#come on spine and muscle and sinew let's get it done!

[1ncandescentrage]

Cleaning is not meant to be a solitary activity

[my-wild-imagination1996]

Life is Crazy part II

A/N: This is not proofread and I am not perfect. There will be spelling and grammatical errors. I have not written smut in over 6 years, I’m sorry if it’s terrible. 

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION BASED ON THE AMAZING HUGH JACKMAN AND MY CRAZY IMAGINATION

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, Age gap reader is late twenties and Hugh is 55, swearing, P in V, unprotected sex (WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT), rough sex

Before you had decided to pursue your passions, you were familiar with normal workplace environments and you also knew that fucking or dating your coworkers can make things incredibly messy but yet here you were on Hugh’s coach in the aftermath of what had been an amazing time. 

“Would you like something to drink?” Hugh asked you hoarsely while pulling his jeans up but leaving himself shirtless.

“Absolutely. Um, water would be good.” You responded, suddenly very aware of how naked you were. You reached for your dress, putting it back on before following him. “I think that you should know I’m really not the type to just do this.”

“I mean it’s fine if you are.” He said with a chuckle while pulling a cold water bottle from his fridge.

“Well, I know that but I guess I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me.” You responded.

“And what’s the right impression?” He said challenging your thought process.

“The correct impression is someone who doesn’t just randomly suck her coworkers dick is what comes to mind.” You explained with all seriousness causing him to start laughing.

“I don’t know what kind of assholes you’ve dealt with before but I don’t think less of you because you sucked me off. This doesn’t have to change anything, we can still be friends and get to know one another.” He responded with the last sentence stinging a little bit. You had never been the hookup type and unfortunately for you, if you did hook up with someone, it was because deep down, you had a hope for more. 

“Well that’s good because I’m still pretty new to this whole hollywood thing and I don’t think that I can navigate everything alone.” You said while you subconsciously admired his body.

“If you keep looking at me like that then we’re gonna end up in my bed.” He said gruffly causing an insurgence of arousal course through you.

“I mean, would that really be a bad thing?” You said moving closer to him with a mischievous look in your eyes while taking a sip of water. 

As you sip the cold water, your gaze continues to travel up his body, taking in the broad shoulders and the defined arms. He was a work of art, a sculpture of muscle and sinew, and you couldn't help but appreciate every inch of him.

"You know, Hugh," you begin, setting the bottle down on the counter, "It's not like I wouldn't be willing to move things to the bedroom." You lean against the counter, crossing your legs, letting your dress ride up slightly, revealing a hint of thigh. "I mean, we could always..." You trail off, biting your lip again, this time with a hint of mischief.

Hugh's eyes darken with desire as he takes a step towards you, his movements purposeful. "Oh, really? And what did you have in mind?" His voice is low and gravelly, sending a rush of heat between your thighs. He leans in close, his breath tickling your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "I thought you might need a break after the way you eagerly sucked me off."

Feeling a surge of boldness, you turn to face him, your eyes locked with his. "Who said I'm done with you, Hugh?" You reach up and run your fingers through his dark brown hair, pulling his head down for a kiss. Your lips meet hungrily, and you can taste the remnants of your desire on his tongue. His hands grasp your hips, pulling you closer, and you can feel his growing erection pressing against your belly.

His hands roam over your body, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples through the fabric of your dress. You gasp at the contact, arching into his touch, wanting more.

Without warning, Hugh spins you around, pressing your body against the kitchen counter. You feel the cool granite against your heated skin as he hikes up your dress, exposing your bare ass. "Maybe I should just take you right here against the counter" he growls, his hot breath on your neck.

You moan, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation, as you feel his hand connect with your ass cheek, delivering a sharp smack that makes your skin tingle. "Holy shit!" you cry out, your body already responding to his dominant touch. Hugh spanks you again, this time harder, and you squirm, feeling a delicious mix of pain and pleasure.

His rough hands grip your thighs, spreading your legs, and you feel the cool air on your core. "You're so fucking responsive," he whispers, his lips close to your ear. "I love how your body betrays your shy nature." He teases your pussy with his fingers, tracing your folds, but avoiding your aching clit.

"Please, Hugh," you beg, your voice hoarse. You yearn for his rough caress, craving the release only he can provide. Hugh chuckles, the sound sending a thrill through you. "Please, what? What do you want me to do, baby girl?"

“Touch me, fuck me, I don’t care, just do something.” You beg, causing a smile to paint on Hugh’s face.

He steps back, leaving you breathless and wanting, and you turn your head, watching as he unzips his jeans. His hard cock springs free, thick and veiny, and you lick your lips at the sight. 

He takes a step forward, positioning himself at your entrance. With one swift thrust, he fills you, his girth stretching you deliciously. You gasp, your eyes rolling back as you feel him hitting all the right spots. "Fuck, yes!" you exclaim, meeting his thrusts with abandon.

Hugh grips your hips, pounding into you relentlessly, his balls slapping against your sensitive skin. "You like it rough, don't you, y/n?" he grunts between thrusts. "Tell me you want my cock."

"Yes, Hugh, yes!" you cry out, your nails digging into the countertop. "Your cock feels so fucking good inside me!" His dominance fuels your desire, and you match his rhythm, pushing back onto his length.

He reaches around, his fingers finding your swollen clit, and begins to rub it in firm circles. "That's it, cum for me, you little slut," he growls, his voice hoarse with need. Your orgasm builds, a coiling tension deep within, and you scream as the pleasure explodes through your body.

Hugh's own release is close, and he grabs your hips tighter, his breath coming in harsh gasps. 

With a final powerful thrust, he empties himself onto your back, his cock throbbing as the final spurts release. You collapse onto the counter, spent and satisfied, your heart pounding. He leans on against you for a minute before grabbing a paper towel to clean off your back.

Hugh turns you around, pulling you into a tight embrace, his lips finding yours in a tender kiss. You smile, content. Once you come down from your high, you see the clock in his kitchen reading past midnight. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to stay or go.

“Did you want me to head back to my house? If you did, it’s totally fine. I just would like you to walk me back to my car.” You asked nervously, looking up at him.

“Well when I brought you here, I fully intended for you to stay the night, but if you want to leave, I can walk you to your car.” He stated.

“I can stay as long as I’m not imposing.” You stated.

He smiled at you before walking you to the bedroom where you two went another round. You figured that you’d deal with the consequences later.

When you woke up in Hugh’s bed, he wasn’t there but you could smell bacon or sausage of sorts. You got up, realizing that your dress was left in the kitchen. You walked into the kitchen nervous cause you were completely naked and didn’t see Hugh. You quickly grabbed your dress and slipped it on. As if in perfect unison, as soon as you had slipped on your dress, Hugh entered the room. 

“I hope you know that I don’t think that this means anything.” You started, seeming to surprise Hugh with the statement.

“Good. It makes this less complicated. I made breakfast so you can eat and then we can head back to Ryan’s to get your car.” He said kindly.

Tags:

@godlypresley

[boxfullaturtles]

Donnie + gagged and/or drugged

If he ever gets out of this chair, Donnie's going to cut out Kendra's tongue so he doesn't have to hear her stupid voice anymore.

She's spent the last ten minutes gloating and rubbing it in his face that she has him tied up and at her mercy. He's given up interrupting her because the banter's gotten boring. And his wrists are starting to hurt from the bindings holding him to the chair.

"--which means we obviously need you and your dumb brothers out of the way for a while," Kendra's saying, pacing in front of him as she preaches, "So in a few minutes we're gonna have a visitor. They're gonna give me a shit ton of money...and we're gonna give you to them. Don't worry, they take care of exotic animals, I'm sure you'll be fine."

That makes his temper flair, "Animal!? ANIMAL!? I am not some pet! This is human trafficking!" He snarls, wrenching against his restraints.

"It might be...if you were human," Kendra laughs, cruel and nasty and cold. Jeremy looks smug. Jase is nowhere to be seen.

Donnie snaps his teeth in frustration and decides he doesn't want to stick around to play her game anymore. His markings flicker as he calls his mystic powers to the surface. Constructs are clicking into an array of guns around him when a needle bites into his elbows. It breaks his concentration and he whips his head around to glare at Jase, who'd snuck up behind the chair while Donnie had been preoccupied by Kendra.

Fuck.

There's an empty syringe in his hand. Donnie's heart pounds in his chest as his gaze snags on it. He looks up sharply at Jase, who won't meet his eyes, and then turns to stare at Kendra.

"What did you do? What was in that?"

"You need to be less...bitey for our client," Kendra says with that mean smile of hers, "Rellaaaxxx, it'll make you feel good, Von Ryan. It'll be the best trip you've ever had."

Panic is making his breath come faster. Drugged. She's drugged him. And he swears he can feel it surging through his veins, his frantic heart pumping it through the rest of his body. He's never done hard drugs; he and Leo had the curious bit of weed every now and then but even that was a rare thing, done only in the confines of secrecy and solitude when they knew without a shadow of a doubt that they would not need their wits about them for several hours.

"Kendra--" Donnie chokes on his voice. This is ludicrous. It doesn't feel real. Sure, the Purple Dragons have tried to kill him and his brothers half a dozen times, but they're too stupid and incompetent to actually do it.

But now Donnie's tied to a chair, at their mercy, and he--

His head feels strange.

The room has started tilting like the deck of a ship. (He’s never been on a ship at sea. He's never been to the ocean.) He sways, rocks, his body is loosely connected by sinew and bone, wet meat and hot blood. Inefficient and easily damaged.

He doesn't like this. It's weird. Everything's wrong.

The world groans and vibrates with movements and sound. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block it all out. His own breath whistles down his throat and he can feel the creak of his lungs expanding balloons, pushing his plastron, stretching his flesh, muscles flexing and contracting, organs settling, blood racing--

Fingers dig into his face, tilt his head up, and he blinks against the lights. There's someone leaning over him, bigger than Kendra. A stranger. Donnie whines, feels the sound vibrate in his skull (he can count the vertebrae in his spine and so can Leo). His eyes roll. The stranger's touch is poison ivy; it makes his flesh itch and burn. He tries to pull away but they tighten their hold, grinding into his jaw bones. There are voices but he can't remember what sounds words make and he only catches a few things.

"-------old did you------------looks young---------"

"----teen I guess------never asked."

The stranger's thick fingers pry Donnie's mouth open, running a clinical finger over his gums and examining his teeth. He lets out a garbled wretch. He can taste the atoms that make them up, every place they've been sticking to their filthy hands, smearing dirt inside his mouth (stop stop stop stopstopstopstoptstop). But he doesn't have the strength to resist or even spit the horrid flavor out. He's floating a million miles away. There are stars in his bloodstream.

Hands leave heat trails over Donnie's arms and down his plastron. His gear is peeled away, the bindings removed. Some distant part of him screams to run, but his body and mind giggle and remain boneless rubber.

"----like this or------"

"----bites-------dose of some-------"

His body jerks, slumping forward. Someone's trying to pry the battleshell off his back and he lets out a high pitched keen that pops in his own eardrums.

("Don't be afraid, little Hamato...")

No. No no no no nononononono--

("You are not alone.")

Violet neon light erupts around him, blinding and avenging.

The world turns with rapid click click click click click.

A blaze of noise. He's dropped, the stranger's hands are gone. He hits the floor and he can hardly breathe, his head spinning in a million different directions, trickling into electrical outlets and clambering up grounding lines.

He's spread so thin...

...what was his name again? (where are his brothers?)

There's something sticky and warm on his hands. On his chest. It smells like iron. Metal and heat and something grinding to a halt. A dead engine. Ozone.

No one's touching him anymore.

The universe has gone quiet.

[beskarberry]

Bilgerat

Bargaining with Beskar, Chapter 10

(The Mandalorian x f!reader) (+18)

"The grip on your back tightened, and a low growl reverberated through the iron underneath you. You’ve got company."

<-Previous Next->

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 18.3k whoopsie

Content warnings: Big kinky: cock warming, wet-ish dreams, knife play (no blood), vibrator play, squirting. Small kinky: predator/prey dynamic, lots of biting, soft choking, mentions of chapter 9's shenanigans. Kinkles (kink sprinkles): breeding/pregnancy, begging, overstim. Not-smut stuff: alcohol consumption, lots of story, introduction of OCs, more backstory for reader, some fuckin ANGST.

A/N: Story time! Some slice of life, some romance, some adventure! Once again Mando and his love get themselves in trouble because they tried to be cute so shocker-roony-roo there's some long fluff scenes cushioning the smut that I hope you enjoy~

Chilly.

You grumbled and squished yourself closer to the heat source you were wedged against, but your backside was uncovered and prickling with goosebumps in the faint, icy wisps that still made their way through the slap-n-patch fixes you’d made to the Crest’s busted walls. Groping blindly you searched for your bantha wool blankie, but all you found was the cold, unforgiving durasteel of the sleeping alcove under your fingers. You flopped an arm over the hot body pressed to your chest, trying to see if the blanket was on his side, but only found more frigid steel. Din rumbled and hugged you closer, nuzzling his face against yours like a big dopey massif and snoring right in your ear. His arms and chest were wonderfully warm, but the skin on your booty stung in the chill air. Blanket.

You pressed a lazy kiss or two to his sleeping face and started trying to untangle yourself from his limbs. His fingers burrowed deeper into your sides, begging you not to leave. I know, just gimme a sec. Somehow you managed to get yourself sitting up, and you glanced around the cot trying to find your cover. The only thing beside you in the narrow space was the stretched out body of your Mandalorian, the dim emergency lights catching on his many scars. The smooth patches of skin outlined his form in the dark like lost stars that had come to rest next to you, shimmering over the sleeping warrior with each slow breath.

It was still a little strange to see him so vulnerable, though you had earned the right to see him this way, he usually chose to wear his full beskar even in your presence. However, squashed into the sleeping alcove next to you he was buck-ass naked, and you couldn’t help but stare. Stars above he’s beautiful, even as a dark smudge in the faded light you could see the way he was built. Muscle, and lots of it, laying gracefully under his marred skin. He wasn’t bulky by any means, but he was big. At his full height he was an impressive stack of meat and sinew, but laying on his side he looked like a mountain range, rolling peaks and valleys that called you to climb them.

You let yourself indulge in the sight of him, just for a moment. Battleborne shoulders nestled on either side of a wide, sturdy back that led your eyes down the dip of his spine to the rise of his hips, over their swells, and down to the slopes of his legs. His angled knees sent your eyes right back up, past the tuft of fuzz that hid his groin and over the soft, sweet rolls of his tummy. The breadth of his chest was hidden by his long arms, but their lovingly chiseled curves brought your eyes to his wide, calloused hands.

Maker above those hands. Versatile and strong, hands that fired weapons with lethal accuracy, tossed bounties like bags of garbage and drove blades through bone like it was wet paper. And yet they held you so perfectly, so softly when they wanted to. They sat beautifully anywhere on your body, your hips, your shoulders, your breasts. Perfectly cupped to lay flush with your skin wherever they roamed, and just the right size to lace between your fingers while you slept. Or finger you til you passed out.

