#ao3 should have search history as a tool of shame

[minilev]

Tagged by @purplelupins to "tell ten of the most niche characters you’ve ever searched “x reader” fics for, and then share this with ten of your favourite people":

Hans Gruber

Jedediah Shine ofc

Reverend Mr Beebe (A Room With A View 1985)

Goat (Doom 2005)

Lisgoe (The League of Gentlemen)

Randy (Intruder 1989)

Jeremy Danvers (Bitten)

Detective Loki (Prisoners)

Santana (Riddick)

Would love to see Dunbar from Basic, but I know that it just doesn't exist.

Some of them are quite known but since i didn't find what i was looking for - i consider them niche.

Not tagging anyone since this might be delicate and private subject, but I'm 👀

[lovelessdagger]

Starlight- Chapter Twenty-Four: A Lost History

Pairing: Din Djarin x OC, Din Djarin x OFC

Rating: Mature

Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence, 18+

Warnings: Explicit Language, Violence, Panic Attacks

Words: 7,156

Summary: “You have your secrets, I have mine. Difference is, I don’t pretend like mine don’t mean anything.”

Starlight Masterlist Here

Read Chapter Twenty-Three Here

Read on AO3 Here

Lumina doesn’t like blasters, specifically the pistol. They’re cold and impersonal. A disgrace to the art of battle, to the art of a kill. A blaster can be bought and sold off any old marketplace, a pistol can be hidden and brandished with as much shock as a bantha in the desert.

Blasters are disposable, replaceable. There is no distinguishing feature between one DH-17 to another. There is no connection between weapon and wielder. They’re cheap and easy, requiring no true skill for basic usage.

The very existence in the hands of one such as herself serves as a dishonor to her rightful weapon.

It then only serves with reason that blasters have become her most prized possessions. She is a constant contradiction to herself after all. The rifle locked in the armory of the Mandalorian, polished and restored to near mint condition. Former property of someone she would never know. A DC-17 pistol that could shoot clean through Storm Trooper armor.

When it had been placed in her hands for the first time, she thought of it with little regard. Fresh from the factory floors of BlasTech Industries, shiny and clean it was all she wished to be. Blackened iron was illustrious, glimmering in the fluorescent lighting of the Slave I. It wasn’t a heavy thing, but size forced her to aim with both hands.

“You keep that on you at all times, you understand?” Boba told her, green figure crouched to her level. “There are going to be times where you can’t take out your sword, and I won’t be there. This is your next line of defense. Treat it just as you do that saber, with respect and dignity. You clean it after every mission and you never let anyone take it from you. This blaster is part of you now. Understood?”

In thirteen years, not a moment in the day passes without her knowledge of its location. Typically, it’s strapped to her left thigh, dark leather holster a comfortable home opposite her saber. 

She doesn’t use it as much as she probably should. Most days it feels more like a tasteful decoration on her body than an actual tool. Still, it’s her favorite thing. And it’s all she has left of him.

There isn’t a space in the galaxy where she belongs. Not anymore, not really. She sits on a Nevarro rooftop, the edge of the galaxy just past the horizon of lava flats. Now in her hands she feels every dent in the pistol’s iron from every fall or improper usage as a projectile. It’s worn now, its shine is gone and matted.

She should have more of him. A shirt, a blade, his favorite cup for Caf. The Mandalorian has his armor, but it’s not hers. She can wear his vambraces as many times as she’d like, hug the dented green helmet and talk to it’s empty visor as often as she can.

It’s not the same.

She was never allowed to keep things for her own growing up. Not in school, not with Vader, not with Boba. Her wardrobe stayed small. Her arsenal of tools stayed small. Her rooms never held decoration or character.

Relena called her a hoarder the first time they’d met. Neri called her a collector. In her new room, shelves slowly became piled with anything she could grab from missions that held meaning. Pins, busts, artwork. Each on display with the care of a curator, cleaned and dusted by weekly routine.

Lumina’s livelihood is the manipulation of memories. She can search the depths of any mans mind for any information she wishes. With one touch she becomes privy to entire lives and dealings of history. Moments are never lost as they are condemned to live in the eternal memory of the Force. 

Or so she’s told.

It’s a load of shit.

The greatest shame of her life is how much of her own memory is lost. How much she will never know of herself. The best moments of her life were before cognition formed. When she was only a baby, clean of sin.

When she can only hope, that for the briefest time, her parents cared for her. That she would be regularly fed, bathed, held. That there was a time where her father, her real father, would call her by her real name and mean nothing but love behind each syllable. That, even if it were only for a day, a different person from Lumina existed in her body.

She’s terrified of forgetting, of losing more of herself than she already has. The haunted collection in Coruscant served as correction of personality. This is who she is. Who she always will be.

All she wants to know is who she was. Nothing she will ever be able to do will bring back those memories.

They do not exist.

They are a lost history she will never know.

“You’ve forgotten a lot too.” The child is across from her in meditative seating, clawed hands on his lap. “That’s okay. You’ve seen so much already, I’d black out all the bad if I could too.”

He’s allowed her to access his memory before, when consensual the act is painless. The same has continued now, as his ears twitch in the soft wind and he sneezes when he looks into the sun.

“I probably would’ve been sent to the Temple too if it were still around,” Lumina says. “Do you think we would have still met? You were such a big secret, I don’t think anyone would have trusted me.” The idea of it makes him giggle, jumping to her and blowing raspberries in her hold. “Yeah, that would be silly wouldn’t it? Then we’d both be Jedi together.”

The idea alone makes her nauseous.

“Boba Fett use to tell me to see the okay in everything. Not the good, there isn’t much good so it’s easy to miss, but some things are just okay. He was a clone, and there was a whole war where people who looked just like him had to fight. War is a bad thing, but… without it he would never exist. None of them would.”

She holsters her gun, touch lingering.

“The same thing can be said about what happened to the Temple. It was a bad thing, but if it never got destroyed, you would never be with your dad. So something okay came out of that too.”

Grogu curls into her chest, the softest sweetest sigh emitted.

“Someone told me once that one of my parents could have been a Jedi. But Jedi weren’t allowed to have children… I guess that means if it were still around I wouldn’t exist either.”

Her life is a paradox.

“So, at the end of the day both these things are just okay. They’ve done good and bad. It’s just a matter of perspective what you take from it.”

---

The afternoon sun of Nevarro blazes on their skin, warm and content together. Always one for an entrance, the Mandalorian casts a shadow on the pair. Large and overbearing, it’s comical how blinding he is.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey yourself. Is the ship done?”

“Just about. Karga says they’re doing final calibrations. Do you feel better?”

The moment they exited the tunnel system Lumina nearly fainted. Out of breath and shaky, her chest pained with relentless coughs.

She blamed it on the heat and asked to be alone.

“I guess,” she sighs. The shiver of cold still hasn’t left her. “About what happened down there—“

“Don’t worry about it.” He helps her stand, taking the child away. 

“But—“

“Lu, seriously. It’s fine. We don’t have time to worry about that right now.”

“But you didn’t feel fine. You got mad, and you haven’t been mad like that since—”

“Is that feeling thing you do another one of your… things or—“

“I think that’s just called knowing you, Din.” And unexplainable cosmic powers but, whatever. “Why won’t you talk about this?”

“It’s nothing important, Lumina,” he sighs. They climb down the building, hopping from peeking ledge to durasteel crate. He’s the first to land on the ground, staring up. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Mandalorian,” she says, sat with hanging legs. “Why is lying only okay when you do it?”

“That’s not—“

“That’s exactly what this is. I’m not stupid. If you don’t want to talk about it that’s fine, but don’t tell me it doesn’t matter when it clearly does.”

“Lumina.“

“I’m not trying to fight,” she says, hands raised. “You have your secrets, I have mine. Difference is, I don’t pretend like mine don’t mean anything.”

Din steps between her legs, the top of the box just reaching his chest. “It doesn’t matter because you don’t know who you are, or where you come from. And that’s something you’ll never know. So there’s no point in worrying about it.”

