some mistress, you thought to yourself that the truth would have been better. Your mother could move past the truth. She could heal from the truth. How was she meant to heal from this?

You quietly pushed yourself off of the wall and made your way past the doorway. As you passed, your eyes caught those of Mr. Holmes, his heavy stare boring into you, and guilt tore through you as you caught sight of your mother’s distraught form.

No, the truth would have been far better. Your mother, the loving and strong woman that she was, deserved to know the truth, and you intended to give it to her.

Hours later when darkness fell, you found yourself outside, yanking out flower and vegetable roots. Thunder rumbled far off in the distance, and a light sprinkle of rain dampened your hair and dress. Tears soaked your cheeks as you dug through the dirt, sobs wracking your frame. You had buried him deep, and now that had come back to haunt you.

Or so you thought.

A startled gasp left your lips as firm hands yanked you to your feet from behind, and your eyes were wide as you were spun around to face none other than Sherlock Holmes. Lightning flashed behind him, illuminating his angry features, and you shrank in on yourself underneath his harsh gaze.

“What the devil do you think you are doing?”

More tears fell, and you shook your head.

“I cannot do this! I cannot go along with this lie any longer,” you told him.

His eyes softened, but his jaw ticked at your words.

“Y/N,” he sighed your name.

“Thank you for what you’ve done, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot bear to see my mother hurting like this over a lie. The truth…the truth will be much easier for her heart to bear,” you gasped.

You fought to get out of his hold, but he proved to be as strong as he looked.

“I cannot allow you to do this-.”

“Why not? You’ve solved the case! The great Sherlock Holmes figured it out, and soon my name and face will be plastered on papers everywhere as everyone learns what I did,” you cried.

“You were protecting your mother,” he argued.

“In the eyes of the law, I am still a murderess. I have reason to believe that you would agree with them,” you scoffed. “…why are you protecting me?”

He didn’t respond, and you huffed, jerking in his hold again, but he wouldn’t budge. The rain was coming down a little harder now, and your vision was blurry from both the weather and your tears. Your knees started to buckle as your movements slowed, and you would have collapsed to the ground if Mr. Holmes hadn’t been holding you.

He leaned you against your tree, and your fingers twisted into his rain-soaked shirt as tears skipped down your cheeks. He still hadn’t answered your question, and your eyes reluctantly met his. He looked at you like he had been looking at you for weeks, and that unfamiliar feeling returned…as well as the fear.

“You are not nearly as fragile as I initially thought you to be,” he quietly said, puzzling you.

He continued before you could voice your confusion.

“…but you are not nearly as tough as I thought you to be either.”

He reached up to brush his thumb over your lip, and you jerked, eyes widening at the action. Your heart felt like it was threatening to leap from your chest, and a thought suddenly occurred to you that had never occurred to you before.

“You have plagued my thoughts for weeks,” he confessed, making you freeze. “…entering my dreams the very moment I first had my suspicions.”

“Mr. Holmes…”

“Who would think that someone like you would be capable of such a thing,” he mused, genuine bewilderment on his features. “…and yet…I still want you so.”

Dread began to fester in your gut, and you pushed against his chest, but it proved to be useless. He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes boring into your own.

“Sh-Sherlock,” you said, hoping that hearing his name from your lips would snap him out of it, knock some clarity into him, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.

His fingers tightened, enough to make you wince, and his eyes fluttered close, a long exhale leaving him.

“Y/N,” he whispered your name like it was a prayer. “How do you manage…to be half heaven…and half hell?”

The words had barely left his lips before he fiercely pressed them against yours, startling you. A horrified gasp left you, and he clutched you to him, breathing you in as he moved his mouth over yours. He only seemed to take note of his actions when your palm met his cheek.

You stumbled back, hands grasping along your tree as he took a step back. His lips were swollen, hair damp and eyes troubled as he blinked at you. You pressed one hand into the tree behind you, the other to your chest as you stared at him in fear. Your chest was heaving just as much as his.

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

He swallowed, at least having the gall to look ashamed. You stared at one another for a painfully long time, ruminating on what he’d done, the line that he’d crossed. You didn’t move, too afraid to, and Sherlock’s jaw clenched as he eyed you.

His hands curled into fists at his side, features twisted with a myriad of emotions that you couldn’t place. There seemed to be a struggle going on, and your lip trembled as he dragged his eyes over your wet frame, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. His dark hair was damp from the rain, the strands curling around his ears and kissing his forehead.

His lips parted ever so slightly, and he straightened as his eyes finally met yours again. You watched the way his nostrils flared, a carnal hunger in his eyes that terrified you to the bone.