Distracted by the sleeping warrior you shivered in the cold air, reminding you that you could lay back down next to the man you’d chosen to walk the stars with as soon as you found your fucking blanket. As you worked yourself off the bed you set a hand on his hip, gliding your fingers through the soft fuzz that dusted his thigh while you snuck out of the cot. He grumbled and twitched from your touch, his own hands fidgeting in his sleep to try to find you.

You scootched off the bed, holding onto his leg for support as you did. Your bare feet hit the floor, and you nearly screamed from the cold of it, oh fuck cold! The icy floor of the ship woke your ass right up and had you doing a stupid dance to escape the frostburn. Ouch ouch ouch! You jazzed your way to the closest locker, grabbing a blanket and a pair of socks and hobbling back over to the bunk. Why don’t I have socks on? Oh, that’s right, hehe.

Yesterday’s events lazed through your mind while you tugged the tubes up your legs, realizing that they weren’t your socks when the heel stretched past your ankle. Sitting on the edge of the bunk you noticed the beskar strewn about the cabin like so many scattered plates. It wasn’t like him to just discard his cultural armor, but you remembered what the hydra’s nectar had done to the both of you, your face going hot at the memory of his face buried in the apex of your thighs, dripping with sweetness.

Idley you ran a palm over your middle, poking yourself in the guts just to be sure. Nope, no stragglers. You pushed your fingers as far into your stomach as you could, relieved and a little surprised to find that you felt no pain. Din had done a fantastic job of ridding you of your…quarries, though you were still a little bummed that you had only managed to capture one. You weren’t sure where it was at now, probably stashed in one of the many mangled lockers with the trophy you had taken from the last hunt, hopefully not growing anything. Hmm, wouldn’t mind taking another ride on that amorous anemone though, truth be told. You chuckled at the thought, the movement of air in your throat making you thirsty, and you headed to the fresher to get something to drink.

Draped in your blanket like a cloak you tip-toed in your stocking feet to the tiny space, squinting your eyes closed before you turned on the light. Dark, slime-covered shapes clogged up the narrow alcove, and you begrudgingly collected the laundry to chuck into the automated cleaner. Something clankered out of the fabric when the clothing hit the drum of the washer, check the pockets, dingus!

Son of a bitch there was a lot of shit in those pockets, from munitions to bacta to petrified teeth, and you started to tick yourself off that you had somehow started doing chores in the middle of the night. I should have just stayed in bed! The fresher sink heaped with junk when you finally had all the pockets cleared and the fabric piled in the scrubber. You punched the cleaners activator, mindlessly watching the clothes spin round and round while you sipped at a cold cup of water.

Frazzled neurons blared the word ‘foundling’ through your head, and you strode through the poorly illuminated space to where the child’s pram hovered on the other side of the cabin. As you went you took a moment to glance up at the distant night sky through the ladder hatch, cursing when you tripped over a piece of tossed beskar. You slid the cradle’s lid open as quietly as you could to see the sleeping prince, curled in a little ball in his father’s cloak. It’s too cold for you to be by yourself, you need to be with your boo-ear.

Out like a light, he didn’t budge when you scooped the heap of fabric into your arms and snuck back over to your bed. You clambered over your sleeping partner and plopped down on your butt, keeping the child in your lap while you adjusted the warm blanket to fit over you and your mate. You tucked Goobs up under your chin and made yourself into the middle spoon, pushing your backside into the hollow of Din’s hips. The mighty warrior hummed fondly against the back of your head as he spooled himself around you. Aaannd… there it is.

You grumbled and reached down to adjust your thighs, settling the pillowy flesh around the stiffy that prodded against your ass. Din huffed and rutted between your legs with a deep sigh, his cock twitching softly against your mound. It’s only natural you’d once told yourself, and it’s not like either of us are going to accomplish anything. Fine, you can bunk with me, mini-mando. You ignored Din’s poker to get the foundling comfy in between your arms and the arms that were wrapped around you like a big warm octopus. Snug as a bug in a rug the baby was, and a gurgling snore made your heart swell. Like father, like son.

A whiskery muzzle snuggled against the back of your head, brushing through your hair and bumping against the shell of your ear. Tiredness tugged at your eyelids, and you were almost back to sleep when the beast between your legs shifted, sliding backwards and forward again to catch uncomfortably in the dip of your mound. Damn it all are you kidding me! You shuffled your hips, dislodging him from the poorly stuck spot to sit like a sausage in a bun between your thighs. There, stay put you big horndog.

Nope, the sleeping mountain humped again, snagging himself in the same spot. You suck. With a groan you stuffed your hand down between your legs and notched the tip of his cock into the slick space it was made for, the heat of it making a delicious shiver work its way up your spine. Din moaned and hugged you closer, rocking himself deeper into your core and mumbling some Mando’a against your hair with another warrior’s snore. You were still decently lubed with yesterday’s happy fun times, and you slid your thighs against each other to roll your coils around the deliciously thick spear you now had sheathed in you.

His warm, velvety length sat perfectly in your hearth, sending plumes of heat spreading through your body. You were nice and toasty now, snuggled under the wooly blanket and squashed between the snorers on either side of your body. Din sighed in his sleep and let himself be still, keeping his cock warm in the blessed heat of your core. You could feel him, not just as the human blanket impression that he was doing wrapped around your body, but also between your legs, the gentle thrum of his heartbeat felt inside and out; and the slow, steady rhythm put you to sleep in seconds.

~

Thirsty.

Din was thirsty, the dryness in his mouth waking him up from the most wonderful dream. In his nectar-addled mind he was making love to you on some lush, sundrenched world while the setting sun lit up like a halo behind you. Your legs had been thrown over his hips while you rode him, the swell of your pregnant belly sitting heavily on his abdomen. What a sight she is! Maker above truly there can be no other creature as beautiful as her. In his dreamscape his words were distant, but he remembered telling you how much he loves you, how much he will love your younglings, how proud he is to be your husband. He watched awestruck as you crested above him over and over again like a ship breaking the waves, mighty and unyielding as a galleon in a storm.

He didn’t want to wake up from that perfect vision, but the feeling of his tongue sticking to his teeth forced his eyes open. You were pressed so close to his chest he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began, and he carefully slid his hand down your arm to find the foundling nestled against your chest. When did he get in bed? Din didn’t remember you getting up, and he knew he had left the child in his pram right before the ambrosia took control. I must be sleeping heavier than I realize.

Bantha wool brushed against his arms while he let his free hand roam, sliding his rough palm over your soft skin. He made a loop from the sides of your hips, up the curves of your waist, and down your arms to the foundling again; running his thumb over the long green ears of his adopted son and smiling at the gentle coo noise that came from under your chin. How did he get so lucky to have the two most precious creatures in the entire galaxy right there in his arms? He kissed the back of your head, the movement reminding him what had woken him up in the first place, thirsty.

Din carefully started to pull himself upright, only to find himself stuck, and he shuddered at the sensation of discovering what else he had slept through. Brows knit together, he blinked and squinted in the dark down the curve of your spine to where he was buried to the hilt between your legs, wondering if he was still dreaming. How rude of me, hasn’t she had enough of that? Hot embarrassment scalded his cheeks as he tried to work himself out of your silken folds, but the squeeze that you bore down to keep him in place had him biting his lip to keep from moaning out loud. Stars above…

Gently he slid himself out, torn between trying not to wake you and desperately needing to free his wandering cock. Fuck though you were so warm, and wet… wonderfully wet. He’d nearly pulled his length free when you shuffled in your sleep and stuffed your ass back against him, and the groan that broke its way out of his throat couldn’t be suppressed, the heat of it fanning steam against your hair. He bit down hard on his tongue and tugged his cock out, wincing from the quick draw.

Din pressed a chapped kiss to the side of your head and snuck himself out of the sleeping nook you both shared. It was frigid inside the ship, and the cold air that circulated in through the damaged air ducts stung against his flesh. Silent as a lothcat he slinked to the fresher, and the first thing that caught his attention was the sound of the automated cleaning unit spinning round. It had nearly finished its cycle, and he smiled a little sheepishly at the pile of trinkets that heaped out of the sink.

He picked a krayt’s tooth out of the pile, slowly running his thumb over the intricate patterns carved into the opalized bone with a lopsided grin on his face. My riddur. Pushing the rest of the items aside, he carefully turned the faucet and filled a mug. She must have gotten up at some point then. Din sipped quietly at the chilled water, watching the laundry spin round and round in the hazy lights. I wonder why, it’s not like her to wake up in the middle of the night. He giggled to himself in the dark, that woman sleeps through everything, including me.

His brain was slowly coming out of power-saving mode, and the reason for the clothes needing to be washed gooped its way into his frontal lobe. Quarry. A weird mix of emotions sloshed its way through him, first and foremost was rage. Knuckles cracked in his tightening fist, I’ll strangle whoever commissioned that bounty, there was definitely some need-to-know information missing from that fucking puck!

Gross jealousy sizzled behind his eyes at the thought of what that thing did to his wife, followed by a shudder at what it might have done to him. He took another swig, the ice water burning on the way down, at least she’s not hurt. She actually looked like she enjoyed it. A new heat made itself known across his cheeks, what had that looked like before I showed up, I wonder?

His shaft had just started to cease its midnight delinquency, only to perk right back up at the thought of the show he had missed out on. He shook his head and strode over to a mangled locker, finding himself some long johns to pull up and contain himself with. But the thought wouldn’t leave him, that thing had literally fucked you fuller than his wildest dreams. Lust tangled with envy in his chest, between the image of that thing pumping you full and the memory of what it had filled you with he was starting to sweat. But both feelings lost against the ultimate competitor: fear.

What if she’s in pain?

Suddenly fear crept its way to his throat, tasting like bile on the back of his tongue. That was a lot to take in at once, what if that’s why she got up to dig through the pockets, to find some bacta for her sore stomach? The sweat on his brow turned to ice, maybe it wasn’t your stomach that hurt. He cast a glance over to where you still laid with your baby, curled up in a protective ball around him. She would have told me if she was in pain though, right? One thing he knew for sure about you was that you were stubborn, and you usually chose the ‘suck it up’ route over asking for help. Help. I should help! I’m a good helper!

Downing his drink he dug through another cabinet, trying to stay quiet as he did; though probably more so for the foundling than for the bantha he bed with. He found one of the big tubes of bacta salve that he kept for emergencies, forgoing using one of the e-bacta shots he kept for emergency emergencies. Tube in hand, he slid back into bed behind you, carefully bunching the blanket over your side so you wouldn’t get cold. He warmed a big glob of bacta between his palms and slowly massaged it over your tummy, trying not to get it on the blanket or the foundling as his fingers kneaded the soft, supple flesh.

Bacta was a strange marvel of science, and maybe a little bit of magic. With enough of it you could patch a wound or heal a burn, and Din hoped that if he slathered enough of it on it would soak into your guts and fix anything that might be broken. This is mine, and I must protect it. Protect her. You grumbled in your sleep at the sensation of the medicinal salve, but your eyes stayed closed, allowing your riduur to lovingly caress at your precious belly. Never hurts to be cautious.

When he’d finished his administrations he wiped the remaining bacta off on his under-armor, trying to clean the ointment off his fingers before they went numb. Squeezing himself back into place along your spine, he burrowed his nose in your hair and sighed deeply, letting the scent of you fill his lungs. I told you I would bring you the stars, my love, I can bring you bacta as well. His adoration for his lifemate lead his lucid mind back to the dreams he had left, and he curled himself around you and the foundling as he drifted back to sleep.

~

“Electrical?”

“Up and running, seventy-eight percent capacity.”

A frosty morning had greeted you in the bottom of the glacial basin you were still stuck in, though hopefully not for much longer. Ship repairs had been finished to the best of both your abilities, and you were scurrying from task to task, helping Mando make the final prep checks before you hobbled your way off of fabulous vacation destination: Hoth. You had woken up that day feeling like a fat, lazy lothcat all curled up on your bunk, comfy and warm in a pile of bantha wool.

“Comms?”

“Operational, for now. Might lose those when we break the stratosphere, though.”

A mug of hot, watery caff had been waiting for you in the nervous hands of your re-armored riddur, and you’d drank it like you’d been stranded in the desert for days. He’d watched you eagerly, those honeywell depths of his full of curiosity and reverence, never leaving your form until you’d emptied your mug. Din had offered you another, and three more times you drank it down. Thirsty.

“Cabin pressure?”

“Holding!”

Still covered in the bacta you had been slathered in while you slept, you’d finally gotten to do the repairs on the ship’s exterior like you had planned to. The foundling was left on the flight deck, and you would wave to him through the transparisteel while you were on the roof. The pair of you gave it everything you had to piece the broken bird back together, but you had been right in your assumptions that an actual mechanic would be needed to suture the gashes that still twisted the iron flesh of the Razor Crest. Hyperdrive was too much of a risk to take in such a condition, and you would be holed up in the crowded cockpit until you were able to limp your way to the nearest station.

“Navigation?”

“Functional, sorta…”

“Radar?”

“Hot garbage.”

Everything you didn’t want to lose to the vacuum of space had to be moved into the upper deck. Weapons and quarries and all the amenities that made space travel bearable had to be crammed into the auxiliary space between the flight deck and the fuselage access door, leaving very little room for the living creatures that called the Razor home.

“What’s our offensive capabilities?”

“Zilch, unless you wanna roll down a window and we can shoot at whatever comes our way.”

“Fucking fantastic.”

This would be dangerous. Your forecanons were mangled, curling upwards like a pair of tusks from the mechanical beast. The blackmarket blaster cannons would probably need to be replaced, though the last dredges of your credits would have to go towards the ship itself.

“Foundling?”

“Snacking! Want a biscuit? They’re double chocolate.”

“...Yeah. Thank you cyare.”

Din stuffed the cookie in his mouth and pulled his helmet back down, signaling the start of the launch sequence. Your checklist was complete, and you made to buckle yourself and the foundling down to enjoy your pile of trip snacks when a heavily armored paw caught your arm. “How are you? You haven’t said anything about… the encounter.”

You shrugged, truth be told you were fine, though you weren’t sure if your ‘encounter’ had left you numb or if it was the ridiculous amount of bacta you had been drenched in while you slept; but either way you were just dandy. If anyone was still reeling from the events in the creeping reef, it was him.

“I’m alright, fussbucket. Really!” You curled your lips with a sneer, “Wanna open the thermos? Take a sniff?”

“No! Keep that damn thing locked up, if anything just so it doesn’t dry out. When we turn that fucking puck in I’m going to strangle whoever commissioned it…” Rage quaked his shoulders, but he shook the fury off, bringing his attention back to you. “Do you need more bacta?”

“No I do not need any more bacta! I feel like a damn stifling I’m so slimy. Do we even have any left over?” He gave a half-assed shrug, and you added bacta salves to your mental grocery list. His gloved hands fidgeted against his armrests, and you reached out to squeeze one. “How about you, are you alright?”

“Fine.” came a curt reply, quick and decisive and obviously a lie. ‘Fine’ was a four-letter-word as far as you were concerned, but it would have to do for now. You could discuss whatever was bugging him more in depth when your ship wasn’t threatening to fly apart at the seams and you were off of this frozen hell-hole.