Lumina looks at him with a hidden frown. “I see.” She jumps off, landing crouched on the ground, hands planted flat.

A rush of energy floods her senses, hot and heavy.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” Din says. “Just, realistically.”

Her hands run over the solidified lava. “No, I know. I’m not offended.”

“What are you doing?”

“Is there a city nearby?”

“This is all there is for some miles. Outside of town it’s not much. Some homes, camp grounds, smaller towns. But nothing bigger than here.”

It’s so much worse than she imagined.

Lumina looks at Din with panicked eyes and a shaking head. “There’s something much bigger out there, and whatever it is, it isn’t good.”

---

“What the fuck is going on here?” Entering a smaller building, an office of sorts, Lumina beelines for Cara who sits in leisure.

“You are Mando’s type,” she snorts, feet propped on the desk. “It’s good to know you’re not dead.”

“I’m not fucking around—“

“Lumina,” Din says, pointed.

She sighs, muttering an apology. “What’s going on outside of town?” She clarifies.

“What are you talking about?” Cara asks through clear amusement. 

“There’s a high energy power source nearby,” Lumina says. “I’d say about ten miles south of this location. Do you know about this?”

Cara’s smile falls, meeting gaze with Karga across the room. “How do you know that?“

“So you do know?”

“Did you take her out of town?” Cara asks to Din.

He shakes his head, leaned against the desk of some Mythrol. “Lumina can feel energy.”

“What?”

He shrugs. “Don’t ask.”

“It’s not important,” Lumina adds. “What’s going on out there?”

“We actually wanted to talk to you about this when you landed,” Cara says to Din. “But we weren’t sure about the company you keep.”

“We still aren’t,” Karga says, stepping forward. “Thought you’d have more time on your hands while you’re here.”

“We only came for repairs,” Din says.

“And yet you’ve spent the whole morning disappeared with your partner.” Karga’s stare meets Cara, briefly faltering. “Listen, we could really use your help.”

“Help how?”

A global hologram flashes over Cara’s desk. “This is Nevarro,” she says. “We’re here. This entire area’s a green zone. Completely safe.” She points to a spec of red in the southern hemisphere. “But over on this side is the problem. If you felt anything this is it.”

“It’s an old Imperial base,” Karga says.

Din and Lumina share a look.

“It’s where all those troops came from when we defeated Moff Gideon,” Cara adds. “This base has been here since the Imperial expansion. It's got a skeleton crew, but for some reason, it hasn't been abandoned.”

“There's a lot of heavy weaponry in that place your people would love to dismantle and get their hands on,” Karga says to Lumina

“My people?”

“You’re the black market type aren’t you? It’s no Corellia but—“

“Finish that sentence and Dune gets an unexpected promotion.“

“Don’t,” Mando grunts. He keeps a death grip on Lumina’s arm, her hand poised on the handle of her vibroblade. “He just wants to mop up the last of the Imperial force before they do.”

“Mando, I just want them off my planet. If we could take out that one last base, Nevarro would be completely safe. We could be a trade anchor for the entire sector.”

“And the planet would finally be free,” Cara says.

“Alright so what’s the plan?” Lumina asks.

Karga sighs, hardly sparing a glance. “We just need Mando.”

“You can stay behind with the kid,” Cara suggest, kinder. “We’ll be in and out in no time.”

“Out of the question,” Din argues. “She’s coming.”

“There’s no need to complicate things further,” Karga says. “Bringing in four is already too much.”

“Who’s the fourth?”

“Mythrol’s got the speeder,” Cara says. “And Karga’s right. This is a high risk job, we have to keep our numbers limited.”

“I don’t work without her.” Without an answer, Mando sighs, looking to her. “We’re leaving.”

They’re halfway out the door when Karga calls out to them. “Will you quit the dramatics? Your girl can come, Mando.” He points a finger to Lumina, eyes narrowed. “I’m keeping my eye on you though. I don’t want any funny business.”

“Relax grandpa.” Lumina spins her blaster around her finger, landing in its holster. “Taking down Imperial bases is my specialty. Like you said, it’s no Corellia, so this should be easy.”

---

“Controls are useless. They’re melted,” the Mandalorian says, posted near the lift. The Imperial base is stationed exactly where Lumina had suspected, and they all stand circling the entrance on the lava flats. Save for the Mythrol, who more or less cowers in the speeder.

“It wasn’t designed for lava,” Lumina says, running a hand over the buttons. “Even the wires are soldered together.”

“Imperial trash,” Cara spits. Lumina tries to not flinch.

“If we can get the panel off I can rewire the controls, it’ll only take a minute.”

“Alright,” the Mythrol chuckles, waving. “I’m headed back. Hit me up on the comm, we could set up a rendezvous time.” 

Karga’s quick to counter, finger pointed. “You park your gills right there until I say otherwise.”

“So he’s just a dick to everyone?” Lumina mutters to Din. Following his walk away, their argument becomes white noise. 

“Something like that. But you’re still getting the brunt of it.”

“Lucky me…”

“Don’t let it get to you. He only likes people he thinks are useful. He’ll come around. Probably.”

“At this rate I don’t know if I even want that,” she chuckles, squinting above. “I’m used to being the bad guy, remember?”

A platform which protrudes from the mountains hangar entrance catches her attention. Realistically it would only take one jump with the Force to get up there… but the current gathering presented a bit of an issue.

Turns out the Mandalorian is good for something after all. 

Lumina elbows Din’s side, nodding upwards at the landing bay. The unspoken message is clear by his short nod and hidden chuckle. Her arm hooks around his neck, his around her waist. His thigh, is slotted between hers.

“I’m sorry do you two need a moment?” Cara asks, a mixture of amusement and disbelief in her tone. “We’re a little busy right now.”

“Hold tight,” Din grunts, tapping along his vambrace. Jetting to the platform they land audience scattered Storm Troopers. Beautifully unaware of their presence.

It doesn’t last long. At all.

In fact, their so called ignorance is so brief it’s more that they just hadn’t looked at the new company yet. The onslaught of plasma bullets their way is proof of this enough.

Her arm swings left, blaster shot nailing a Trooper right in the chest. “You know,” she sighs. Force sensitivity aside, she dodges shots with such impeccable ease it’s more laughable on their end than questionable on hers. “I’m starting to think part of my atonement is always ending back in these shitholes.”

“Maybe,” Din shrugs, shooting at some others. “You do have a knack for getting into these messes.”

“Me?” she laughs. “You’re the one always dragging me into all of this.”

“I’m not making you agree,” he counters.

The most she manages is an eye roll, strolling causally around the platform. It’s really almost a skip, checking bodies of the fallen. “So much for an empty base.”

“No doubt there’s more inside. Keep alert, okay?”

“Since when am I not alert?”

“I’m worried about them,” he scoffs, nodding down. “I’m not putting it past Karga to try and leave you behind, and the Mythrol is trouble enough. I can’t babysit all of you.”

“Oh he’s so funny.”

“Just behave.”

“Tell that to the old man, not me,” Lumina laughs, poking his chest. “Don’t worry. I won’t get in the way of your little mission.”

He grabs her hand, giving it a squeeze. “You’re going exploring aren’t you?” he groans, already defeated from argument.

“You’re so cute when you worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“Just… please keep—“

“Keep my comm on, I know,” she finishes. When their foreheads tap her nose scrunches. “I’ll clear the way for you.”

“Be safe,” Din sighs.

“I’ll be careful, but, you too.”

---

“I grew up surrounded by water. Just like you.”

Lumina never knew much about Kamino. For the longest time she suspected Boba never knew much either. It was destroyed before she was born and while he was still young; a fresh bounty hunter in the slums of Coruscant. He had spent less time on Kamino than she had on Arkanis after all, never returning after the death of his father.

So it had been a surprise when he brought the topic to conversation without her prompting.

“Oceans spanned as far as the eye could see. There was never a second without rain.” His helmet was sat in her lap, running her leather finger over its dent. “My father would leave for days on end for various jobs, and I would have nothing to do but wait for him to come back.”