“Forgive me,” he whispered again, apologizing for something that he hadn’t done, but was instead about to do.

You turned and ran past your tree, but he was already upon you before you could even get in three steps. His muscular arms wrapped around you, holding you to him as he buried his nose in the crook of your neck, lips trailing kisses over your damp skin.

You reached back to tangle your fingers in his hair, attempting to pull his head away from you, but he only groaned against your skin. Fresh tears escaped, and you shuddered as he pressed himself against you, hard and threatening against your dress.

Your back met your tree, and Sherlock was quick in pressing his lips to yours. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, noises of protest escaping your lips as you pushed against him. You were sobbing when he finally broke the kiss, and you shook your head, pleas falling from your lips.

“Don’t do this,” you begged, knowing you were no match for him and accepting that pleading was your only chance. “Please, don’t- you’ll ruin me.”

Your eyes searched his.

“I’ll never be able to find a husband, to give my mother some form of happiness again after what I did. Let me make her happy,” you shakily whispered.

His brows were furrowed as he gazed at you, and his hands felt incredibly hot on your waist. The light rain had passed now, leaving only a partly cloudy sky and a bright moon to shine down on you. Sherlock closed his eyes as he pressed his forehead to yours, thumbs tracing patterns into your waist.

“…I suppose I will be your husband then.”

He gently shushed you as you cried, softly pressing his lips to yours. He didn’t budge no matter how hard you pushed against him, and you shook as he hooked one of your legs onto his waist. One of his hands pressed into the back of your head while the other tore at the skirt of your dress, all the while he kept you pinned between him and the tree.

It suddenly occurred to you that this was your punishment. This was your comeuppance for what you’d done. It didn’t matter that your father hurt your mother on a regular basis, murder was wrong, and you were being punished for it.

You cried harder when you both felt and heard him releasing himself, and the cool air you felt against your core told you that Sherlock had ripped away every barrier between you two. His lips were gentle on yours, and his entry did not differ from that.

He was slow in pushing inside of you, and you hit against his shoulder, mouth parted in a silent scream as he stretched you. Your nails dug into him when he could go no further, and a long moan lowly left his lips, satisfaction dripping from every note. You blinked back tears as he pressed his hands into the bottom of your thighs, keeping them at his waist as he held you to him.

He slowly moved within you, and one hand held onto him to keep from falling while the other dug into the bark of the tree behind you. He kissed you again, and you turned your head away. He let out a soft growl of frustration before pulling away from the tree.

You yelped and shuddered when your back met the cold damp ground, but your yelp turned into a gasp when he firmly thrust into you. It was a feeling unlike any other you’d ever known, and you squeezed your eyes shut, one hand fisted into his shirt while the other did the same to the grass.

You felt full, but it was an uneasy feeling, like you shouldn’t be full. Every drag of his member pulled a whimper from you, and your face crumbled when he pressed kisses to it, trying to bring some comfort to you while he had his way with you.

“You feel exactly as I dreamed you would,” he whispered.

You sniffed beneath him, core protesting his assault, no matter how gentle it was. You pushed against him again, but he gripped your hand, bringing it to his mouth, and a shiver traveled down your spine as he brushed his lips over the inside of your wrist. He held your gaze as he held your wrist to his lips, and the intensity behind his eyes scared you.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “I have every intention of marrying you.”

Somehow, the fact that he was telling the truth scared you more than the thought of him abandoning you. He was going to take you away from your mother and sister, and then who would look out for them? A shaky sob escaped your lips, and he shushed you again, hips curving into yours over and over.

“No one will ever discover what you did. I’ll see to it,” he told you, kissing you again. “…and I’ll make sure your family is well cared for.”

His breath hitched, pace changing, and your toes curled on their own accord.

“Why?” you tearfully gasped as he nipped at your neck. “Why…?”

He paused his movements, holding himself inside of you as he looked down at you. You felt defeated, and the only thing left was confusion, bafflement at why you. He brushed his fingers over your tear-stained cheek, eventually ghosting them over your swollen lips. Sherlock looked at you like you were the most magnificent creature he’d ever seen, and your stomach turned.

“…so much of you is still a mystery to me, and even if I never figure you out…”

He brushed his soft lips against yours.

“…at least you are mine.”

tags: @darkficreposter @xoxabs88xox @harryspet @readermia @opheliadawnwalker3 @nickyl316h @captainchrisstan @sebabestianstan101 @villanellevi @lokislastlove @notyourtypicalrose @coconutqueen21 @hurricanerin @trinittyy @hyoyeoniie @kellyn1604 @sherrybaby14 @jtargaryen18

#dark sherlock holmes #dark!sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #dark fic #sherlock x reader #henry cavill

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