“If you say so.” You tugged his hand to you and gave it a long, strong kiss. He pulled your hand back to him almost too quickly, knocking your knuckles against the brow of his helmet. A foolish tug of war ensued, both of you trying to keep the other’s hand for themselves. Neither of you won the battle, opting to just lace your fingers in the space between the two chairs and let your hands hang together. He was motionless besides the gentle roll of his thumb over your knuckles, and the tension in the air gave you the feeling he wanted to say something, but a final squeeze was given before he returned to the steering controls. Later.

“Alright, starting engine sequence.” Rocketeer extraordinaire, your Mandalorian fired up the old ship, carefully taking her through her paces. “Routing power to main ion accelerators… now.” The turbines that jutted out from the ship’s sides sputtered and roared, backfiring so loudly that chunks of ice fell from above and crashed into the window. Mando cursed under his breath and eased off the accelerator, flipping a handful of switches and gently pushing the joystick forward again. The engines spooled back up, barking out a few more explosions in protest before they were chugging away.

“Yeah that’s not terrifying or anything.” You held your hands over the foundlings ears, trying to protect his sails from the noise. The child was happily distracted by the crumbly snack he was working on, and glanced up at you with eyes too big for his head. Out the window you could see one of the offending engines, sparks splashing out over the patch job the two of you had made. “Come on baby girl, you can do it! Booger, help me out.” You held your hands out in front of you and waggled your fingers at the engine, and the foundling did his best to copy you without dropping his snackies.

Your combined sparkle fingers must have worked, because a final -kErPlOw- rocked the boat to her core before she was lifting off from the ground. As dainty as a cement mixer full of bricks she rose through the cerulean cathedral, shaking snow and ice from her iron mane. The Mandalorian’s grip on the steering controls creaked when she tilted to one side, listing unevenly while he tried to level her out. Slowly she ascended, and soon the -KaRunCh!- of the frozen ceiling hitting the roof echoed threateningly in the cabin. Just a bit more…

The breach fell away beneath you, a dark, jagged stain on an otherwise pristine sheet that blazed with the fading sunset. The ice plains of Hoth spiraled away until you were in the clouds, crystals freezing on the window as you started to break through the atmosphere. The Crest rebelled, shuddering and creaking as she bullied her way through. Over the roar of the engines you could hear the sound of your heartbeat, galloping like a fathier while you clutched the foundling to your chest. He didn’t give a royal fuck, and you wondered just how much bullshit he’d gone through before you met.

The shuddering stopped when you broke the exosphere, and you watched the secretive ice planet glide out of view. Ideally you would have flown to an on-world shipyard to get repairs, but aside from the ‘friends’ you’d made, there was no sentient life left on the forsaken snowball. The Empire had seen to that. Your star maps indicated that there was an outpost near the system’s rim, but traveling under the speed of light meant you would be on the proverbial road for almost a cycle. At least you had good company.

Sorta. The foundling was a riot, and the two of you sat on the floor and played with the little silver ball that usually screwed onto one of the levers, rolling it back and forth trying to score ‘goals’ against the other; and you were losing by a landslide. Your pilot on the other hand was dead quiet, focused intently on getting to the station. It was just as dangerous not to be in hyperspace as it was to be, though for entirely different reasons. The streaking stars could rip you to pieces if you got your math wrong, but taking a leisurely stroll through the void could make you an easy target for roving outlaws.

The foundling grew bored of the ball game eventually and wandered over to his papa, who pulled the silly creature into his lap to look out at the unmoving stars. The child went right for the flashy buttons on the dash, earning himself a weak scolding and unfortunately inventing himself a new game: bug dad! So many buttons, so many choices! What does this one do? How ‘bout this one? Oooooh, levers! Tiny green paws raised hell from his perfect perch until the metal monolith sighed and hugged the baby tight, making the tiny terror gibber grumpily at his living prison.

“That’s enough, womp rat, we don’t need to crash a second time.” Though he was trying to be stern, Mando couldn’t help but bounce the baby on his knee, making the child giggle sweetly. You glanced quickly at the star maps before joining your crew, noting the distance you had put between here and Hoth and how much further you had to go. There were a few orbits you would have to pass through before you got to the station, and you made a mental note of a planet that seemed to mark the halfway point of your journey.

You joined your boys at the front of the flight deck, lazily draping your arms over your oathsworn’s shoulders and patting the baby on the head. Din leaned his helmet into the crook of your neck while you tried to teach the foundling how to play patty-cake. “Ok hands up, lemme see your- there we go. Hold your paws up like this...” You clapped your hands together and slowly patted the child’s palms in turn, “Say, say oh play-mate, come out and play with me…”

Beans gibbered and laughed, though he wasn’t able to follow along very well, but as long as he was having fun then so were you. You finished a round and grabbed Din’s gloved mitts, holding on to his wrists and making him play with the baby too. He huffed against you, but your ears had long since learned to tell the difference between a disgruntled huff and a contented sigh.

A handful of road trip games ensued until the child yawned, and the two adults yawned with him. Din passed the baby off to you, insisting that he take the first watch and that he would wake you when you were closer to the planet that marked the half-way point.

Snuggled up with the foundling you had yourself a catnap, though more to pass the time than to actually rest. You were dreaming about a parade of Ewoks in funny hats when you felt something tug on your leg. Opening sleep-crusted eyes you squinted at the visor that was in your line of sight and grumbled, “Are we there yet?”

A warm laugh rumbled his beskar, “No, but there’s something I want you to see. Look.” He cocked his head towards the front window, and you followed his gaze to see the jaw dropping view spread out against the transparisteel. You had traveled space for many moons, seen countless wonders that many a spacer had written odes to, but the ships you sailed on rarely got so close to a gas giant as big as this.

It was massive, clouds the color of a raging wildfire swirling over its surface, a fireball of reds and golds that overtook the starry backdrop it hung against in a blaze of glory. A broad splotch of crimson smeared over the atmosphere’s surface, a storm the size of a hundred worlds. Though the celestial sphere was a beauty on it’s own, its crowning jewel was the expansive ring that curled around it. Thousands of miles wide, the glittering bands of ice and nebular material shimmered in the distant light of the star that the planet orbited, and only got brighter as your ship glided closer.

Your captain brought the old gunship in smoothly until the belted disk was directly beneath you, and at this range the rings spread out to infinity on either side of the window from the radiant planet to the void of space; chunks of quartz and silica flashing like flames with the reflection of the gas giant as they disappeared under your keel.

The faint whirring of the ship’s innards didn’t do the scene justice, though her engines seemed to be tuned to a specific note that started a symphony between your ears that soon grew an entire orchestra for your thoughts alone. The rings of the world before you would serve as the staff that the notes rested on for your celestial song, and you let your own mind be the maestro to lead it.

A swell of strings, clear and mellow would rise to the occasion, lifted by a deep harmony of bass. Bows slide over the strings of oaken cellos, low, slow and strong, their notes as rich as gold. Like an outstretched hand their swells beckon a viola to dance. High and fast, beating like a hummingbird's heart. One two three, one two, one two three, one two. Step, slide, spin, throw! The notes become a ballet, the viola pirouettes, leaping from the arms of her cello she soars! Cosmic wings unfurled like solar sails she climbs, higher and higher, her flight sending a meteor shower down to fall on a brassy percussion that serenades the stars.

A minor chord summons the viola back to grace the stage, and she bows before the major key returns victorious. A woodwind competes with the melody, a challenge of fire and ice, knives of frost and bolts of lightning. A rise like a comet burning through the atmosphere fills the astral amphitheater as the polyphonic harmony blends into one single sound. A crescendo blooms the symphony away into the depths of space, and it fades from your thoughts to herald the planet’s dawn to the unending corners of the Universe, pouring like molten gold.

Magnificent.

Spellbound by the music that never met your ears, you were almost startled to feel a gloved hand settle on your arm; careful not to disturb the foundling that you still cradled. You peeled your eyes away from the window to meet with the tilted visor of your companion, giving him a sheepish little smile when you realized he had been watching you. With one hand still on the steering he brushed the backs of his knuckles against the skin of your arm, and you adjusted the sleepy green baby to let one of your hands find your husband’s.

Din tugged gently on your hand and bid you to him until you were seated across his lap in the way you sometimes rested together. Leaning your head against his beskar, you cuddled the foundling and watched the enormous span of rings flow under you. Din only needed one hand to drive, the other wrapped protectively around your back to hug you tight. There was no reason for him to be this close to the planet’s rings, you realized, he had chosen to bring the ship in, just for you to see.

Or maybe just to see you see.

“Thank you.” You whispered against the armor where his ear should be, pressing a kiss to the cool metal as you did. “It’s beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you, mesh’la.”

You’d left your own beskar by your seat, so there was no chime when you knocked your brow against the side of his beskar, but he rumbled against you anyway. With a flick of his wrist he angled the Crest through a thin patch in the ring, flipping the disk over your head. The artificial gravity in the ship was the only source of relativity in the vastness of space, and the change in position gave you a slight sense of vertigo now that you appeared to be flying upside down. The Mandalorian could probably thread the old ship through the rings more adventurously if the busted bird was in better shape, but for now just a few dips would do.

The ship breached back up through the rings once more like a durasteel whale, sailing towards the black smear where the planet blocked the closest starlight from reaching the disk. The shadow of the sphere draped over the rings ahead of you, a blanket of night on an otherwise glaring garter of galactic glitter. Your ship coasted into the umbral shadow, making the daylight side of the planet fade into a sliver of light, eclipsing the stars with a ring of fire. The darkness made the belt nearly invisible, but the stars above glittered brighter than ever against the backdrop of the void.

You’d nearly cleared the dark side when something else glittering caught your eye. Against the black, starless space where the planet was something shimmered.

Something metallic.

From out of the celestial giant’s shadow a wide-winged ship soared out of the umbral cast, the distant starlight shining brightly on its copper-colored hide. A sleek aerofoil, long and flat like a manta ray with a wide receiving port on its bow coasted towards you, casting its own shadow over the planet’s rings. The grip on your back tightened, and a low growl reverberated through the iron underneath you. You’ve got company.

A red light began flashing on the comms panel, announcing that you were being hailed. “The fuck do they want?” You stood up from your armored seat and made to hit the open frequencies button when an armored paw stopped you.

“What are you doing? We have enough to deal with.” His voice was level and cold, commanding like a captain’s should be, and the rasp of it almost made you want to be complicit at his orders. He wasn’t wrong though, you had no guns and barely a ship to sail in, the last thing you needed to do right now was make friends.

You glared at the blank radar screen, giving it a bit of percussive maintenance until the nearby ship flashed to life on the green and yellow field. “Hunk of junk! So what, we're just going to ignore them?” A single stiff nod was your only reply, but the comms light kept flashing away. If they were in distress then they were shit out of luck, because fuck, so were you.

The blinker on the dash was joined by another, more ominous blare: enemy targeting systems locked on. “Shit balls of hell, Din, they’re going to shoot us! Fucking answer them!”

He slammed down on his only option, the busted communications transmitter sputtering to life with a maliciously friendly voice. “Greetings and salutations! You lost, friend? Nobody comes ‘round these parts, especially at such a leisurely pace as you! Don’tcha know how dangerous it is through this system? We’d be happy to… escort you out of the area...”

“No, thank you.” Din barked into the microphone, “We have everything under control.”

“Oh do ya now? I reckon’ by the looks o’ that hackjob holdin’ yer fuselage together I’d say you were in quite a pickle. Haven’t you heard there’s pirates in this neck o’ the woods?”

Pirates. Of course there’s pirates. Your armored companion growled low in his throat, the timbre of it making the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. These spacers were threatening his crew, and to him and his Creed that was an act of war. He cleared the venom from his throat before opening the receiver again. “We can handle it, please go about your business.”

The copper ray’s propulsion engines flared as it drifted closer to your ship until it was nearly on top of her, drifting along just behind your stern and casting shadows over your wings. Big. The Crest was nothing to scoff at, but the monstrosity that floated over top of your little old lady could swallow her alive.

It just might.

The voice on the other end chuckled darkly. “Ah but my friend that’s where you’re mistaken, y’see, helping others is our business! And business is boomin’!”

-CruNcHa-krUnCH!-

The rancorous words were articulated with the destruction of something striking your already damaged wings. From the jagged maw on the front of the ray a pair of vicious grapples had coiled around the stinted wings of the Crest, sinking their teeth into her wounded flesh. The old girl lurched when the lines were pulled taut, the screams of twisted durasteel echoing loudly behind the blast doors that protected you from the vacuum of space. Mando swore, “Fucking pirates! As if there isn’t enough bullshit going on-”

You cut him off with a hand on his shoulder. “Let me take the comms, I might be able to negotiate something.”

“I’ve heard your negotiating, I don’t think that’ll help us right-”

“Just let me try? We don’t have much in the way of options.”

For a moment he was still as a statue, then he gave the faintest nod. “Alright.”

You cleared your throat and took a long, deep breath, switching into your best communications mode. “This is the co-captain speaking, We have nothing of value on this ship or anything that would be of use to-”

“Now, listen ‘ere, missy, I know bounty hunter sigils when I see them. Hand over your quarries and your credits and maybe we won’t clip your wings!”

“As previously stated we are not carrying anything of value, including quarries. We were engaged in a skirmish planetside that rendered our ship unfit for hunting. Release our ship and we will exit your domain posthaste.” Ugh, I hate using this voice.

The pirate was silent for a time, then a slow, malicious laugh rumbled through the comms.

“Then I guess we’re taking your weapons as consolation! Prepare to be boarded, bilgerat!”

Fucksake is it that obvious?! Auxiliary jets fired on the grapple’s edges, adding power to the winch aboard the rayship, and the Razor was dragged backwards against the pull of her engines. The wounded bird sputtered and died from the strain, giving up the ghost as the cutthroats hauled her towards the open hangar. You watched as a bluish field slipped over the rounded window, the edge of a magcon field that protected the maw. Your ship wasn’t just being boarded, it was being captured.

The Crest was swallowed whole by the assailing ship, and in a few more seconds your ship was dropped unceremoniously to the floor when the artificial gravity kicked on inside the hanger you now found yourselves in. More screeching metal told you that some of your patchwork had been ripped back open in the hold below. Well fuck, there goes our motherfucking repairs.

“Damn it!” Mando roared, “I thought you said you could negotiate?!”

“I did my fucking best, ok?! I didn’t see you coming up with anything better!” Ahead of you the jaws of the hangar snapped closed, trapping your ship inside the belly of the beast. You scurried back to your seat, grabbing your armor and your guns. “If it’s a fight they want, then it’s a fight they’ll get! We can handle Imps and poachers, I think we can handle some motherfucking pirates, don’t you?” Your armored companion nodded sharply, rising from his seat and drawing his blasters; slamming a fresh cartridge into each one.

“I don’t care how many there are, they’re not getting you or our foundling.” His growl made you shudder, and a nagging thought in the back of your head wondered if you would ever get used to how scary he was sometimes. Mandalorians were drop-dead lethal, and this hunk of metal was no different. Good thing he’s on your side. He snapped his wrist, making an array of lights pop out of a conical prong that jutted off of the vambrace. “I have spoken.”