The silence between them was stifled and awkward. Mustafar was within view, and she always shelled up when it was time to separate.

“What does he have you get up to when you’re not with me? I say you’re old enough to be out on your own now, no?”

“I still have to go out with KT,” she said. “He doesn’t trust me. Says I’m too young. But it’s the same. Find a Jedi, kill a Jedi.”

“Who’s KT?”

“My pilot.”

“What happened to Marie?”

“He killed her.”

Boba shuffled in his seat, throat clearing. “How are your studies? Are you keeping with your lessons?”

“They’re good,” she said with a shrug. “Boring, but I get full marks on all my exams.”

“Good. That’s good. Keep that up.”

“I will,” she promised.

She did.

On the landing platform of the foreboding palace, Boba turned to her one last time, taking his helmet away. “What else do you get up to?”

Back then, looking at him in that moment was the closest she got to crying.

“I wait for you to come back.”

A similar conversation struck two years later in the midst of war.

“You know, one day this’ll be yours,” Boba said to her.

Eighteen and prideful, she snorted, cleaning her blaster. “What, your Wookie pelts? I’ll pass. I can’t believe you still wear them, it’s disgusting.”

“I mean my ship.”

She froze, rag falling into her lap. “What?”

“Well, when I die—which won’t be for a long time, so don’t get your hopes up—this old girl will belong to you.”

“You’re serious?“

“Of course. This ship belonged to my father, now it belongs to me. You’re the obvious successor.”

“But I’m not a Fett.”

His helmet turned to her slow, naturally expressionless when it faced the stars again.

She would have questioned it, really she would have. By that age she had become bolder, completely unafraid of his presence.

But with few words he captures her attention on a different topic, leaving her scrambled to sit with her knees propped like she were a little girl again.

“Have I ever told you that on Kamino, all the clones were made in these containers filled with bacta…”

It only makes sense then, that now, as that very girl sits in an old Imperial base on Nevarro, she’s never been more certain on what she sees. 

Beings, or would be beings, pale, deformed and… floating, in liquid behind glass windows.

They’re clones. 

Or… some sort of genetically engineered thing.

Just… there.

Two scientists lay dead behind her, a quick knife throw to the neck ended the first one. A blaster in the head was the fate of the second.

Their memories are useless now.

Dammit. 

Building alarms erupt above, the slight shrill of its higher notes cause a twitch in her neck.

“Lu, the reactor’s set. Where are you?” Din asks through the comm in her ear.

Her fingers tap away at her vambrace, sending coordinates.

“Okay. We have about fifteen minutes, but we’re on our way. Don’t move.”

She may have forgotten how to do just that.

It doesn’t take long for the entourage to arrive. Lumina doesn’t move from her position, she knows the Mandalorian’s footsteps too well to confuse him with another.

“What the…” Karga murmurs.

“I thought you said this was a forward operating base,” Cara says.

“I thought it was.” 

“It’s a lab,” Lumina says, her longing stare broken to only meet Din.

“Can you hack into the system and figure out what’s going on?” Cara asks.

“I’m not a droid. Besides, I don’t have any tools to do a data capture.”

“Mythrol,” Cara says next. “Get into that computer and pull up what you can.” 

“What about the reactor?” the Mythrol whines.

“Do it!”

Offering his hand, Din helps her stand, thumb rubbing her palm. “I don’t like this,” he whispers, below his breath. “Do you know what these things are?”

“I have an idea on what it is,” she mumbles. “What’s it for is the real question.” Her head tilts, dropping his hand. “I think I can find out…”

In hindsight, she’ll realize the pull, the tormented screams plaguing her since landing on Nevarro came from these things. That the so called will of the Force has done nothing but cheat her time and time again. But that time has yet to pass, and will not for quite some time.

Her feet move beneath her before her mind fully agrees. At least no one is fully watching her, intents set on mocking the Mythrol and his panic. 

“Pardon me,” he says, pushing the dead Imperial’s off the console.

The moment her bare hand touches the glass, a rush of arctic chills overtake her body. Nothing is clear, flashes contain more negative space than context and are too quick to focus on. Labs, scientists, tubes… There’s no sense or reason, but the cold, the total agony in her muscles and bones render her immobile. Her gasps turn into screams and she falls unconscious not a second later.

---

She has to stop doing this, the fainting thing. It’s far less fun than anything else she’s experienced. Well, it comes second to electrocution on the ‘Not Fun’ scale. Third place goes to abandonment.

She’s dry heaving over Din’s lap, mask pulled under her chin. Maybe something would come up if she bothered to eat anything other than half a bowl of broth in the last twenty-four hours. He pats her back regardless, urging her quietly to let it out.

At least she’s not crying. Not yet anyways. When she’s back on the ship and locked in the refresher, is another story. Still, combined with yesterday’s near death experience it’s a miracle she’s able to think at all.

“What happened?” Din asks, voice hushed and laced with concern. He helps her to stand again. Her eyes scan the room, getting a sense of grounding.

“I—“

Her confession, or rather intricate lie she no doubt would have made up is interrupted. On the computer where the Mythrol stands, a blue hologram flashes small.

“…Replicated the results of the subsequent trials, which also resulted in catastrophic failure,” a man in a lab coat says. “There were promising effects for an entire fortnight, but then, sadly, the body rejected the blood. I highly doubt we’ll find a donor with a higher M-count, though. I recommend that we suspend all experimentation. I fear that the volunteer will meet the same regrettable fate if we proceed with the transfusion. With the results of coinciding trial runs on Ryndellia, unfortunately, we have exhausted our initial supply of blood. The Child is small, and I was only able to harvest a limited amount without killing him. If these experiments are to continue as requested, we would again require access to the donor. However, now with the knowledge of her life, the girl is also a permissible subject if attained. There is no data on her M-Count but, given the history we know, she would make a far suitable subject. I will not disappoint you again, Moff Gideon.”

Maybe she will be sick, the bile circling her gut surely says so.

“This has to be an old transmission,” Cara says. “Gideon is dead.” 

Din’s holding Lumina to his chest. “Are you okay?” He whispers. She faintly nods, taking a breath trying to stand on her own. “He’s not dead,” he says to the larger crowd. “He fired an airstrike on us back on Daro.”

“How do you know it was him?”

“I spoke to him,” Lumina says. “We’ve actually had a few run ins in the past month. Daro was a mistake on both our ends.”

“This recording is three days old,” the Mythrol informs.

“It was sent before the attack,” Din says. “Lu, you said he wanted you—”

“I don’t think right now is the best—“

“Hold up,” Cara interrupts. “What does Gideon want with you?”

Nervous laughter is involuntary. “That’s a great question and—“

“I knew we couldn’t trust her,” Karga says. “I told you to keep your distance, and look where it’s gotten us. Now, you have an Imp giving another target to your back.”

If a ball was ever dropped, now is it.

Cara’s in her face as soon as the ‘p’ in Imp pops. It’s expected. Alderaanians are the sensitive type after all. Lumina suspects it’s an unfortunate side effect of their planets goodness infected in the water.

And, you know, their world being blown up.

“You’re fucking Imperial?” She sneers, finger pointed.

Usually she wouldn’t be so affected by it. Rebel anger was something she used to laugh at on a daily basis. But her head feels like it cracked open and she can’t stand without holding Din’s arm. She’s not used to showing weakness. But she does. And she panics.

“No—No, I—I was—“

Din pulls her closer, voice stern. “Will you both leave her alone?”

“What are you doing dating an Imp?” Cara asks, turned to him.

“She’s not—“

“How do you know she hasn’t been working for Gideon this whole time?” Karga asks.

“Because I know her—“

“How can we trust anything about her? How can you?”

The room is spinning, the room never stopped spinning actually, it’s only sped up. Everything is so loud and her heart pounds against her ribs, threatening to break free. The screaming doesn’t stop either, it just gets louder and louder until her ears ring.

As it stands, she’d rather be exploded ten times over in Daro than be subjected to this.