“Cool.” Beskar slid over your face, replacing your vicious grin with Mandalorian steel. You made to hide the foundling in his pram when something on Mando’s belt caught your eye.

Something red.

Something flashing.

Fast.

You tore his cloak out of the way to yank the flashing bounty fob off of his belt. This is what you get for not checking your pucks! It wasn’t often that quarries just delivered themselves to you, but at least that meant you might save yourselves some fucking fuel. You dug through his pouch to get the accompanying puck, but before you could find out exactly who aboard this copper coated colossus you were hunting, the light on the comms panel flashed again, this time with a secondary light: incoming holo.

Mando slammed down on the receiver, making an image flicker to life where only a voice had once transmitted. A tiny ghost arose from the dashboard, showing the image of a tall, overly dressed Togruta woman. She very much looked the part of ‘space pirate’ in her complicated overcoat that stretched past her knees and the bandanas tied around her montrals and lekku. She was crisscrossed in holsters and belts that were straining under the weight of all the armaments she carried, from blasters to vibros and everything in between. Show off.

Her voice was clear now that your fucked-up transmitters were in such conveniently close range. “Hello hunters, put down your-”

“You listen here,” Din snarled, his teeth biting down on his venomous words. “You’ve made a big mistake, capturing my ship, putting my family in danger-”

Aww he said family. You peeked around your bristling oathsworn to brandish a pistol at the miniature maiden that was making demands of you, but your phantasmal orchestra started to ring the bells of familiarity between your ears. Din was still going off like a Nexu firing his verbal barbs, and it took several good shoves to move him out of the way so you could get a better look at your host.

Though the blue light of the holoprojector gave her a monochrome appearance, her lavender skin and tall swirled montrals were still clearly visible. She smiled arrogantly at your tilted armor, making her sharp fangs glitter like polished pearls and rolling her cheeks right up into her sapphire eyes. It can't be…

You slid your armor to the top of your head, bunching your brows at the tiny, noble-birthed face until they were nearly dancing off of your forehead.

"Alewyn?”

The pirate princess cocked her head, and the whites of her facial markings went wide around her pedigree eyes. “No fucking way!” Her melodic voice chimed with a laugh, “Hunter! Long time no see! What in Maker’s mishaps are you doin' out here?"

"I could ask you the same fuckin’ thing! Hey don't shoot me I'm comin' out!" You could hear Alewyn yelling at her crew to stand down as she hung up on you, and you stood with hands on your hips and a big stupid grin on your face. "How the fuck…"

Behind you Mando was staring at you with that black hole gaze of his, his visor tilted with confusion. "Friend of yours?"

You nodded "You could fuckin' say that!" You scooped up the foundling and patted your partner on the shoulder, trying to be reassuring. It took him a few good breaths to clear the adrenaline from his veins, though his shoulders still jutted wide like he was ready to tackle the entire galaxy to defend his clan. Another twist of his wrist had the little explosives on his vambrace tucking themselves away, and he watched you disappear down the ladder first before following suit.

The Crest's ramp chuggered as it opened, sticking halfway down and forcing you to jump off of it to escape. Your boots hit the hangar floor, putting you in front of almost a dozen of the most ragtag looking bunch of scoundrels you'd ever seen. They were a myriad of species, from Twi'leks to humans and even a Gungan for fucks sake, but what struck you as oddest of all was that they were all ladies. Ferociously armed to the teeth, the gaggle of gals murmured amongst themselves before a loud, commanding voice soared over their heads.

"Move aside you bunch’a blaggards! Lemme greet my guests…” The crowd parted, allowing the newcomer to saunter between them. Long, lavender-swirled montrals waggled on top of the well-dressed and well-armed lady who was making her grand entrance, and you couldn’t help but stare. She walked with an undeniable air of nobility that couldn’t be hidden even by her swashbuckling swagger, the strength of her bloodline showing through even at her most roguish. She swung her arms wide as she rushed you, “Hunter! It is you! Can’t get enough’a me can you?”

"Alewyn! If you wanted to see me again you could have just called!" You took her wild-armed hug with gusto, ignoring the many pokes of the blades you both carried. Stars above, of all the strangers in the galaxy you’d run headfirst into the one and only Princess Alewyn of Shimi, the Togruta woman who you had let escape your bounty so many moons ago. Freeing her had sullied your reputation with the Guild and put a hefty price on your head that had led the most fearsome bounty hunter in the parsec to your doorstep, and eventually into your heart. You had a lot to thank her for, but for both your safeties it was best that you never saw each other again. Yet here she was, decked out in blasters and blades, surrounded by a wild pack of pirates that she no doubt led as their captain. Good for her.

She squeezed you tight, making the child that you had tucked under your arm grunt in protest. The captain stood back from you to get a look at the creature you carried.

"What in blue blazes’s that thing? It’s cute!” She reached out and ran her thumbs over the child's long green ears and pinched his chubby face, making him fuss and bat his tiny paws at her. “Aw I’m sorry pumpkin, I didn’t mean to upset you! My baby girl is so rough’n tumble I forget little’uns are s’posed’ta be soft. She’d love’ta play with you though!”

That’s right! The last time you had seen Alewyn she was defending her swollen belly, ready to shoot you dead if you tried to stop her egress. Your big mean bounty hunter heart couldn’t take the idea of a mother not being able to raise her youngling, and you’d given up your own ship so she could escape. How time flies.

“Alewyn, this is my boy.” You covered his ears, “He’s adopted.” The princess snickered at the obviousness of your statement, but the mirth quickly left her face at the sound of armored thunder dropping down off of the ramp behind you. Her lovely eyes did their best to hide the terror on her face as the Mandalorian you traveled with sauntered up behind you. “And this,” you made a grand gesture of waving at the mountain of living beskar, “Is my partner. Life partner.” You grabbed his hand and threaded your fingers through his, making his helmet tilt just slightly on an otherwise stiff stance.

“Well a’ll be damned, you’ve been busy! But I guess... so have I!” The captain threw her hands in the air, and the crew around her cheered. “Alright you lot! Show’s over, we’ll not be rescuing anything other than these two guttersnipes from that ship.” The fem fatales groaned and roared, laughing and shouting in a multitude of galactic obscenities as they wandered away.

You cocked a hip, jutting your baby out on one side and stabbing your hand to the other with an air of indignation. “Rescuing? You nearly tore our wings off! What kind of rescue operation are you running here?”

Alewyn laughed, bright and chipper. “Let’s just say all bounties aren’t warranted, I should know! Come on, I want you to meet my wife and daughter and the rest of my crew. I can tell you more over some spicewine. Welcome aboard the Sunskate!” She stuck her hand out to you, tugging on you so hard you almost keeled over. You cast a wayward smile over your shoulder at your husband as you were led over the hangar floor to one of the corridors that branched off of the open space. He sighed and looked back forlornly the busted body of the Crest before dutifully following along.

A multitude of crewmates scurried around you as you made your way through the ship on the arm of the pirate princess, listening to her tell you all about her travels. “-and then my dad said ‘Wynnie you disgrace this family with the company you keep! You will marry the duke and stop this nonsense’ blah blah blah.” She made talking motions with her hand, bobbling her montrals with sassy head tilts. “And I said fuck you dad! I’m in love and nothin’s gonna keep us apart!’ Course daddy wasn’t gonna have none’o that, sending fuckin’ hunters after his own daughter.” The sting in her voice was obvious on that last word, anger and pain enunciating her words. “But you know what they say, love conquers all, yeah?”

“Yeah!” You squeezed the foundling under your arm, bringing him in range of a kiss. The sound of armored footfalls echoed behind you, your oathsworn keeping a polite distance. The winding corridors of the Sunskate flowed more organically than anything built on Corellia, and eventually they led you to a recreational space where more of the pirate crew were talking and eating. At the center of the group was another Togruta, this one a gradient from navy blue to bright sunshine yellow. On her knee a tiny cotton-candy colored baby nibbled on the woman’s lekkus, adding fresh marks to her already scarred tendrils.

The infant noticed your approach first, throwing her chubby arms up in the air and flashing her razor sharp teeth in a smile a mile wide. Alewyn let go of your captured hand and strode to the pair. “There’s my girls! Fae have you been trying to eat mama’s lekku again?” Alewyn bent and picked up her daughter, peppering the gibbering baby with kisses before leaning down to kiss the other woman. “Hello kitten, need me to kiss those, make them better?”

“Wynnie you flirt!” The sunrise Torgruta laughed into the kiss that was being pressed to her lips. “Can you be professional for one second?”

“Would you love me if I was?” The princess chided, brushing her palm down the swell of the other woman’s lekku until she had the chewed-up tip of it in her hand. “Fay-fay has done quite a number on these!” She pressed a kiss to the marked skin before turning back around to face you and your own crew. “Lilah, you’re not gonna believe who we picked up! It’s the hunter, the hunter! The one that spared me from carbonite back way back when.”

Lilah stood and reached for your hand, clasping your elbow as she shook it. “Well blow me down, I never thought I’d get a chance t’thank you for what you did.” The handshake slid flawlessly into a brash hug, the air squashed from your lungs in the process. “Thank you for giving me my Alewyn back, her father didn’t exactly approve’a us.” She patted you on the back and held you out at arms length. “I don’t s’ppose you got a name now do ya, hunter?”

“My name is Tra’laar!” You beamed, flexing the sound of your gifted name against new ears. At that Mando placed a hand on your shoulder, giving it a gentle pat before falling back down to his side. Lilah’s emerald eyes flickered between your face and the armored man standing at your side, then down to the baby that you carried in your arms.

“Well, Tra’laar, you gonna introduce those two?”

You knocked a knuckle against the beskar of your partner “Oh sure, this is-” Uh…

“Mando.” Din filled in the blank for you, sequestering his true name to be known by his clan alone. He stepped forward and gave a stiff, respectful handshake that made Lilah’s montrals whip with the strength of it. She laughed heartily at his uptight demeanor.

“So, we got Tra’laar and Mando, who’s’s lil’ guy? What’s’s name?” She gently took your foundling from you, and the change in the electricity in the air was palpable. At your side your oathsworn was bristling defensively under his armor, fighting the urge to pull his child away from the stranger you so easily trusted with your precious cargo. You ignored Mr. Scary to ponder the question you had just been asked.

His name...?

HiS nAmE?!?!

Oh fuckadoodledoo! What a question! Nobody in your crew got called their own name that often, from cyare to tinman to Beans the Crest was full of fondly fabricated titles. You’d just accepted it, using what Din called him: the foundling, the child, womp rat sometimes. You usually went for more adoring choices, beans and goobs and booger, but the child never had a real name.

How?! How does this child not have a fucking name?!

The gears in your head spun out of control, you can’t tell these women that your baby's name is Booger! Shit fuck fuck fuck!! Uuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhh…

You stared at the child, meeting his nebulous eyes with your own distressed gaze. He tilted and blinked at you as though he could hear the machinations in your head melting together with the friction of them grinding to a halt. Your thoughts went wild, the musicians in your mind dropping their instruments and tripping over their own feet, crashing cymbals and tooting horns in cacophony of confusion.

Green Beans… Goober… Booger...Grooboog… Groobeans... Grooberoo... Grober Gro…

“Grogu.” You didn’t break eye contact with the child, watching as his cosmic orbs lit up like fireworks. “This is our son, Grogu.”

Fucking Maker are you kidding me?! Grogu?! What kind of-

“Patu!” The green terror shrieked in delight, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. He churruped and flailed in the wide blue palms of the Togruta woman that held him until she was passing him back off to you. He wiggled like a womp rat in a trap, flashing his tiny toothy grin at you while he wildly patted at your cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, that’s a terrible name.” You whispered to him alone, but he took your whole face in his arms and squeezed, giving you little baby kisses that made your heart flood with warmth. The baby didn’t usually do kisses, that was supposed to be your job. “Do you like that or something? Grogu?” The foundling kissed your nose and butt his forehead against your own,the most sacred show of love known to his clan, his family, and suddenly it just clicked.

Grogu.

You pulled the child to your chest, hugging him tight while you looked at your partner. He was motionless as always, a silver statue catching the fluorescent lights of the wardroom on his many plates. His visor tilted slowly, so imperceptibly slowly that only the light sliding over the black gloss of his singular eye gave away the movement at all. In that moment everything faded away. No more pirates, no more Alewyn and Lilah and pointy-fanged Fae, or their band of misfits. Even the Sunskate disappeared into the background noise of the universe. Nothing else existed except for you, your Mandalorian, and the foundling.

“Grogu?”

The name rasped out of the modulator with gravelly relevance, tentative and soft. Sailcloth ears perked up at hearing his papa repeat the ridiculous name you had bestowed, followed by a pair of fat grabby baby paws reaching towards the metal mountain. The potato sack of a child was passed again, this time into the armored embrace of his father where he could patta-patta on the indents of his cheeks.

“Grogu…” Mando spoke it again, lowering his brow to meet with the baby’s. Seeing the pair of them so close together in that moment almost made you melt into the floor, and you sighed heavily before turning back to your hosts, recomposing yourself.

“Yep, them’s my boys. Mando and... Grogu.” You puffed yourself up, trying your fucking damndest to stay dignified. Alewyn snickered again, sweet and trilling as she leaned over to Lilah.

“He’s adopted.” She whispered, making the other woman giggle as well.

“Good to know, I was starting t’wonder how Mando kept ‘is ears hidden under that helmet’a his.” Her laugh was warm and rich like aged whisky, reverberating around the rec-room. “Welp, you kids wanna stay for dinner?”

You thought back to the ruined ship that you’d left back in the hangar, not going anywhere any time soon. “Yeah dinner sounds great, thanks.” You followed the pair of pirates to where the rest of the crewmates had gathered, preparing to take supper. Mouthwatering scents wafted from the galley while you made friends with the rest of the wild women, getting to know them between the uproars they frequently broke out into. They were rough, undisciplined, and unbelievably vulgar, and you loved every second of it. Though you had a family now, you never really had a people after you left your sailor life behind, but if you did, they would look just like this.

When dinner was served you nearly drooled on yourself, but you forwent eating to feed your son, opting to eat with your partner later. A bottle of spicewine was opened by your rambunctious hosts, and a tall goblet was filled for you more than once, so at least you weren’t insulting them by not accepting any of their offerings. Grogu ate heartily, and in between his bites you spoonfed little Fae who sat in her mama’s lap at the dinner table. Alewyn razzed you several times about not eating her chef's hard-cooked meal, and you slugged her playfully each time.

“So whut, he don’t take that thing’off? How’s’at work?” She said with a mouth full of food, swirling her fork in the air.

“We make it work.” You scolded, and she shrugged.

“Is’e cute?”

Next to you Mando went stiff as a board, and you snorted a laugh, trying to hide your smile with a spoon. He gawked at you behind the visor, thankful that it hid his embarrassment so well.

“Yeah he’s cute, I think so, anyway.” You poked at his armor with your spoon, earning yourself a trademark huff. He didn’t say much for the remainder of the dinner, though your conversations with the runaway royal got progressively more invasive until you could feel the heat coming out from under his beskar.

“Is he human?” Yes

“Does he have a nice ass?” Well obviously, look at it.

“Is’e good in bed?” Fucksake.

“DOES THE HELMET STAY ON?!” Alewyn!!

Lilah scraped her plate directly into her mouth and slammed it back down on the table. “Wynnie leave’em be! Look how fuckin’ red her face is, can’t you tell you’re embarrassing her?” She laughed and shook her head, pouring herself another full glass. “Since yer not gonna eat then you better entertain. Tell me, hunters, do either’a’ya know any songs?”

“Do I- do I know any songs?!” You sputtered, thankful for the rescue but feeling just as indignant. Jumping up from your seat made you wobble a bit from the wine. “Do you know The Ballad of Transport Eighteen?”

Lilah nearly cackled, raising a glass and clearing her throat, “We were thirty-eight crewmen on Transport Eighteen-”

You joined in: “The hour was late and the talk was obscene!”

The towering Togruta stood up, one boot on her chair and one boot on the damn table, and you followed suit, singing the old sailor ditty in unison and waving your wine through the air.

“When the raiders streaked down and their bright lasers cut, some twenty-odd holes through her steel-plated gut!”

The noise the two of you made was absurd, and a handful of other cutthroats joined in with their own ragged voices. By the time you were to the second verse the walls of the Sunskate were ringing with your songs. When you’d finished Ballad, another pirate stood and started up a shanty that you didn’t know, and you did a silly little dance that you were finally getting to learn a new song or two.

Most of the ladies had songs of their own, but after several rounds you were so shitfaced on spicewine that you couldn’t remember them if you tried. But what you could do, at least what the wine told you that you could do, was dance! You swung Grogu around in your arms, kicking your feet and prancing around the room with the rest of the swashbucklers. A bug-eyed Rodian whipped out an instrument that resembled an accordion, pumping out an upbeat ditty that had the whole room stomping. Lilah took Grogu in her arms, holding him next to Fae while you danced with Alewyn, the two of you knocking elbows and spinning one way and then the other, laughing like schoolgirls the whole way.

The shanty slowed way down, letting some of the gals catch their breath or get another swig of ale. You took your son and the Togrutan youngling in your arms so that the captain could dance with her wife. With a babe under each arm you swayed over to your partner, who had only been tapping his foot along to the beat. You dipped Grogu to him, then Fae, swaying in time with the music. Mando brushed a gloved palm over his son's wrinkly little head when it came back to him, tilting his helmet softly.

Fae yawned and rubbed her emerald eyes, and Grogu followed suit. You danced over to where a padded bucket seat was, setting the two younglings down so they could rest and you could free your hands. Sauntering back to your tinman, you took his hands in yours and pulled.

“Mando dance with me.”

He stayed firmly in his seat, “I.. I don’t know how.”

“Pff, neither do I, bucket boy. Just.. just get up here!” You yanked again, and this time he allowed you to pull him along. You held his hands and did your own dance, using him like a mannequin to hold one of his hands up in the air and spin underneath it. He barely moved, too nervous to show any softness in such company. The slow dance started to near its completion, and you moved one of Din’s hands to your waist, lacing your fingers between the other and leaning in close to his audio intake. “Hey, remember that ‘courtship ritual’ you tried on me the other day?”

Heat radiated out from the beskar you were pressed against, any hotter and you could cook an egg on it. “Y-yeah…”

A catty smile crept over your face, “Think you can do it again? I’ll say when.” He was still for a moment, then nodded faintly. You waltzed around him slowly in time with the music, doing the dancing for the both of you until the final stanza was being played. Pressing yourself as close to his body as you could so you would only have to whisper, you met his visor with your own gaze. “...now!”

The arm on your waist went tight, and the one holding your hand twirled you around until you were parallel to the floor, earning a slew of cheers and whistles from the schnockered swashbucklers. You’d known the dip was coming, but your face flushed beet red anyway, and you fought the urge to knock his helmet off and kiss him right then and there. He seemed to feel the same longing, his breath catching in his modulator above you and making his chest heave. You could just imagine it, the feel of his plush lips against yours, the heat of his kiss on your face and the softest touch of his tongue making its way past your teeth to find your own.

“Later.” He whispered, slowly spinning you back up to your feet. Blushing, you nodded, only now realizing that the music had stopped before you were standing back upright. Many eyes on you made your face burn until it was nearly melting off your skull, and you sheepishly looked to your hosts. The Togrutas were sitting back down, though Alewyn was using Lilah as a chair and playing with her lekku.

“You two make quite a sight.” The captain purred, crossing her boots on the table. “Maybe you should get a room!” She shouted with a laugh that had the rest of the crew in an uproar. Inside you wanted to shrink away until you didn’t exist anymore, but brashness and vulgarity came more naturally to you than cowardice.

“We would, but somebody totalled my ship! I’m lookin’ at you two tangle-heads.” You glowered at them with a cocky grin. Alewyn’s chiming laugh coupled neatly with Lilah's oaken bass, perfectly in tune together. The pirate princess twirled the end of her wife’s lekku between her fingers and fixed you with a playful glare.

“Yeah yeah sorry ‘bout that. We can give ya a lift’ta Elgon Station since it’s conveniently on the way. We’re makin’ our way to Thrask to drop that’un off.” Alewyn jabbed a thumb back over her shoulder at a short, pinkish frog woman who had been hiding back in the corner. Between her knees sat a large tankard filled with orangish orbs. The dainty woman croaked with surprise at being noticed finally, hugging her container a bit closer. “Can’t get in’ta hyperspace with that jug’o eggs she’s got there. They’ll pop.”

The ovatious reminder of your last hunt wormed a shiver up your spine, but you shook it off to throw your host a nod. “Thanks, Alewyn, ‘preciate it.” Your host hopped up from her lavish throne, slowly letting her wife’s lekku fall from her hand as she sauntered to you. She reached for your hand and pulled you along behind her, asking you to walk with her through the Sunskate's corridors. Eventually you passed through a bulkhead to the flight deck of her ship, the transparisteel showing nothing but stars as far as the eye could see. A radar screen near the navigation panel blinked with a lazy yellow light, showing the location of Elgon Station where only void met your naked eye.

“Hunter, I wanted to talk to you in private.” Her voice was level, and all traces of her raunchy, spacefaring, swashbuckling accent evaporated, and you were once again talking to the Queen-in-Waiting of Shimi. She didn’t meet your eyes, her sapphire globes flitting between the stars ahead while she locked her elbow to yours. “Remember when we met? I was pregnant with Fae, on the run, just… just trying to get back to my Lilah…” Her voice trailed off at the memory. You nodded, but allowed her to continue without interruption. “If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be standing here right now. Doing exactly what I want to do with my life. I wasn’t cut out for nobility, no matter how badly daddy wanted me to be his perfect little princess, I just wasn’t. He never did take that well.”

She forced a laugh, patting your forearm with her other hand to compose her thoughts. “First and foremost I wanted to tell you thank you,” She turned to meet your eyes with the jewels that sat in her orbits, their vibrancy shining with more stars than there were out the window. “Since that day we’ve been living on the edge, just like I always dreamed of! Taking out hunter ships, sorry about that, by the way, and rescuing their quarries. That fucking Guild of your’s is indiscriminate. Princesses, pirates, popes for fuck’s sake I’m sure.” Her eyes rolled at her own joke. “Not all of them deserve to be carted off in carbonite. I certainly didn’t.”

She took herself off of your elbow and held both of your hands, asking you to face her directly. “Hunt- Tra’laar,” There was an edge of seriousness to her words now, sharp as a dagger with her noble voice. “If you ever want to stop working for those quacta-kissing skuglords, you give me a call, ok? You’re always welcome back aboard my ship. Could use a good pair of asskickers, and your baby boy too, of course.”

The smile on the lavender lady’s face could melt Hoth with its warmth, and you let her pull you in for another hug. “You’re welcome, Alewyn, and thank you for the offer.” You hummed against the side of her montral where an ear might be, though you couldn’t be sure. “I’ll… I’ll consider it.”

“Fair enough.” She stepped back from you, holding you at arms length so you couldn’t escape her eyes.

“Alewyn, were you on the comms? When you roped our ship?” She nodded. “How… how did you know?”

Her head tilted. “Know what?”

“That… that I was a bilgerat.” You spat the word out like it was poison, but the captain only laughed.

“Half of my crew were bilgies at some point, you get an ear for it after a while. Nobody else uses the word posthaste besides those that were raised as boat-brats.” You rolled your eyes at her, relieved and a little offended that she had clocked you so well. She saw your half-hidden embarrassment and decided to dig a little deeper, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Is he good to you?”

Her question caught you off guard, making your brows fly high and your cheeks flush. “Y-yeah, he’s good to me. There’s a lot more to him than meets the eye, y’know.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Like… he’s sweet. And caring. And he loves that boy of ours, he’d die for either one of us, nearly has once or twice. Fuck me sideways you’re nosy!”

Her lilting laugh was bright as a fresh spring day, and just as sunny. “Just checking! You wouldn’t believe some of the stories those women have told. Don’t even get me started on that Gungan! She’s deadly, if you catch my drift.” She said with a wink and a laugh, though you weren’t sure if you did. “But seriously, if he treats you wrong you tell me and I’ll gut him like a fish!”

“I can handle myself, Wynnie!”

“I know that! Just looking out for you is all. I’m glad we ran into each other again, and I’m glad to see you doing so well for yourself.”

“Right back atcha, Captain.”

“Come on, we better get back to our spouses before Lilah challenges your Mando to a fight, she’s dastardly! I love her so much, and our daughter Fayfay. Pair’a lucky ladies, ain’t we?” Her spacer accent returned, coarse and arrogant as ever while she jabbed you in the side with her elbow.

“Unquestionably.” She started to walk back towards the door you had come in from, but you stopped her, grabbing her hand. “Wait. I have something for you.” From your pockets you dug out the blinking fob and puck, stuffing them into Alewyn’s purple palms and closing your fingers over her fists. “Not all bounties are warranted.”

Stars shimmered in her noble eyes the same way they had the first time you’d met, glittering softly when she nodded and pocketed the hunter tools in one of her many secret compartments. You’d never know who the puck was meant for, and you didn’t care.

The captain's frock coat swished against the side of your leg as the two of you walked back to where you had left your crews. Contrary to what she had predicted, the crewmates that weren’t passed out on the floor seemed to be engaged in some kind of discussion, circled around Lilah and Mando in the center. You couldn’t see much over the heads of the many miscreants, but you caught the wave of a sheathed vibroblade in the blue palms of the co-captain’s hands. Mando was listening to whatever it was that she was saying intently, leaning forward as not to miss a single word.

When they noticed the approach of their wives, Lilah smacked your tinman and cut the conversation short, but not before she flashed him a wink and a grin. She stood and pocketed the knife, “There they are! We were startin’ta think you’d gotten lost.” She made an exaggerated gesture of yawning and stretching. “Whelp it���s gettin’ late, since you two ain’t goin’ anywhere any time soon, why don’t you two getcher selves comfortable. We got space.”

You grabbed the plates of cold food from the table and made to follow her when you remembered your foundling. He was still curled up in the padded seat with the Togrutan youngling, though even in her sleep Fae was trying to nibble his ears. You rescued his ear from her relentless biting, but he looked so comfortable that you were reluctant to move him. Alewyn stood beside you and brushed her hand over her daughter’s montral buds, “Let them sleep, they’re safe here.”

Mando loomed over you, and you could feel the reluctance coming off of him without him uttering a single word. You turned and flashed him a look, somewhere between a glare and a plea. “Let’s go eat dinner, then we can come back for him, sound good?” His slight nod was almost nonexistent, but it was good enough for you, and you followed your host to one of the many extra quarters that the Sunskate boasted.

You waved a thank you to the departing co-captain, ignoring the lecherous wink that she gave you before walking into the modest suite. The room was small, though not cramped, and it even had a little porthole for you to look out of, fancy! Instead of beds there was a broad hammock hanging in the corner, heaped with blankets and quilts; an unusual choice in space but welcome nonetheless. The Togrutans made sure that any of their ‘rescues’ would be comfortable, though you were curious as to how both of you would get in the hammock. But first, dinner.

A small table and singular chair wouldn’t be enough for the two of you, so you plopped down on the floor and beckoned your partner to you. He glanced around the room, suspicious as always, then closed the door and carefully dropped to the floor behind you. You dug in, shoveling much-needed sustenance into your gob, but your partner remained still. You turned to him with a mouthful of food, “You gonna eat?”

“There might be cameras, or people watching. I can’t-”

“Fuckin’ bucket, hang on.” With a groan you set your plate back on the floor and wobbled over on your knees to the hammock, tugging one of the blankets off of it and accidentally pulling down the entire stack. Picking what you guessed was the biggest you fluffed it in the air and draped it over his head, giggling as you snuck underneath your blanket fort with him. “How’zat?”

Hissing latches answered you, and the offending beskar fell away to reveal the handsome man that had remained hidden from you for so long. “Thank you, cyar’ika.” Dinner was obliterated in a matter of minutes, but once you’d both finished you stayed under the covers with him, just to enjoy seeing his face in the low light. Scooting around to his front, you brushed the side of your face against his, feeling the stubble on your skin. He hummed and nuzzled against you, bringing his hands up to cup your jaw and slide you over for a much-awaited kiss.

He tasted like dinner, but the scent of him was strong, and the combination of flavors and smells made you giggle a bit. Din’s lips were soft against yours, gentle and tender and a little ticklish from his facial hair. Arms wrapped around you and hauled you up into his lap, making you gasp faintly into his unbroken kiss. Seated on his lap side saddle, you kissed him with vigor, only now aware of the twinge of jealousy you had felt at the two lekku-laden-ladies getting to kiss each other whenever they wished. Speaking of…

“So, what were you and Lilah talkin’ bout?” you asked directly into his mouth. A sharp little inhale hinted that maybe you’d caught wind of something secret.

“She was just giving me some… uh… suggestions.” Even in the dark of the pillow fort you could see heat rising to his face. Like a knife you dug in deeper.

“Ohoho? What kind of suggestions?”

A boyish smile tugged on the edges of his lips, and his eyes went a little darker. “Why don’t you let me show you instead?” Warm lips were pressed to yours again, longer and deeper with every kiss. You were only marginally aware of the change in your position, slowly being lowered onto your back while his tongue pushed its way to yours; licking into your mouth. Soon you were laying down fully with him over top of you, caging you in with his metal plated arms. You felt him shuffle, then an ungloved hand snaked its way to your shirt, tugging it up over your head and taking your mask with it.

A strong hand kneaded at the pillowy flesh of your breast, letting the weight of it fill his palm. Warm fingertips pinched at your nipple, rolling the sensitive bud gently til it pebbled between his callouses. The sensation pooled heat in your belly and tightened in your guts, but this wasn’t anything new. Appreciated, for sure, all of his touches were, though you couldn’t help but wonder if this was what was suggested. His kisses continued in tandem with his fingers, building with intensity until his teeth were biting at your lower lip and tongue, catching the sensitive skin in his sharp bite.