“Din… Din… Din, I don’t feel good…”

Is she speaking right now? Her mouth is moving, but there are no vibrations in her throat to indicate speech. Regardless, they’re all doing enough talking for the rest of her lifetime.

Imperial. Imperial. Imperial.

“Were you there?” Cara asks.

“W—what?”

“Were you there? Don’t act dumb, you know what I’m talking about. Were you there?”

“Cara leave her alone,” Din says, pushing her back. 

“All morning you couldn’t stop looking at my tattoo. You were there weren’t you? What, did you pull the trigger? Did you clap? Did you and your little friends celebrate while my planet got destroyed?”

“I—I didn’t—“

“Cara that’s enough—“

“And you! You’re fucking her! She stands for everything we all fought against, and you don’t care. You’re just as fucked up as she is.” She takes a step towards Lumina who backs with a gasp. Her hand presses against the glass, another shockwave of electrics bursting through her nerves. Only her knees give out this time, groaning.

“Lu,” Din rushes, quick to her side. “Lu, it’s okay. I got you,” he whispers. She shakes in his hold, jaw clenched with watering eyes.

It’s been so long since it’s hurt this bad…

“Just breathe okay? Don’t pay attention to them, it’s just me—“

“Give me a break,” Cara scoffs.

“Cara, shut the fuck up,” he snaps.

“You’re the one treating her like a fucking child. She deserves—“

In an instant, a blaster is shot three times, three separate falls following.

Three dead Storm Troopers. 

The whole group turns to the bullets origin, Lumina with a blaster extended over Din’s shoulder. “This place is going to blow soon,” she says impassive, swallowing a gag. “And personally I’d rather not explode again. I’m sure the Marshal would agree.”

“I agree,” the Mythrol says. “If anyone cares for my opinion…”

“I second that,” Karga says. “If you all want to settle this that’s fine, but not here.”

Lumina pushes herself away from Din, shaking out her limbs in her walk. She pulls out her knife and blade in each hand, taking a breath. 

A new group of Troopers run into the space. “They’re in here!” one calls out. She makes quick work of it. Faster than the others can manage to pull out blasters. It ends with her standing over their bodies, not a drop of sweat broken.

“Lu?” Din asks, a hesitant step in her direction.

“I’m fine,” she mutters.

“Okay… We have to get the kid.”

“You two jet back, you’re faster that way,” Cara says. “We’ll head to the speeder and meet you in town.” 

With a shared look, they take off running, out of sight in seconds.

“Why does she always get to go with him?” the Mythrol complains.

---

“On my word you have to drop me!” Lumina calls, clinging to Din as they soar above Nevarro.

Maker, she hates flying.

“Are you crazy?”

“Yeah a little, but that’s established. TIEs are going to go after your friends. You need to get to the ship, and I need to get Bug. It’s faster if you drop me over the school.”

“Lumina, you’ve fainted more than once today. I’m not dropping you.”

“I’ll be fine! Just fly low.”

“Lu—“

“Trust me!”

Even with wind screaming in her ear she can hear his sigh. “Fine.”

“Ready…” she preps. The town comes into view below, every building blurring past in flight. “Now! Now!”

In retrospect it’s not that bad of a fall. It certainly doesn’t hurt anymore than nearly being blown up, or electrocuted, or even touching whatever monstrosity was locked behind that glass.

She would even go as far as to call it a perfect landing, rolling onto her back and standing on the schools rooftop. But the raw adrenaline which drives her fades in and out. Unfortunately, it goes out when she stands, a dizzy walk to the edge and a clumsy drop onto the street.

“I’m okay,” she says through the comm.

“Good. Hurry,” Din urges.

Running into the school all the children and droids stop to look at her. She waves her hand. “You will all continue with your lesson.”

“We will all continue with our lesson,” the children say, turning back around.

Well that’s… horrifying.

The protocol droid either doesn’t care or is just as disturbed as she is, sparing no questions. “Alright class,” it says, continuing on.

Lumina rushes towards Grogu, pulling him out of his desk.“Seriously?” She asks, grabbing a roll of cookies, no doubt stolen. “Lecture later, we need to go Bug.” Sheepishly, she waves to the droid. “Uh, thank you, sorry for that.”

Outside, Lumina jumps to the top of the building, sprinting across rooftops to avoid civilians. The child laughs the whole time, blissfully ignorant. Razor Crest in sight, she leaps to the ground. Without broken stride, another jump takes her onto the rising ship. 

“Go! Go!” she calls from the hull. 

Clumsily, Lumina makes her way up to the cockpit, setting the kid down in Din’s lap. “Let me fly,” she pants.

“What?”

“I need something to focus on or I’m gonna pass out. I’m a damn good pilot and your friends are getting their asses kicked out there. Let me fly.”

Din is more tolerable when he doesn’t argue. Though it is less enjoyable overall.

“You know, someday you’ll have to tell me something,” he says, sitting behind her, strapped with the child.

“I know,” Lumina sighs. “I’ll do it when you do it first.”

---

The last of the TIE fighters falls into a fiery explosion, wreckage disappeared to ash. The battle had been quick, if not jolting with excited screams from the child.

“She’s not too bad, huh, kid?” Din asks. Vomit isn’t a beloved response, but it’s what he gets. “Oh boy.”

“Here, switch me I’ll get him,” Lumina chuckles, going to his side. “Messy little boy. See, that’s called karma for stealing, you little shit.”

“Don’t call our kid a little shit,” Din says as a laugh, taking the controls.

The commlink channel breaks, Greef Karga’s voice enters. “That was some pretty impressive flying, Mando. What do I owe ya?”

“Give your thanks to Lumina,” he says. “She’s the pilot here.”

Pregnant pause is more humorous than offensive. “What do we owe her?”

“She’s not one to take on debts. With the repairs we’ll call it even.”

“Mando listen,” Karga sighs heavy. “We wanna apologize to your girl. We wouldn’t have gotten out of that without her. If she’s alright to you, she’s alright to us.”

They share a look, Lumina’s nose scrunches, and her head shakes. It’s fine, she mouths. I’m used to it.

“Consider that apology accepted,” Din says, turning forward. 

“Can we at least buy you two a drink?”

“Sorry, there’s some onboard maintenance we gotta take care of. Then we gotta—“ 

A heavy drop comes onto the durasteel floor. With inspection, Lumina lays fallen and unconscious.

“Hey!” Jumping out of his seat, Din is quick to her body. “Lumina? Lumina!”

“Is everything okay up there?”

“Change of plans, I’m landing the ship. We need a medic, now.” 

“Dune is on her way to the station.”

The child screams murder besides her, flooding with tears. He hasn’t been this bad since the first time she left. Wails are heard through the link, piercing the connection. 

As soon as the ship is landing, Din carries Lumina down the ladder, off the extending gangplank. Cara is ready at the end with a hovering stretcher. Being placed, there’s no disruption of her form save for her chest rising with every breath. She’s run to the Med Station without further question. 

“What happened?” Karga asks.

“I don’t know. She collapsed. I have to—the kid, he’s in the cockpit—I can’t—“

“I’ll get him. You go.”

On arrival, she’s already been placed in a medpod. A droid circles her body, various scanners flickering their lights.

“Report,” Cara says.

“The patient is alive,” the droid says. “However, the brain is showing unusually high activity. Specifically for humans who have entered Stage R of rest.”

“What does that mean?”

“I believe humans refer to this as a ‘nightmare’.”

“She has nightmares every night,” Din snaps. “They don’t make her faint when she’s conscious. Something is wrong. What is it?”

“My scans indicate the body is reacting to severe trauma, causing equally severe physical pain. Has the patient experienced symptoms of illness recently?”

“She’s been sick all day,” Din says, gloved hand gripped to creases on the bed’s railing. “Coughing, fainting, nausea, hard time breathing. She said it was the heat but… it’s been off and on all day. She’s fine, and then she’s sick and then she’s fine again.”

“Curious,” the droid responds. “There are no signs to internal damage or malfunctioning neurons. By every indication, the patient is of perfect health. I will require more time to analyze. You may return by nightfall. I request you leave the vicinity so that I may conduct more tests.”

“By night? We don’t have time for that, we have to leave—“

Cara holds up her hand, pulling Din out by the arm. “It’s trying its best. If she’s just sleeping I’m sure she’ll wake up soon. There’s nothing you can do right now. Let’s go.”

---

They meet with Karga in the cantina, who sits with the child sleeping in his lap. “How is she?”

“Stable,” Cara says, sliding beside him. “It says she’s just sleeping.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“She’s in pain,” Din says. “Something happened at that base, it sent her into shock. I should be with her. What if she—“

“She’ll be fine,” Cara says. “We just have to give it the day. You heard the droid, she’s in perfect health.”

“I still can’t afford to stay until night. Gideon could be on route on our location at moment, it’s not safe.”

“Why don’t you take the kid and go?” Karga offers. “We can watch her, and she’ll get the care she needs. We’ll call you if there are any updates or she wakes up.”

“I can’t leave her.”

“I’m sure she’ll understand—“ Cara says.

“This isn’t up for debate,” he argues, stern and definitive. “She’s not safe out here on her own. If Gideon makes his way down and finds her—”

“What does Moff Gideon want with your girlfriend, Mando?” Cara asks in a far calmer manner than before.

Din sighs, ignoring whatever passive denial of their relationship is eating at his brain. “She’s wanted. Been on the run from the Empire for years. Believe me, she hates the Empire more than you do. She’s like Kulli. It wasn’t her choice to serve. Difference is, they weren’t happy with her leaving.” 

Mention of their past friend and ally brings solace to the group, sat in their pensive silence. Prejudice is hard to overcome, especially in times of war.

“That scientist guy mentioned a girl,” Cara says eventually, voice softer. “And you say Gideon wants her… Is she—”

“No,” Din says immediately. “I don’t know what she is, but it’s not one of them. If she were, she would have told me.”

“And you believe that?”

“I do.”

“There may be one solution,” Karga says. “We have an AZ unit in the med station. It’s been powered down for months now, but it works. If she’s sleeping, she doesn’t need intensive care. The droid can keep an eye on her. If her levels drop or she needs immediate attention, it’ll alert you.”

It isn’t much, but it’ll have to do.

“Thank you,” Din says. “We to need leave now. Before we get any unwanted visitors.”

---

Aboard the Razor Crest, the Mandalorian carries Lumina’s body, followed by the hovering AZ unit. 

“You tell me the moment anything changes with her.” He lays Lumina on the bed, moving her disheveled hair. The kid whines in his arms, reaching. “I mean anything. I want to know if she talks, cries, wakes up. If she so much as moves, you tell me. You tell me immediately. Do you understand that?”

“Oh yes, yes indeed,” the droid nods. “I am programmed to ensure the safety of all my patients. Due to being the only one, she is my top priority. Be assured I will deliver stimpaks on a timely manner, and other vital necessities correlated with human livelihood.”

“Good. No matter what, you don’t leave her side.”

“You have my mechanical medical word.”

---

Across the board of an Imperial starship, a 546 Class model of a command cruiser, a blue hologram erupts. A cloaked figure, hood drawn up to reveal but a shadow of facial recognition, stands on the other end.

“Have you done it?” a female of Imperial ranking asks. Although human, her voice is modulated through a black helmet. The red visor is the only indicator of a living form behind it.

“I’m afraid the Mandalorian interrupted, it’s hard to say if it took,” the hologram says.

“My patience is running thin, Nightsister. Do not think my generosity from Ryndellia can extend so far. I don’t intend to make that mistake again.”

“I give you my word, when the time comes, I will not disappoint you.”

“Moff Gideon will not be pleased by this development. Do not forget, your possession of the Darksaber is contingent on our success.”

“I understand. Should you be in need of my services again, you know how to reach me.”

As the hologram dissipates into the air, the Imperial woman leaves without another word. Down sterile corridors and past Strom Troopers, she ends at sliding doors. 

The scene of their opening is a curious one. Walls stand lined with men like droids, a handful of engineers tending to various ones. In the middle, the caped man of Moff Gideon.

“Sir,” the Imperial says from behind. “The Nightsister was unsuccessful, as predicted. I’m afraid we will not see developments until she is separated from the Mandalorian. Unfortunately, the Razor Crest is reported to have left Nevarro’s orbit with all the assets.”

“Are we aware of their destination?” He asks, turning.

“No Sir. Without updates from Relena O’Menefe, they’ve completely gone off the radar.”

“This is highly disappointing.”

“I agree,” she nods, following his walk away one step behind. “Although, if I may. I believe I have a solution.”

“Please, speak freely.”

“Word has come in from Tatooine. There has been an attack on the former palace of Jabba the Hutt. A particular gunship of one Boba Fett has rendered missing as a result.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’m requesting to make contact. If anyone can find her, it’s him. Once he’s made aware of her continued life, he’ll have no choice. You know as well as I do that the top priority of any being from the Fett strand is family. It’s practically in their genetic makeup. If he is alive as suspected, it should only be days before they are found.”

A smile dances on Gideons lips, tight and cruel. “And we, will be ready. You have my permission, but make quick work of it. There's no need to cause suspicion.”

“Thank you, Sir,” she nods. “I will not disappoint you.”

“You’ve served me well Inquisitor, do trust your reward will be plentiful when the time is right.”

“You can keep your treasures,” she says, circular lightsaber hilt gripped in her right hand. “I only want my sister back.”

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Death of Dawn

---

Taglist: @lexloon @jay-bel @xsadderdazeforeverx @spideysimpossiblegirl @sarahjkl82-blog @annoyinglythoughtfuldestiny

[kichous]

✧･ﾟ:*   lost in the moment

summary. your father’s stray stands victorious over him, a heart-stopping, wicked grin slicing his face open. series. history lesson. | part one . part two you’re here ! . part three . pairing. ryomen sukuna x f!reader. warnings. mentions of body horror. domestic abuse. implied non-con ( not between pairing ). word count. 3418.

07.11.23 / read the updated re-release on ao3!

You feel no fondness for your father.

He is a man of his times, and thus he has not been kind to you. For everything you hate about your life, he is to blame at least in part if not entirely. To him, you were nothing but a tool. Your heart holds no place for him, and you have long since stopped trying to gain his favor. He is not even worth hating.

But even with the weight of your apathy, Ryomen Sukuna had gone too far.

Your father’s face is in tatters. Your mother, even with her expertise in reverse cursed technique, is struggling to hold what remains of together. You had watched it happen, watched the first boy you ever fell in love with slash your father’s face into pieces. Into even, square chunks.

As a child, you were told that you had your father’s eyes. You wonder if the Two-Faced Specter thought of you when he blinded the man.

He was not always known by the name Ryomen Sukuna to you. But when rumors of resistance against your family’s hegemony over the province formed, he formally took it as a badge of pride. Two-Faced, for the two masks he adorned. One, the loyal general whom your father generously took in as a child, the most powerful of the sorcerers under his command. The other, the seditious monster who consorted with cursed spirits in search of power, who believed that people should be allowed to rule themselves.

Blasphemy, according to the cadre of sorcerers who ruled Hida with an iron fist. Chief of whom was, naturally, the man who sired you.

After the duel, Sukuna and his followers swept into the shrine at the center of the forest, the ecstasy of victory hot on their heels. He hadn’t looked at you once as he left. He had been speaking to Uraume, bravado and self-assuredness booming from his voice when he spoke of your father’s weakness. Of how your family deserved its fall from grace. How pitiful that you still sought his attention even after all this.

Everyone had seen what happened. It was customary for the entire clan to be present when the head was challenged. And though you ceased being part of the family when you married, you followed your husband where he went. It just so happened he wished to pay his dear father-in-law a visit. He received a front row seat to the mutilation, as did your sons, who sat by him. As a concubine, you had been placed further back.