Hot breath fanned against your neck as he tilted his head to chase along the edge of your jaw, letting the bone’s curve lead him to the soft spot under your ear. He wrapped his lips around your earlobe, and the nick of sharp teeth coupling with the steam in your ear made your eyes flutter and roll. You tried to kiss at his neck, wanting to repay the favor, but the teeth on your ear snarled and sank into the meat of your pulse point, making you cry out against him. Biting turned to sucking, his fervent kisses pulling the tender skin up and leaving blooming welts to mark you as his.

His hand left your breast and disappeared from your body, but you were too busy worrying about having your throat ripped out by the man who had you pinned. Of course he wouldn’t hurt you, but the flight instinct was still there, making your heart try to pound out of its cage when those sharp canines bore down on your larynx. Without taking his vicious teeth from your neck, he started digging at your belt, and you let your body relax since you knew what was next.

The hand came back up, forcing a needy groan out of your captured throat from his teasing, but your eyes snapped wide when you felt cold metal on your skin. Din released your throat and met your eyes with his half-hooded honeywells, bearing his teeth to you in a wolfish grin. “Cyare…” he purred with a lust laden drawl. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop, but I want to… try something.” You weren’t looking at him though, you were looking at the blade that he had drawn, the edge of it pressing into the side of your neck.

“Um… ok… I trust you.” Eyes wide with fear and stuck fast to the knife you watched him move it down your chest over your sternum. “Do not cut my clothes off.” You scolded, and he hummed a deep, dark laugh. The blade coasted over your belly, your belt line, and then sat right at the top of your mound, sending adrenaline burning through your veins. What the hell?

Leaning back from you, Din rocked up to his haunches and traced the sharp edge of the vibro over where your slit pushed against the duraweave, and you furrowed your brows at him trying to decipher just what the fuck he was up to. Please don’t stab me in the snatch. From your belt he tugged the empty leather sheath off and slipped it over the knife, then holding it by the blade end he flipped on the thrummer, making the vibroblade come alive in his hand.

“Are you ready, cyar’ika?”

Shrugging, “Yes? I still don’t- ooo-ooo-ooh-hhhh~!” Your entire body tensed up when he pressed the vibrating hilt to your crotch, using his whole body to keep your knees from snapping together. The muscles in your abdomen convulsed, forcing your hips to cant upwards with each shaky spasm. “F-f-f-fuuck! Th-th-hat’s n-n-ne-ew-ew-w!” You stuttered through clenched teeth like you’d been shot with a pulse rifle, but this was a thousand times more pleasurable. Even through the thick fabric of your pants the strength of the vibrations felt raw, untethered. Hands dug like claws into the blanket’s edge, knees squeezing at armored shoulders, eyes screwed shut. The intensity was overwhelming, and your bootheels scootched out from under you when you tried to find your footing, squirming on the floor like an electrified worm.

The knife was pulled away from you and its vibrator silenced, and you were instantly torn between happy to catch a break and desperate for its return. With blurred vision you squinted at him in the low light, panting and shaking. He had used no effort whatsoever to coax you so close to climax, and the pride of it was obvious across his face.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Bared teeth and a snarl was all you could muster, and you stabbed your thumbs down to your belt, trying to pull your remaining clothes off. Din grabbed you by the hem and yanked, nearly ripping your pants off to expose you to him. The salacious humming started again, and you stuck your tongue out between your teeth in a wry grin that was obliterated in seconds when the pommel found your clit. High pitched cries broke their way out of your throat as the Mandalorian softly rubbed his fun new toy around the pearl of nerves that quickly spun you to a frenzy. Every muscle in your body went tighter than a guitar string, making your back arch and quiver until Din was pushing a palm to your sternum, holding you down against the floor. Aside from keeping you in place he exerted barely any effort, meanwhile you were being flung into hyperspace, trying not to lose your mind.

Molten lava burned in your veins and your tightened muscles, an eruption building quicker than you knew how to stop, and the fire of it nearly burned you alive when it combusted. Knees jerked and claws scratched when you came, and through the feverhaze of it you were almost aware of your scream. You squirmed in his grasp, the singing dagger playing its song with your own vocal cords, unable to stop coming. Hot slick coated your thighs, drenched them, flooded them, fuck! Blinded by your ecstasy you wailed, crying and straining, begging him to stop. Only when the knife left your swollen, engorged clit did you notice the tears in your eyes, pooling in their corners and streaking down your cheeks.

You threaded your hands through your own hair, trying to force yourself back down out of hyperspace. A question was posed to you that you didn’t hear, one that was repeated a second time. “Are you ok?”

“Fuuuuuuuck...” Was all you could come up with. You felt him shuffle between your legs, and you jerked when his hands found your drenched cunt. Warm, villainous laughter oozed against your ears.

“That’s a good girl, coming so hard for me. Did you like that?” Breathless, you nodded. “Hmmm… I wonder if you can do that again.” His fingers slid up your sopping wet pussy, soon joined by the vorpal blade and making you choke on the air in your throat. Long, calloused fingers pumped in and out of you, digging at the sweet spot he had so expertly learned to find, working in tandem with the vibro that was spinning you right back up faster than you could think. “Come on, come on my hands, ner riddur, give me all you- oh!” You sucked air between your teeth in a silent scream and bore down on his fingers with bone-breaking strength to squirt a hot splash of cum all over his hand and wrist. “Holy shit.”

“Th-that’s not u-usually what… what someone w-wants… t-to hear after th-they come…” You let your legs drop to the sides, letting you get a glance at the man between your legs. He looked mystified, staring at his hand and wrist and vambrace with some kind of mix between arousal and reverence. He licked a broad stripe up his wrist and palm, taking each of his fingers in his mouth one at a time to lick them clean. You sneered at him, “Dirty boy.”

He pulled the last of his soaked fingers out of his mouth with a pop!, glaring at you with hooded eyes that swirled with desire. “Dirty? I’ll give you dirty, cyar’ika. Flip over.”

“Make me.”

Din growled and wrapped his arms around your boneless form, flipping you effortlessly on to your knees. He stuffed his own legs under your hips, keeping you up off the floor that you so desperately wanted to melt back down onto. He freed himself in short order, giving himself a couple of warm up tugs before he was thrusting his length into you; but rather than fuck you stupid he just let himself fill your folds as if he was warming his cock.

You were about to give him hell when you heard the -wrrrrrrrrr- of the vibro again, and suddenly you didn’t need him to move for you to be pleasured. The wet, slick pommel tapped against your clit, and every muscle in your gut snapped tight, curling you nearly into a ball. Behind you you could hear him hiss through clenched teeth, and the little spasms from his thighs told you that he was enjoying the toy as well. Again you were sling-shot to your climax faster than you could process it happening, making you clamp down on his thick, girthy length and forcing a choked moan from the Mandalorian that was lost so deep inside you.

He fell forward against the curve of your back, trying to roll up in a ball as well, but you were conveniently in the way. The cold of his beskar stung against the arch of your spine, but the heat coming off of you warmed it right up. Hot breath puffed against the back of your neck, followed by the nick of sharp teeth and the drag of a flattened tongue. He slid a hand up between your breasts to your collarbone and he fell backwards to his haunches again, making you straddle his legs with him still buried in your heat. You were squished as tightly to his chest as he could get you, and the knife’s blunt end was pressed again to where you were joined together.

Little thrusts were all he could manage in the throws of the vibrators strength, as if you could do any better, squirming and thrashing on the spear that split you while the vibro tore another climax from you. If your eyes had been open you would have gotten to see yourself come, the glistening splash flying out from where the hilt met your swollen bud and coursing hot down Din’s shaft and balls til it was dripping onto the floor. You mewled against the side of his scruffy jaw, feeling the tears spring to your eyes from the overstimulation; but thankfully it didn’t last too much longer. He gasped and growled in your ear, pressing the vibro against the marriage of your slick lips and his throbbing cock, and a handful of short, desperate thrusts were all he needed to drop over the edge of ecstasy with you; adding his own cum to the growing pool between your knees.

The vibro was dropped, rattling on the floor until you bent down and grabbed it, flipping the switch and silencing its song. Ragged panting filled the tiny space of the blanket fort, yours high and shaky, his deep and growling like a wild animal. You reached back and found him, tangling your fingers through his soft curls, digging into them so his face was pressed against yours. Bristles tickled your skin with each breath, followed by sloppy, needy kisses. His lip dragged against your skin, whispering praises in your ear and sneakily trying to eat you alive. Teeth nipped at your cheek, then down your jaw, finding the spot that he had started with and sinking them into your tender flesh a second time. A third. Fourth.

“Din p-please!” You begged, your voice going higher and whinier than you had intended, but he ignored you, lost in the wellspring of desire that he called his wife. He licked a broad stripe up from the crook of your shoulder to the bottom of your ear.

“I like it when you beg.” He bit down and sucked, turning your throat into a red and purple patchwork of his territorial markings. “You sound so pretty. So needy.” His cock throbbed between your legs, refusing to soften just yet, forcing another hot gush of your mixed cum to flood down your thighs. A broad hand snaked its way to your tormented throat, squeezing ever so gently but still making you gasp. “I want you to beg every time I breed you.” His armored embrace constricted around your ribs and throat, making you choke on the air you so desperately needed. He forced his cock in just a little deeper before pulling his length out, making the head of it bob against your engorged cunt and sending shivers through every inch of your body.

You were gently lowered from his arms, flopping on the floor like a glob of useless jelly. The Mandalorian laid down on top of you, slowly returning to his loving, doting self. He kissed at the welts he had put on your neck, each one a delicious combination of pain and pleasure. Dark, lust-soaked eyes became soft and doelike again, watching your heaving form with adoration under lifted brows. He kissed your lips tenderly, plush and promising, gentle as a rose petal and just as sweet.

“Are you alright? I’m sorry if that was a little rough…”

You shook your head, feeling your brains slosh around in your skull, drowning in dopamine. “What? That wasn’t rough, I’ve seen you rough, but that was… different.” A little pouty face told you that might not have been the best word to pick, so you tried again. “That was amazing, but maybe we should invest in an actual toy instead of using the same tools we use for work.” That got you an excited nod and a dazzling smile. Realization dawned on you, “Is that what Lilah suggested?!” His magnificent smile went sheepish under bright red cheeks, and a slow nod made the curls on his head bounce. “We should hang out with them more often...”

The Mandalorian laughed, kissed you deeply once more, and pulled his helmet back on, allowing the two of you to get back out from under the blanket fort. You readjusted your clothes and armor, making yourself presentable, then strode over to the door to go find your foundling. The bulkhead door lugged open, and you swore you saw something, or someone, dashing down the hallway. Was someone eavesdropping!?

You didn’t see anyone until you got to the rec-room where you had left your child. Grogu and Fae were still curled up in the padded seat, but the seat itself had been scootched closer to where the Torgrutas had fallen asleep in their chair. You stepped over the handful of pirates that had passed out on the floor until you could get to your foundling. He gibbered at you, and you tucked him under your arm, jumping slightly when you caught the glint of green eyes.

Lilah watched you drowsily, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, and the ice froze in your veins at how well she had read you. She winked and hugged her Alewyn closer, burying her face in the other woman's lekku and letting you escape ungoaded.

The ship was quiet all the way back to your room, and you tucked back into the little suite with your foundling in hand. He had woken up during the walk and chirruped at you sleepily, cooing softly when he saw his papa as well. “Fucksake...You know what I need? A shower! You want a rinse, Grogu?” He chittered at the sound of his goofyass name, and you held him up to your nose, tickling him your sniffs. “Hm… Nope, you’re good. Stay here and keep papa company, won't cha?” Grogu chirped with what you decided was a ‘yes, buir’, and you set him down in the hammock. “What about you, tinman? Shower?”

Din was seated in the little chair, cleaning the stains from his armor, stains you had made. “No thank you, I’d like to keep my armor on while we’re here.” You shrugged, since you were used to his strange rituals by now, and strode into the fresher room to find something you hadn’t seen in a long fucking time.

A mirror.

In the fresher stood a formidable figure, though definitely one that needed a fresh change of clothes. There were no mirrors on the Crest due to some kind of mando mumbo jumbo, though you guessed if you spent all your life in the same outfit you really wouldn’t need to know what it looked like every day. You leaned on the modest sink to inspect the bags under your eyes and pick at something on the side of your nose, the tilt of your armored crown catching the light and drawing your eyes. The beskar slid around its pivots until it covered your face, and you stared at the warrior before you.

Maker above, is that what I look like? No wonder that merchant had fled from you so quickly, the sight of your armored visage was terrifying, just as ferocious as the bonafide Mandalorian you traveled with. You tilted your head and jutted your chin, trying to intimidate your own reflection as if that was difficult. The foggy vanity lights streaked like quicksilver over the beskar and the black gloss of your visor, catching faintly on the embossed mudhorn on your brow. You reached a hand up to brush over the raised emblem, feeling it with your fingers and watching how the light moved over its curves.

You were just reaching the tip of the animal’s horn when your doppelganger was joined by another armored hunter. Standing behind the woman in the mirror was a large, broad shouldered Mandalorian, his own visor rising a whole head above hers. He towered above her, tilting his helmet slightly while he rested his palms on her waist. The yellow tipped gloves coasted down her sides to her hips and pulled her backwards, and you could no longer ignore that the show you were watching was your own reality.

“Hello, mesh’la.” Din pressed his chestplate to your back and wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly to his armored chest. Though he had gotten his armor cleaned he still smelled like sex, sweat and sweetness; the mix of your bodies pooling together like your arousals had pooled on the floor. He tucked the edge of his helmet against the side of your neck, and you turned enough to chime your beskar softly against his. The ironsong rang clear and true over a rumbling hum.

“Hiya bucket boy.” You set one of your palms on where his were overlapped on your middle, bringing the other one up to hold the indent of his cheek. He leaned his weight on your back, rocking with you slightly.

“How did you come up with that name, Grogu?”

“I’m… I’m not really sure.” That wasn’t a lie, though it felt like it was. “I’m sorry, I know It’s terrible, we can change-”

“No, it’s perfect. Did you see his face when you said it?” You nodded softly, thankful for the beskar that covered your shyness. “He likes it, that’s what matters.” His gloved hands brushed over the fabric of your tunic, wrapping one around your waist and crossing the other between your breasts like a seatbelt. “You make a very good buir. I’m proud to call you my mate.”

Your face stung against the cold of your faceplate, flushing with heat at his term of endearment. “Aww you like me.” You whispered with just a touch of sass, blushing at his adoration. The hand on your middle slid lovingly over your tummy before moving up your chest with more direction. In the mirror you watched your reflection as she was attended to by the man behind her. His gloved hands came up to her mask and lifted it gently away, setting it down on the counter. It was hard to break your own eye contact, but those yellow tips of his gloves were so much more fun to watch.

Din brushed the back of his hand down your cheek, setting his fingertips on the bottom of your chin before dragging them down the expanse of your bruised neck. For a moment you thought he was aiming for your breasts, but instead his palms came to rest on your shoulders. His own armor plated shoulders stuck wide out past yours nearly by the entire width of his arms, dwarfing you with their size. You were just about to ask him what he was up to when you felt his thumbs dig into the meat of your back, making you groan whorishly at the sensation.

“Does that feel good?” You could barely nod, letting the circles his thumbs were making do the work for you. The feeling of him working the knots out of your shoulders hurt so good, and you let your eyes close while he massaged your back. His wide hands captured the muscles in your back with ease, diligently kneading the residual tension away. He pushed the pads of his thumbs closer to your spine, and you heard the crack-crack-crack of your vertebrae popping with each honed squeeze.

You had to lean on the counter for support, though your Mandalorian wouldn’t let you fall no matter what. Din’s hands followed the path of your spine, rolling strong circles into the aching muscles and putting extra pressure on each rib joint to get them to pop. His fingers hugged the bottom of your rib cage once he’d made it that far down, keeping you in place as he slid his circles down to the top of your pelvis. The pressure on your sacrum had you arching your back into his hands, more or less accidentally pressing your ass into his groin. He pushed back, but maybe more to keep you steady then to be suggestive.

Deft hands glided back up your spine, and you flickered your eyes back open to see the pair of you in the mirror. Heat returned to your gut at the sight of the massive mountain of metal standing behind your bent figure, pressing his hips tightly to yours. You bit your lip and smiled at him in the mirror, watching the way his visor cocked at the look you were giving him. “You seem to be very good at picking up new tricks, tinman.”

He shrugged, “I just want to take care of you.” What an understatement that was. You and the foundling were his everything, there wasn’t a single thing in the entire universe that mattered more than the two of you. You were his wife, his riddur, the living culmination of all his dreams and desires strutting around like you owned the place; and he was honored to be asked to stand in your presence. “Can I get you anything?”

“Hm…” Poking your head into the shower you inspected the soap that was provided, giving it a tentative sniff. It smelled like a girl, flowery and pretty and not at all what you were expecting from a literal pirate ship. It wasn’t for you. “Don’t happen to have any of our soap on you, do ya?” He shook his helmeted head, and you batted your lashes at him with a pleading pout. “Pwease would you get me some of our soap? Please… oh please?” You begged him sarcastically, reveling in the way his shoulder puffed up while you exploited his kink. His cape billowed behind him he spun around so fast, dashing out of the fresher and the room without another word. Laughing, you turned on the shower, letting it heat up a bit before you got in.

The curving hallways of the Sunskate were quiet and dark, save for the few gravediggers that ambled through the corridors, sipping at their piping hot caff. Soon the hangar doors parted, and he felt a wave of sadness at the sight of his ship. The old dropper had been through so much, but at least she was still kicking. As he got closer he noticed a few tools scattered around the area and a fresh, silvery patch job that had been added to the side of her hull. Somebody has been busy. He ghosted a hand along a welding scar, it wasn’t enough to get her starborne, but it would keep her from dissolving into a heap of scrap metal when you reached the station.

He would have to find out more later, for now he was on a mission: soap! Climbing up the half-hanging ramp he strode to the ladder, hauling himself up to where all of your utilities were stashed. You had packed like you were on the run, shoveling shit in wherever it would fit, and Din was cursing to himself at the mess he was sifting through. While he was at it he grabbed you some fresh clothes, filling up a little satchel with goodies for his lovely, can’t-pack-worth-a-shit wifey-poo.

The smell of fresher soap caught his nose, and he dug down into a deep crate, looking for his objective. He pulled a rifle out, a bundle of towels, an electric kettle, the smell growing stronger the deeper he got. A severed tusk was tossed aside, then a full thermos.

-sloshCLAck!-

Din stopped his search at the noise, clack? He picked up the impromptu quarry capture device and shook it carefully. -slosh-clack-slosh-clack-

That was very much not the noise it had made when he had filled it, distinctly remembering the sound of a metallic plonk instead. Heebie-jeebies prickled under his many layers, and morbid curiosity drove him to place his hand on the lid. No! What if it’s alive? He set the canister down and fished a knife from his belt, holding it in his pinkie while he unscrewed the lid. Heart in his throat and breath held firm he opened the jar, pointing the end of his blade at the syrupy goop that sloshed around, ready to stab anything to death should it try to jump him.

Nothing moved.

He swirled the container, watching the holographic slime shimmer on top of the large purple pod that had sunk to the bottom, and he heard the metallic noise again. Running out of air, he carefully poked his blade into the pool of nectar, nudging the seedpod out of the way to reveal something sitting underneath. Using the vibro’s tip he scraped the curio up out of the goop, slamming the lid back on the jar the moment he had whatever it was in his hand.

The deep breath he took filled his lungs with the residual essence of the hydra’s perfume, sending fresh blood to his spent cock. Focus, Djarin. Glistening in his palm was the tiniest microchip, about the size of a grape and roughly the same shape. On one side it had a set of tiny legs with little grips on their tips, designed so that it would stay in place wherever it was at. Had this been what the bounty was for? Maybe it wasn’t the pods at all, maybe it was this thing. Though what was it doing all the way down at the bottom of a cave?

He bumped it with the tip of his knife, getting it to stand on its feet and making the rainbow sludge slowly reveal the item in its entirety; and suddenly he had more questions than answers.

Blood turned to ice in his veins, freezing him solid. There, in the light coming off of his helmet, proudly stamped on the top of the device, was an emblem. It was a circle with a gear in the center, sort of shaped like a snowflake with a second gear hollowed out in the middle. It wasn’t popular any more, but Din had seen it many times in his life, most recently when Moff Gideon tried, and failed, to take his son away from him.

But the first time he had seen it had been burned into his memory for decades. Emblazoned on the sides of gunships and walking tanks that rained decimation on to his adopted homeworld, purging all life from Mandalore and turning the wartorn planet’s surface into a sea of glass.

It was the mark of the ones who had tried to hurt the child.

It was the mark of the ones who had decimated his clan.

It was the mark of the people who would destroy entire planets just to assert their dominion over the citizens they subjugated.

It was the mark of the Empire.

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[shatouto]

hi yes this is another installment in the raised-as-sith anakin x jedi obi-wan au i co-write with @obiwanobi. we’ve been putting what we got so far on ao3 for archiving/organizing purposes so before you read this pls check it out first if you haven’t bc there is some semblance of continuity, thank you :’) (this installment on ao3)

content note: past psychological and physical abuse, messy healing, please proceed with care

you love him dearly

You stand alone in a great dark hall. There’s no sound but your pulse jolting in bouts inside your ears. Like the footsteps of a scared bantha. And you feel like a scared bantha. You haven’t felt like this in a long time. You used to be worth less than a bantha, with your weak hands and your small body. All you were ever able to do was get yourself and your mom hurt. You felt so bad, so very bad, so bad that you were willing to beg your mom to let you go, when this man came and swept you up. This man who called you the Chosen One. This man who you now call...

“Master,” you say, and waits for your Master to acknowledge you.

Sometimes you think it’s strange, to trade one master for another. But this Master, your Master, is a different sort. Your Master taught you how to hate the right people, in the right way; gave you a crystal and let you forge your own lightsabers. Your Master told you you were special. No, no, it doesn’t matter that you were a slave, you are special, my boy. You know you are different, do you not? That you learn faster than children your age; that your reflexes are sharper, your intuition stronger. You see things before people do, know things before people see, and do things before people know. The future and the past are sometimes indistinguishable in your dreams. Clever child, golden child, you are certainly worth more than a bantha; oh, you are worth more than the population on that sandy speck combined. You are the Chosen One! You are destined for greatness.

You were weak and small and nothing. You deserve so much more, so much more. A pity that the universe has never given you and will never give you what you truly deserve. None of that is your fault, my poor boy; they are simply too blind and puny to appreciate your capacity and recognize your power. But worry not: Your Master will give it to you. Your Master is here to help you. You love him dearly, because you are nothing without him, because the universe is stupid and cruel and you hate it for making you feel like nothing. Your Master, on the other hand, must love you dearly, or else he would not have told you all about how special you are. Would not have trained you to be so strong. Would not have given you the respectable name of…

“Darth Vader.”

The greeting sounds more like a warning, because you deserve it. “I—I’m sorry. I wasn’t strong enough.” Even your voice comes out too small.

“Little need to apologize in words, my apprentice,” says your Master. “You know what must be done. You must learn your lesson.”

You love him, you love him, you love him. You love your Master, you chant in your heart, as you hang your head and tuck your tongue back and wait like the good apprentice you are.

The first blow is always the hardest. You convulse, feeling as if a thousand red-hot needles are exploding from within your sinews. Blinding pain crackles through your body, and you scream yourself…

Awake.

Anakin sits up in his sleeping bag, panting. He thinks he heard the tail end of a scream, his own, but it’s all silent now. He’s alone in the dark, the healed stump of his right arm tingling under the prosthetic cap. He searches his psyche for the tatters of a bond between him and the late Sith Lord; there's nothing left. Darth Sidious is truly dead. Two strides away from him, Obi-Wan Kenobi sleeps soundly in his bed.

His eyes soften. The sight of Obi-Wan soothes him, reminding him of where he is in time and in space. It has been a few months since he killed his Sith Master. He is in the Jedi Temple, in quarters belonging to Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi and Padawan Ahsoka Tano. Nobody knows he is here.

Anakin turns away as one would turn away from a too-bright light. You can’t look at the sun for too long or it’ll burn your eyes; especially if you are used to darkness. He breathes in, and out, and shakily pulls off the cover of the sleeping bag. His new metal fingertips nearly tear through the fabric.

“Anakin?”

Anakin doesn’t flinch, but his stomach flips. Obi-Wan’s silhouette slowly sits up in bed, tousled and softly rumpled and Anakin feels frighteningly tender in the chest. He keeps his head down, not wanting to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes right now.

“Anakin, is everything alright?”

Anakin mumbles out something vaguely affirmative, and pushes himself to his feet. “Fresher,” he says, hurrying away. He doesn’t return to the bedroom afterwards, but goes straight to the kitchenette and begins to prepare a rather large breakfast. He knows Obi-Wan doesn’t go back to sleep either. He wills himself to ignore the circles under Obi-Wan’s eyes, come morning.

—

“Anakin, I have been thinking,” Obi-Wan begins, as he takes their empty plates to the kitchen, where a dishwashing droid stands await. “You don’t happen to have a habit of meditating, do you?”

Anakin almost tenses up at meditating, but he only lets out a huff of breath and opens the droid’s compartment doors. He’s glad Ahsoka is away for the night, staying in her friend’s quarters or some such. If she joins in with Obi-Wan it’ll only be harder for him to reject the request. Because that’s clearly a request, no matter how fancily Obi-Wan phrases his question.

I hate it teeters on the tip of his tongue, but Anakin just answers: “No, I don’t.” Obi-Wan likes meditation, as all Jedi do. It would feel bad, be bad, to say he hates something Obi-Wan likes.

Obi-Wan hums. Dishes clink as he sets them in one by one. “Would you be so opposed to it, then?”

Anakin pulls his shields higher so that none of the screaming No no no I hate it in his mind is going to bleed through to Obi-Wan in the Force. He makes the mistake of turning to look at Obi-Wan, because he can’t help it, and he's met with a hopeful smile and gentle, crinkled eyes. He can't bear to see that smile fall. “...Guess not,” he mutters.

“I would keep you company, if that’s fine,” Obi-Wan continues on merrily, like the good-natured Jedi he is. “I mean to invite you to join me for meditation before bedtime, in fact. Is that alright?”

Anakin stares down at his mismatched hands. If there is one thing he hates more than meditating, it’s meditating with someone watching. He tries very hard not to grit his teeth.

“Of course, you don’t have to,” Obi-Wan adds, fingers briefly brushing Anakin’s flesh wrist. The sensation shoots right into Anakin’s heart. That settles it; it’s not even a question. Obi-Wan will be disappointed if he doesn’t.

“It’s alright,” Anakin says, shutting the droid’s compartment door. The timer beeps, unhelpfully helping him count down to the dreaded session.

—

“So this is meditation?” Anakin blurts.

Obi-Wan sits cross-legged on his bed, in his soft robes and sleeping pants. He opens his eyes in a quizzical gaze as Anakin remains standing. Anakin curls his hands into fists and tries not to fiddle with the hem of his tunic. Obi-Wan frowns, unfurls from his position and comes up so near that Anakin wants to hold his breath. He smells like the cotton flower-scented fabric softener, like crisp, warm laundry - he smells like hard-earned safety. “You don’t need to lie to me, Anakin,” he says, a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “I will instruct you from the beginning if you need me to, and I promise to help you with any difficulty. Now tell me: Have you meditated before?”

Obi-Wan says so, but Anakin is not about to tell him about the Sphere; about the long hours spent in that terrible spheroid room with enough space for you to wish you could move from your spot, but the walls were too smooth and curved for you to scale; about how silent it was in there save for his Master’s voice in his mind. Anakin is not about to tell this Jedi about the splatter of blood in the Sphere where he once bashed his head against until he passed out because he could not take it. How Sidious had punished him for it afterwards. How he never dared to do it again.

“...No,” Anakin says. “Show me.”

Obi-Wan nods; his hand slips down his shoulder and runs gently down his arm. Anakin blinks. Obi-Wan's touch always feels so… nice. Unhurried and mellow and never really demanding anything back. “I see. Take a seat beside me. Make yourself comfortable, please.”

Anakin crosses his legs as Obi-Wan does. Nervousness winds his core tight, makes his back rigid and ramrod straight. Obi-Wan is near him, both in physical presence and in the Force, his signature pulsing with the light of sunrays through butterfly wings.

“Relax, Anakin. Loosen your muscles”—his warm hand traces across Anakin’s back from shoulder to shoulder, then down his spine—“and your jaws.” His fingertips brush the hinge of Anakin’s jaws just as he says so. Anakin nearly shivers. It takes him longer than he thought it would, to truly follow those orders.

“...There we go,” Obi-Wan says. He draws back, and Anakin should be glad that the distracting touch is gone, but he feels disappointed instead. “Now breathe in deep. Ah, wait. Do it again, breathe in, deeper, and try to hold it. Yes, like that…”

They spend the next quarter hour or so wrestling with his breathing pattern, keeping it both deep and steady. Anakin goes from counting the beats to counting the breaths to finally not needing to count at all. And then when he thinks he’s gotten the hang of it…

“Let go? You mean I shouldn’t focus on my breathing anymore?” he asks, puzzled, bordering on frustrated. “But you just told me to be mindful of it.”

“Yes, correct, Anakin.” Obi-Wan sounds unfazed. “Be mindful of the rhythm, and keep it up. You’ve done well so far. Now you must turn your focus inwards, and meet the Force within you.”

Anakin’s eyes slide open for a split second and then fall shut again. He doesn’t understand, but he could just try. This isn’t any difficulty that he needs to bother his instructor with. He nods, and begins again. He begins with his breathing. In, and out. Slow, and steady. And now he must not think about the breaths anymore. Now he must...

The Force within him is a well of ink. Ink that glisten from black to crimson like the blood on his hand. Ink that sloshes and laps against the walls and the echoes turn into screams. A bright white fracture crackles from one corner of his vision to the other. Centipede-like arches of incandescence skitter under his skin. Drip, drip, the blood, no, the ink, it drips and it trails and it tickles his skin. There’s the familiar taste of copper at the back of his tongue, flavors just waiting to burst. Cruel laughter echoes from the bottom of the inky well, and somewhere in the thick darkness there is the outline of a woman’s silhouette, of small but strong shoulders and—

Something warm brushes his psyche.