Since your marriage, you’d become practically invisible. You spent the past several years resenting that fact. But now, as you creep away from the family compound, you’re thankful that no one thought to keep an eye on you. Your mother tends to your father still, trying to salvage what remains of his visage. Your brother is meeting with the elders, discussing matters of succession — matters that did not concern you, a married daughter. Your husband is with his chief wife, and your sons are fast asleep.

Many of the servants left with Sukuna, who promised them a life of freedom. Those who remain keep their heads down for fear of being labeled traitors. No one is there to keep an eye on you, and nobody notices when you slink along the shadows and past the eastern gate. When you were little, it had always been the least heavily guarded, and you and the boy-who-Sukuna-once-was snuck out together often. It seems that not much has changed since then.

It is no task to follow the sounds of celebration to the shrine, normally shrouded by the trees and the darkness of night. The complex you’d just escaped from was somber and morose, weighing heavy with the sting of defeat. Shame loomed over all like the morning fog. That is not so for Sukuna’s worshipers.

Here, there is revelry and dancing, a grand feast where even the grungiest of beggars are offered a seat. You are met with suspicious glares all around when you approach. Raised in quite a sheltered existence, you do not recognize many of the people who watch you with revulsion — but they know who you are, and it is clear that their dislike of your father does not stop with the man himself. You rigidly refuse to make eye contact, stepping over undulating bodies and spilt drink and — other questionable droppings until you make your way to the main hall.

At the center of everything is Sukuna, who lounges with his closest attendants, drink in hand. He is, as usual, surrounded by fire, dozens of wax candles burning bright as the revelers outside. He wears his kimono loosely, allowing the glow of nearby flames to play off the markings spanning his body. Sukuna sees you first, and he lifts his cup in greeting.

“How kind of you to join us, Lady Otagi,” he says, voice cutting through the din. Silence falls when he speaks, and all around him is enraptured. You had gazed at him once with such reverence, too. But you were a child, then. “Have you come to partake in the festivities?”

“Why would I ever?” you spit. Such brazen debauchery in a holy place makes you sick to your stomach. Your family had prayed to this shrine for generations. You begged the gods for a happier life, to be with the man you loved. They granted your wish, for a time, and now that very man is paying back their generosity with desecration. “What have you done, Shun?”

The silence, which had first been oppressive, now bears a hair-raising veil of danger. Sukuna himself had gone rigid when you used his given name, and those who were close enough to hear your words did not bother to restrain their fury. The concentration of cursed energy is heaviest where you lot are, but even if you had been standing among the commoners, you would feel the unspoken threat all the same.

For the briefest of moments, you consider that coming alone was not the wisest course of action. No one had noticed when you left, and you doubt many would if you didn’t return — but you were no longer a woman unto herself. You had two boys who had not even seen half a decade and still needed their mother. Biting back your fear, you stare Sukuna down. “I asked you a question.”

“We are thinking,” Sukuna snaps. “We wonder why you chose the least effective method of suicide. We are certain your witch mother would be glad to provide you her poisons instead. Is it foolish or courageous that you seek to be torn limb from limb so openly?” He stands, looming just as impressively as his shadow. The hairs on your arms stand and you feel the urge to wrap your arms around yourself.

“It is not death I seek,” you reply. “I want answers.”

“And you think we can give them to you? Or, rather, that we would?”

He steps forward slowly, deliberately, like a leopard stalking its prey. His eyes flicker with something akin to amusement when you can no longer hide your trembling from him. He is but a hair’s breadth away from you, and you must crane your head up to meet his gaze. Sukuna lifts a hand to tilt your chin up even further. He trails his claws down the side of your throat. Though it is with the lightest of grazes, you fear that even just the act of swallowing would cause them to draw blood.

You will defiance into your being, balling your hands into fists. You cannot keep your voice from shaking, but you do not falter. There was a time where being near him brought only comfort. Now, you see him for the monster that he is. How you could ever be so blind, you hadn’t the faintest idea. “You made a vow to me,” you tell him. “You swore always to be honest. Or have you forgotten? Does the great Ryomen Sukuna hold solemn promises with such little regard?”

He chuffs, a terse exhalation puffing from his nostrils accompanying the rumble low in his throat. “We do not,” he says shortly. You hear the tittering of gossipers nearby, wondering what you had promised for a vow of candor. With a glance to his companions, Sukuna waves a hand and says with a booming voice, “Leave us.”

Uraume, silver hair bobbing, parts their lips to protest, but they heed their master’s words and begin ushering Sukuna’s cohorts out of the main hall. They slam the door shut behind you, and the last thing you could see out of the gap was their furious pink glare. With a brief pause of uncertainty, the merrymaking resumes, muffled by the walls surrounding you.

And so you are left with the King of Curses, alone.

Sukuna speaks first. “You look cold.” When you turn to face him, he watches you with impassive eyes, the lower two now shut. He looks much more like the stable hand you remember, only in much finer clothes than he’d previously owned. Not that it would be very difficult to find such garments.

“It is the middle of the night,” you retort, though your shivering was obviously because you were afraid of him. You watch him warily as he returns to his earlier spot, crossing his legs and placing each hand upon a knee. He gestures for you to sit across from him, and you do so reluctantly. Legs folded beneath you, you don’t even realize that you’ve been wringing your hands until you notice him watching you do it. You force yourself to be still.

“I don’t bite,” Sukuna says. His lips twitch. “Although I do recall you liking that sort of thing—”

“I am not in the joking mood.”

You should not have said that, as any pretense shuts down completely upon your words. You know that he is no longer the man you remember — no longer the man who had laid a gentle hand on your sons’ heads and called them handsome, nor the man who healed your broken arm after your husband lost his temper on your wedding night. All of it had been a lie, you assume, to get you to drop your guard. You miss the illusion. You should have had him keep it up for just a moment longer. 

Shun told you who he was many years ago. You were both children, but you remembered it clear as day.

He had asked you what you wanted most in the world, and you told him ‘freedom.’ You asked him what his answer was, and he told you, with a sharp smile and eyes so dead you feared the yawning abyss would swallow you whole, ‘power.’

Ryomen Sukuna surely possessed it now. By all rights, Hida was his to reign over, and if anyone would like to change that fact, they’d have to defeat him in a duel. Having seen his powers firsthand, you believe that is much easier said than done.

“Did you spare him?” you ask, finally. For what seemed like ages, the two of you had simply stared at each other. Neither of you moved beyond the rise and fall of your chests, not even to blink. “You could have killed my father. By allowing him to live, you give him and my brother a chance to rise against you.”

“I saw no point in expending that much energy,” Sukuna answers. “Not for the moment, anyway. I would not wish to wage an all-out war on the clans of Hida when I am not ready.”

You cannot stop the incredulous scoff. “Cowardice, from you?”

“Patience.” He shrugs off one side of his kimono and lifts his arm to display rippling muscle in its pit. You watch the writhing flesh in disgust before it settles back into regular skin. “I am in the midst of some experimentation. It will take some time before I perfect this form further, and I am content to wait. Perhaps it will give them some time to rally against me. They may put up an actual fight.”

Pain seizes your chest at the thought that he’d mutilate himself further. The extra eyes are small, unnoticeable from afar. And you had always been partial to his — you suppose you had spent time believing that you simply had more to stare into. You shudder to think at what the shoulder-like appendage that distorted his flesh would grow into. You look at Sukuna, wanting to see if anything remained from the sweet boy you once knew.

There is nothing.

Sukuna is taller. His eyes are a fiercer red. His canines and the incisors beside them curve wickedly sharp. His nails are black, not from paint but his own evil. Enmity spews from his every pore, overwhelming and making it difficult to breathe around him. He doesn’t even sit the same, occupying as much space as possible where he once tried to take up so little.

“Was any of it real?” You had not meant to ask the question. It would make you appear weak before him — as though you had any illusions of being strong in the first place. Your father had pawned you off as a bride because your cursed technique was that of your mother’s. You were useless in conquest, and few had anything to fear from you. But Sukuna had made a binding vow, and you were owed answers.

“Of course it was,” he chuckles. He leans forward, propping his chin up on his knuckles. Heat fills his gaze, and you recognize it as not one of anger. He licks his lips. Your pulse quickens as his eyes rake over your body. “You felt me when I took you, didn’t you? Those were not dreams. If they were, I would be concerned by how frequently you—”

“You know what I mean,” you hiss. Warmth floods your cheeks. No one else is around to hear, but even so, how casually he speaks of your coupling distresses you. You despise that he requires specifics. “Did any of it mean anything to you, in the way it meant something to me?”

Sukuna drops the sneering, and false pity slopes his shoulders. He’s mocking you, and the thought makes rage flare within you. His mouth forms a pout. “Of course not, little princess.”

Something splinters within you. A lump forms in your throat, and you try to swallow around it. There are so many words you want to say, so many ways to express that which is beyond heartbreak. Your lips can only manage three. “You used me.”

“And did you not do the same to me?” He laughs, a sharp, vicious sound that makes you jump. “Poor Lady Otagi, so sad, so broken. Raised in the lap of luxury and passed off to the richest man in the province as a broodmare. Oh, how pitiful she is to live in a manor, tended to by servants daily. How could anyone dream of imprisoning such a beautiful dove?”

“Stop it.” Your demand is weak, even to your own ears.

The flames atop the candles surrounding you leap, blazing ever hotter. You shrink away from them, pulling your clothes closer to yourself. Sukuna observes the motion with a snort. “Is it not true that you leapt into the arms of the first man who offered comfort?” He places a hand on his chest. “You told me long ago all that you wanted was freedom, and I offered that to you, however brief. There is no shame in acknowledging it. I provided a service, and it just so happened that it was… mutually beneficial.”

“That’s not true,” you snarl, “I loved you.”

Sukuna’s lips curl. “Love is just another lie we tell ourselves to feel a little less monstrous. Humans and sorcerers and curses and beasts? All the same. We merely have the elevated ability to articulate our yearning — but within us all lies a want that is unquestionably selfish.” He stands and makes his way over to you, the ground thudding heavily with each step. Squatting in front of you, he takes your face in a single hand. His thumb and fingers press grooves into your cheeks and he uses the grip to shake you like he would the muzzle of a dog.

“You wanted to be free, you said, from the obligations your family placed upon you. I have a little hypothesis — I think what you truly wanted was to be adored. Haven’t you any idea how selfish that is, to desire the very heart from someone’s chest?” Sukuna shifts and sits, though his grip on your face does not loosen. You reach for his wrist, but he only takes your hand in his and pulls it into his lap. “I bet you didn’t even notice the lengths you went to. Propositioning a servant? Someone who was obligated to say yes, lest they risk their mistress’s wrath? You’re no better than that husband of yours.”

Your eyes widen, a chill running down your spine. “I didn’t… You…” Heart hammering in your chest, you try again in vain to wrest yourself from his hold.

Sukuna throws his head back and howls. His shoulders heave with each cackle that bursts forth from him, and you are acutely aware of how you never had any control. Not ever, not with him. “Calm yourself, dove. You did not coerce me into anything. You could not have, even if you had tried.” He places your hand on his thigh, forcing you to stroke the muscle. “I saw your intentions, just as you should have seen mine. I do not resent you for trying to seize what you desired. If it were a crime to be self-serving, I’d have been put to death at birth.”

Though you had expected the hollowness ringing in your core to accompany tears, none come. Your eyes are as dry as bone. So, the man you love is truly dead and gone. There was a part of you that realized it, you think, when he had become a sorcerer under your father’s command. You had chosen to believe the rumors surrounding him were merely jealousy that a commoner had risen to prominence. Shun is gone and a monster wears his skin — and yet, revulsion is not enough to still you.

Before you realize it, your captive hand moves of its own accord, and Sukuna releases you, lips parting in surprise when you cup his jaw with both hands. You lean forward, one knee moving into the space between his legs.

You wish to snap his neck. 

Instead, you hold him, gazing into the face that you’ve loved for decades.

You want nothing more than to wring the life out of those crimson eyes, to take back the only body you’ve ever willingly given yours to, but you cannot — because it is his body, and you cannot destroy what little of it remains. Sukuna is right. You are selfish. When faced with the prospect of doing the right thing, of disavowing the monster before you, you choose to do nothing. You would knowingly live a lie than bring harm to him, and that makes you no better than the butchers he calls friends.

But then, what goodness did you owe to a world that had shown you so little and stolen so much?

Yes, you were born into a noble family. Yes, you had attendants and finery and more than most peasants could ever dream of in a lifetime. But you had lived knowing it was never truly yours. Your betrothal occurred within the same week of your birth. Your father had marked you as a tool before you outlived your siblings. Even when you had changed houses, you knew that your continued comfort rested on the shoulders of your children. In such an existence, where every luxury was on borrowed time, you had only one solace. You are not ready to give it up.

Sukuna, for all his wretchedness, at least looks the part. It is so easy to pretend. 

You run a thumb over his cheekbone as he leans into your hand, fate already sealed.

“What do you say, little princess?” Sukuna whispers. His lips hover over yours, intoxicating in spite of the equal parts hatred-sorrow-desperation spiraling in your chest. “Shall we not continue to use each other?”

[codeadleaves]

According to plan

Additional tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alcohol Characters: Sorey, Mikleo, Rose Prompt: Mulled wine Summary: "The bed was all warm and comfy, and for a moment he contemplated the idea to stay here a few more minutes before steeling himself. Now wasn’t the time to laze in bed. For today was the day he would impress Mikleo Luzrov." In which Sorey is a gay disaster.  

Notes: I suck very much at titles. Here’s my entry for @sormikadventcalendar 12/18. A big thanks to @toradh for betareading <3

Read under the cut or on AO3

*** The first thing Sorey noticed when he opened his eyes was that he had forgotten to turn off the light string on the wall. The second was that his room was brighter than it should be for a winter morning.

He turned to look at the window - of course he had also forgotten to close the shutters. The sky was clear, no traces of clouds or falling snow, but more importantly, the sun was higher than he expected it to be. His body jolted upright, hand searching for the phone lost somewhere on the bed - not under the pillows, not under his butt, not under the sheets, where on Earth-

Thunk.

Sorey looked down. There it was! He reached for the fallen device. 12:07 pm. A bit late but still enough time to get ready. He let out a relieved sigh as he fell back on his pillows. The bed was all warm and comfy, and for a moment he contemplated the idea to stay here a few more minutes before steeling himself. Now wasn’t the time to laze in bed.

For today was the day he would impress Mikleo Luzrov.

Perfect Mikleo. Caring, intelligent, beautiful Mikleo. Sorey’s dear crush and rival, met through an endless battles for the highest grad on the ancient history classes.

They had only known each other names back then, and if Sorey had been daydreaming about who could be Mikleo before meeting him, he was now completely smitten. How could it be otherwise? Mikleo was perfect. Smart. Pretty. And unlike Sorey he could achieve the best without sacrificing his health and hygiene. Not that Sorey was the kind to wallow in dirty laundry and strong body smells, he was just so passionate about his studies he would often forgot about basic needs, like cleaning or eating. Frankly, Sorey couldn’t understand why a sophisticated person like Mikleo would enjoy spending time with him, and yet only a couple of months after officially meeting thanks to their common friend Rose, there was hardly a day they wouldn’t see each other, Mikleo taking it upon himself to teach Sorey how to behave like a proper human being, helping with chores and feeding him when needed.

But not today, Sorey thought as he started gathering dirty clothes scattered on the floor. Mikleo and Rose would come in in a few hours to spend some “quality holiday time” - Rose’s words - and Sorey was determined to prove he wasn’t a complete disaster and could welcome his guests in a clean apartment. He took a quick shower, finished organizing what needed to be and concluded the cleaning session by opening all doors and windows to properly let air into the apartment - he certainly wasn’t about to relive the shameful moment Mikleo had first stepped into the garbage container that used to be this place.

When everything was in order, Sorey moved to the kitchen. Now the real challenge began: the concoction of the Omega Elixir. Or rather, a modern version of it; being an history nerd would be of no help to gather ingredients such as a narwhal’s horn or some extinct bird species’ egg. The true Omega Elixir recipe, said to be a gift from the god Maotelus to purify mankind, was lost to time. Still, Sorey had found an old book with a few variant of the beverage in his Grandpa Library. With the celebration of Maotelus’ birth coming in a few days, it was the perfect drink for the holiday season and a perfect topic to debate with Mikleo later - only if Rose would allow it.

Sorey set himself in front of the kitchen worktop, reading the recipe one last time. Everything was ready, he had macerated the ingredients in a large pot covered by a clean cloth, for three days and nights. The tricky part now was to progressively add the correct amount of alcohol at the right temperature, while slowly heating the pot. He hadn’t used the right utensils in his previous attempt, the result giving him a nasty headache. World tree leaves liqueur and Malak’s tear were too strong for his liking - and way too expensive, blessed was his Grandpa for being so fond of old alcohol bottles.

Sorey removed his hoodie to have better freedom of movement and threw it on a chair. A timer in one hand and a cooking thermometer in the other, he set to work, carefully measuring the proper dose of blue liqueur. It was the last of it, he couldn’t fail this one.

And after two hours of meticulous mixing it was finally ready. And by Maotelus, the smell was divine. It was hard to define but it sure was a lot nicer than the strong odor that came out of his previous attempt - just smelling it had left him dizzy.

Yes it was perfect, everything was going according to plan, Mikleo would be impressed and wouldn’t give him his trademark disapproval look. Sorey was smiling so much his cheeks hurt. The recipe’s final step was to let it rest in the snow. Sorey had prepared a bassin of ice cube in case the weather wouldn’t be cooperative but luckily it seemed to had snowed all night.  

He was on a little cloud. Tension had left his body but as he stepped into the hall he was hit by the cold, his nose tickling.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. Sorey abruptly turned his head to sneeze on his shoulder pressing the scalding pot between his arms. He yelped, reflexively releasing his hold on the pot, tried to grab it back, burned his hand, felt the heavy pot fall on his feet, and slipped.

Lying on the ground with the wasted Elixir, not daring to move and tempt his cruel fate, a resigned Sorey wondered if he could make a new drink out of his own tears.

***

“So.” Mikleo’s gaze swept through the kitchen, taking all details into account. The floor tile covered by some bluish liquid, the sink overflowing with dishes, the bandage on Sorey’s left hand. His friend truly had overdid himself today. “What happened in here?”

A disheveled Sorey - well, more disheveled than usual, if that was even possible - was looking away, all sheepish. A fit of sneezes was the only answer he gave.

“Why is it so cold in here?” asked Mikleo, tightening his coat against himself before turning to the hall window. “Did you leave it open all day?”

Green eyes shot to the window. Sorey looked like he was about to slam his head on the wall.

“The windows” he sighed, defeated.

Mikleo bit the inside of his cheek to repress a smile. And just like that Sorey spilled it all. How he had tried his best to impress Mikleo, just to see his efforts crushed by a single sneeze, and how he had tried to get rid of the evidence before his friends’ arrival.

Mikleo had to admit he was indeed impressed.

“How are you still alive?” he jokingly pointed.

Sorey laughed that awkward, cute laugh of his, scratching the back of his head. Mikleo sighed, how could he win against this? Another sneeze made him roll his eyes.

“Alright, you go close everything and sit next to the heater.” he ordered.

“But-”

“No but, you’ve done enough for today. I’ll take care of things now.”

“That wasn’t the plan,” whined Sorey.

“It is now.”

Mikleo pushed Sorey toward the living room, leaving no place for argument. He watched as Sorey did as he was told.

“Where is Rose?” Sorey asked while turning the heater back on.

“She dumped me on the way.” With a slap on my back and too much snickering for it to be innocent, he added for himself. That was probably her way to say have a fun night, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, you have my full approval. That was usually what she said anytime he met Sorey for studying. “She said she had business to take care of.”

“What kind?”

“We’re talking about Rose, I can’t and don’t want to know the answer to this question.”

“Fair point.”

Sorey reached for a blanket and wrapped it around himself, hiding another sneeze in it before crashing on the couch. Now that he was all settled, Mikleo could get to work. He turned to the kitchen, starting to unbutton his plaid coat.

“Seduce me with your big history knowledge.” came Sorey’s voice in his back.

Mikleo paused, throwing him a bewildered look.

“What?”

Sorey blushed, letting go of the blanket to lift his hands in front of him in a defensive gesture.

“That’s not me, it’s written on your back!”

Dread fell upon Mikleo. He promptly reached behind him, just where Rose’s hand had slapped him before parting ways. Sure enough he found the piece of paper stuck there. Now that explained why she was snickering so much, he thought, feeling his cheeks warming as he crushed the note in his hand.

“I will be in the kitchen!” he exclaimed before storming out.

“O-okay.”

Damnit Rose, was embarrassing her friends so fun?

He took a deep breath to calm his nerves, before grabbing the mop. There wasn’t much left to clean, Sorey had managed to wipe most of the elixir. Such a waste despite his best intentions, maybe they could try again later. For now the lingering smell was nice.

Another sneeze rang out in the apartment. Sorey needed to be warmed up.

Rose’s laughter echoed in his ears. He shook his head trying to calm his heart. There was no way he would ever follow her instructions. Sorey was just a friend, a precious rival he had to take care of so they could keep the competition going. Nothing else. He hadn’t fallen for those shiny green eyes and warm smile.

… Mikleo cleared his throat, finishing to mop the floor.

Another sneeze. He could make Sorey some hot cocoa. He set the cleaning tools aside going for the fridge. No milk. But a few red wine bottles next to the fridge. Surely, a bit of wine wouldn’t hurt Sorey. Mikleo looked around, catching sight of oranges, and smiled. They wouldn’t be drinking elixir tonight, but there was still a chance they could enjoy some good old mulled wine tonight. He searched for what he needed in the cupboards, impressed to find what he needed - except for sugar, but honey would do just fine.

He sliced an orange, washed one of the dirty saucepans lying in the sink and poured everything in it before placing it on the stove. Half an hour was all he needed to make a nice mulled wine. Sure not as fancy as Elixir but still fitting for the holidays.

When he came back to the living room, warm mugs in hands, Sorey was pouting. Mikleo felt his heart doing weird things again.

“Is that your way to thank your guest?”

“It’s not fair.” Sorey falsely complained. “I was supposed to be the one taking care of this and impress you, not let you fix everything once again.”

Mikleo set the mugs on the coffee table, before sitting next to his friend. The temperature of the room had finally reached a comfortable level. “If it can comfort you, I had planned to bring homemade cookies.”

Sorey’s perked up.

“Where are they?”

“In a trash can.” deadpanned Mikleo.

“Uh.”

“They all burned.”

The growing smile on Sorey’s face was as infuriating as it was adorable.

“So you’re not perfect in the end.”

“I’m still better than you.” Mikleo huffed.

“Harsh.”

Sorey carefully took the mug with his good hand, sniffing the content before taking a sip.

“That’s so good! I never had mulled wine before!”

“I’m glad this modest drink is to your liking.”

Sorey laughed, gently pushing Mikleo’s shoulder. Mikleo took a sip of his own drink. Not too bad for a last minute pull. If only baking could be that easy...

“So now that we’re all settled and that Rose isn’t here,” Sorey trailed while standing. “I shall try to seduce you with my big history knowledge.”

Mikleo almost choked on his drink, cheeks burning. He couldn’t mean- surely Sorey wasn’t that kind of guy, was he? Or was the wine too strong for him?

A large book was set on the table in front of them, ending Mikleo’s internal panic. He huffed a discreet sigh of relief. No, Sorey was just a nerd. A lovely nerd even, when he wasn’t smelling of sweat, though Mikleo would die before admitting it out loud.

Shoulder to shoulder, they leaned back onto the couch, careful not to spill any drop of mulled wine on the opened book.