Warm, but too close. Anakin snatches that tendril without a thought and delves counter-current through Force-realm. He forces himself to the other side, even as something shatters around him. He knows the drill. *Your self-preservation can only come at the cost of others', my boy.* Colors begin to flash, gentle and muted, bearing the fuzzy quality of memories. Sunlight flickers, filigree wings flutter, landing on durasteel grounds. He feels tears on his face and tears in his throat and his forehead is pressed close to someone else’s, someone he loves so dearly—no, not him, someone that the person to whom this mind belongs loves so dearly.

“...proud of you. Carry on, Obi-Wan. Live brightly.”

“Yes, Master.”

There's no silence more thorough than a heartbeat evening out into nothingness. There's no solitude more poignant than the company of a vanishing light. Saying goodbye is never an easy feat, even for a Jedi, and the anger and sorrow he felt—

“Anakin! Stop!”

Anakin jolts awake. A thick, ferric drop trails from his nose, warm on his lips. He opens his eyes and finds Obi-Wan beneath him, wide-eyed. His hands are pressing Obi-Wan’s shoulders into the mattress. Obi-Wan, who was teaching him to meditate, who brushed his mental shields in the process of instruction. Obi-Wan, his teacher. And if all of those images belonged to Obi-Wan…

He just broke into Obi-Wan’s mind.

Anakin scrambles back. The ink, no, the blood, now drips down his chin. It tickles. His teeth clatter as shivers rake up inside him. He clenches his jaws and stares at the ground. The sheets rustle.

“I think that’s quite enough for tonight.” Obi-Wan doesn’t sound angry, just somewhat breathless. Even concerned. Anakin doesn’t believe it. “Anakin, you’re bleeding. Do you need—”

“No.” Anakin staggers to his feet and backs away. Nothing worse than asking for more and becoming even more of a burden because everything he takes is a debt and he will pay for it. His Master always made sure he paid. “No. I’ll—I’ll clean up. I’m sorry. I’ll clean up.”

He stands there just long enough for Obi-Wan to respond - with anything, words, blows, anything. In the end, Obi-Wan only says, “Alright. Please, take care.” Anakin’s eyes flick up to find a grimace. He turns away and all but runs to the fresher, more dismayed than relieved.

Because if the punishment doesn’t come right away, that only means he’s going to have to wait.

[wendimydarling]

Title: Convenience  

Summary: Clark doesn’t like sleeping out in the cold. 

Pairing: Clark Kent x OFC Reader 

Word Count: 2546

Warnings: Sex. There is sex.

A/N: So all this lovely text got deleted after I shared it. This story was a beast, but worth it to power through and finish. The idea came from this NSFW gif here, which gave me the thought “what if Clark was an escort while he was a nomad looking for his parents?” which then translated to “what if he just parachuted into each town if he didn’t intend to stay?” 

Song drabble number ? for the 500 Event, sent in anonymously!

Clark wasn’t saving for much, he was just looking for a place where he could remain anonymous, a place to hide from who he was. And that required a certain amount of cash put away. But it was hard to find a job when he was constantly on the road, and he was always on the road it seemed. No jobs meant no money, and no money meant no place to sleep. 

So Clark would offer out his services. He was young, handsome, and had the stamina of... well, of Superman.

He never asked for money. His preferred payment of choice was a place to crash and a shower, and breakfast if he could swing it. Though he’d never tell them that was what he was up to. Why hurt their feelings?

This particular evening, he’d come upon a small town in the middle of nowhere, as usual. Clark went straight to the local dive bar; that was the best place to find pretty girls desperate enough to take a man home. He entered the establishment and surveyed the room, a gruff expression etched into his features. Slim pickings tonight. Still, it was early, so he went to the bar, checking his wallet to see if he had enough for dinner and the drinks that would be needed. Just enough for the drinks. Fuck.

Clark ordered a beer, making kind but vague eyes at the girls staring at him from the corner. He was hoping for something a little more appetizing but beggars can’t be choosers, and either of them would be a better choice than sleeping out in the cold. He was nearing the end of his beer and had just resigned himself to his fate when she walked in.

Target acquired.

She was all legs; a pencil skirt gracefully hugged her figure and a low cut blouse accentuated her small bust. She was clearly out of place here, which meant either she was meeting someone, or she’d had a bad day and desperately needed a drink. Long dark curls hung over one of her shoulders, and she met his gaze with large, bambi eyes. He tipped his beer toward her and went back to his phone; she would not be easy prey. 

He had to make her comfortable, make her seem as though he wasn’t interested. She was pretty enough that some lug would make a move on her soon, and then Clark would step in and defend her. That typically works. She’d be grateful, offer him a beer of thanks, and then they’d get to chatting and he’d turn on the charm. She’d be putty in his hands.

Sure enough, a big ugly brute that had downed probably three beers too many sauntered up to the woman. 

“Hey, pretty lady,” he slurred, running a finger along her thigh. The woman grabbed his hand and firmly removed it from her leg, but the brute caught her wrist, pulling her close and leaning in for a kiss.

Clark watched the exchange through his glass, seeing how she’d manage. The woman tried to fight the man off but she was clearly overpowered, and her words weren’t working. Clark decided now was the time to intervene. He stepped in and clapped a hand on the idiot’s shoulder, squeezing harder than he should. The man was taken aback by his strength but he took a swing and Clark let him, knowing it would do far more damage to the brute, and would earn him some sympathy points. He pretended to fall down while the brute was thrown out of the bar, howling in pain and clutching his hand.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” 

Her large brown eyes met his steely blue as she touched his shoulder, and Clark shook his head in mock confusion, standing up at his full height to tower over her. He could hear her heart race faster, could see the blood in her veins pumping harder at his nearness. 

Target locked. 

He pressed the heel of his palm to his eye a couple of times.

“I’m fine, are you?”

“Yes, thanks to you.”

“Happy to help. No one else should bother you.”

Clark turned to head back to his drink.

“Can I buy you a beer?”

There it is. 

“No it’s alright; I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Come on, it’s the least I can do to say thank you.”

Clark turned to look at her, a smile on his face.

“Well, if you insist.”

Bullseye.

~~~~~~~

Claire had just wanted a drink. She hated this town, and couldn’t wait until this weekend when she could go back home. Being assigned to this town for two months had been hell, but in her line of work, shitholes like this just came with the paycheck.

But every now and then some fun would come her way. Like the man behind her. 

The man with impressive stature and beautiful black curls. The man with soft eyes, steel blue eyes that held a haunted past and an uncertain future. Steel… it’s fitting. That’s what I’ll call him. Claire didn’t want a relationship, just a good fuck, but she wouldn’t tell him that. Why hurt his feelings?

They were back at her apartment, she jimmying her key in the fickle lock as Steel held her close, his breath tickling her ear. His hands were at her hips, hiking her skirt ever so slowly up over her ass.

“Let me,” he whispered, and Claire’s knees nearly buckled. His voice was so low, so husky, and it shot fire straight through her. Steel’s fingers gently slipped over and between hers as he grabbed the key from her, reaching around her body to grasp the door knob. A shiver ran down Claire’s spine as he kissed the back of her neck. The door swung open in seconds.

Claire stepped into the small apartment. Steel followed, greedily grabbing at her waist as she toed off her pumps. He spun her around and cupped her face gently with his hands, the first brush of his lips slow, heated. He smelled like cedar and smoke, and tasted like whiskey and hops. There was a pleasant flavor to his tongue that she couldn’t describe, one she’d never tasted before on any man. 

“Where’s your bedroom,” he asked, whispering again, and Claire moaned against his mouth.

“End of the hallway.”

He picked Claire up with such surprising ease, and never in her life had she felt so small. It was as if she weighed nothing. She straddled his broad waist and his hands grasped her ass as he walked her down the hall, his lips never leaving hers. As they reached the bedroom, Claire felt his fingers clasp the zipper of her skirt, revealing her soft skin slowly as he continued to taste her lips. 

Every touch felt gentle and firm but calculated, as if he was restraining himself from something. So when her blouse was suddenly yanked open, Claire gasped in surprise. Quickly relieved of the torn garment, Steel hoisted her in the air again and tossed her onto the bed. A pang shot through her belly at the feeling of being so roughly handled, and the way he licked his lips as he stared at her like she was his prey left her loins singing. 

Steel undressed carefully as Claire stared at him, and she wondered briefly if he was even human. Every sinew, every muscle stood out from underneath taut skin, dark curls trailing down his abdomen to frame the largest cock she’d ever seen. He stared back, his eyes taking in her own petite form, decorated elegantly with the dark undergarments she’d been left in. 

He crawled to her slowly, hovering above her, trapping her in the cage of his body. His lips fell back onto hers, his hands tracing every line of her skin. Claire shivered at the touch; it had been awhile since she’d brought someone home, and she wondered how she’d forgotten the heavenly feeling of being pressed into a mattress by the delicious weight of a man. 

His lips were talented, dedicated, travelling the length of her neck to the valley of her breasts. His hot breath warmed her nipple through her bra, and he gently pulled the cup down to reveal the sensitive nub to his tongue. Claire arched her back and Steel took the opportunity to reach underneath her, unclasping her bra and holding her in that position to afford himself more access to her chest. She gasped as his lips returned to the beautiful center of her breast, sucking it effortlessly into a peak that he could flick with the tip of his tongue.

Claire writhed and moaned beneath him, gasping and mewling at the feel of his mouth on her flushed skin. He trailed wet kisses down her ribs to her hips, fingers running along her thighs, hands forcing her wider. He grasped her underwear in his teeth and pulled gently, his nose running along her leg until Claire joined him in his nakedness. Those teeth made their way back up her other leg, nipping at her tender flesh as she whined, her soft sounds begging him for more. 

Steel’s fingers discovered her sex, slipping easily through the slick that had coated her folds. Claire couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this wet, this fast, but the moment his fingers slid deep inside of her body she realized that she didn’t care. He was knuckle deep and somehow able to push so hard that Claire’s body snapped; no build up, no swell. She had been picked up and dropped over the edge, and shock rang clear on her face as she came without warning around his fingers. 

He watched her with the knowing look of a man who has done this before, a man who knew the effect he had on women. But the gleam in Steel’s eye had a dullness to it that Claire noticed, almost a sadness. It made her want to comfort him, though she didn’t know why. She lifted a hand to stroke his cheek with her thumb and he wrapped his arm around her waist, hoisting her into a sitting position. 

Claire was higher than she expected and looked down to discover that Steel was holding her literally with just his hand, impaling her core with his fingers. Shocked pleasure contorted her face as she snapped her head up to look at him, confusion and arousal striking her features. A second orgasm barrelling toward her at lightning speed the moment he wiggled his fingers against her cervix, and Claire clasped her hands around Steel’s neck, her forehead falling to his shoulder as her body convulsed. He held her close, burying his face in her hair. His lips surround her collarbone, the comforting caress of soft kisses alighting on her flushed skin as she rejoins him from the clouds.

“Well fuck,” Claire exclaimed breathlessly, and Steel chuckled, brushing her clit on purpose as he removed his fingers from her wet heat. She gasps and bucks her hips, sliding off of his lap and onto the bed. He grinned at her, flipping her over effortlessly. Claire felt like a rag doll, and it made her bite her lip in anticipation.

She watched him through hooded eyes as he tore open the square foil. How had she missed his beauty when she first saw him in the bar? Long lashes brushed his cheeks every time he blinked, dark curls hung over his forehead. He had a strong jaw, and there was a smattering of freckles over his nose that were only just barely visible in the low light of the room. He looked up at her and Claire’s heart skipped a beat at the dark lust that had taken over his amiable features. 

Steel knelt on the bed and grasped her hips, yanking Claire up to meet him. She felt the tip of his length press against her folds, but for some reason he hesitated. Claire pushed against him, whining softly and urging him to continue. Faster than she thought possible he was sheathed inside of her and she cried out, the sudden fullness bursting through her abdomen. She gasped and moaned, panting heavily as her body tried to reject him, but Steel slowly eased them down so that he was lying on top of her, holding still so that Claire could grow accustomed to his size. He kissed her cheek softly, slipping a hand underneath her to tease her opening. 

Claire shifted as Steel’s fingers cupped her mound. He spread her folds, softly stroking her clit with his middle finger as she adjusted slowly. She clenched around him, filled with an unbelievable desire to be fucked raw by this astonishing person. He thrust into Claire once, testing her, and she uttered a moan, throaty and full of need. 

“Please!” Claire whispered urgently. Steel didn’t hesitate this time; he began thrusting into her in earnest, ripping her apart seam by seam. Claire cried out each time he struck deepest, her eyes closed, face skewed in the painful pleasure of sexual rapture. She could hear Steel’s voice in her ear, grunts and growls winding the coil in her belly tighter and tighter. One of his hands laced with hers for support and the other continued to play with her folds, spurring her on to another tumble over the edge. 

Unable to move, the coil sprang open, and stars burst behind Claire’s eyes as she came. She heard Steel groan as her walls milked his cock, and he sat the two of them up suddenly. His hands grasped her hips and slammed her repeatedly down onto his pulsing length, and Claire fisted her hands in the sheets, her orgasm remaining strong. Harder and stronger, stronger than she’d ever felt a man before, he snapped his hips up into her until she felt his cock swell, releasing everything he had. Claire slumped to the bed when he was finished, exhausted beyond belief. 

Panting heavily, she turned and watched through tired eyes as Steel cleaned up. He hardly seemed out of breath and Claire couldn’t believe it; she was gasping for air. He came back over to the bed and laid the blanket on top of her, and Claire grabbed his hand and pulled. She didn’t want to be alone tonight. Steel slipped under the covers and draped his arm over her still-trembling form, brushing her hair softly from her face. Her eyes soon closed and she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

~~~~~~~

Clark watched the woman’s chest rise and fall as she slept. Everything about her was beautiful. He closed his eyes and listened to the thump of her heart, the rush of blood sweeping through her pulse points, the sharp draft of air swelling her lungs. The gentle ambient melody of her body lulled Clark into a sense of calm, and he found that self-loathing that often accompanied his thoughts in this moment didn’t appear this time; he was peaceful for once. He snuggled into her warmth as he fell asleep with her, comforted by the soft bed and the notion of a shower tomorrow. He might also find comfort in her body again in the morning, but for now, this was enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[stressedspidergirlsfandomblog]

Title: Monster

 SHIP (if applicable): Geraskefer PROMPT DAY: 6 MEDIUM: Books WARNINGS: Self-loathing, more accidental self-harm than deliberate, canon typical suicidal ideation SUMMARY:

“What a hideous smile I have, Geralt thought, reaching for his sword. What a hideous face I have. And how hideously I squint. So is that what I look like? Damn.” -Andrzej Sapkowski, Sword of Destiny

-

“Do you know, Visenna, what is done to witchers’ eyes to improve them? Do you know it doesn’t always work?”

“Stop it,” she said softly. “Stop it, Geralt.” -Andrzej Sapkowski, Sword of Destiny

WORD COUNT: 11891 AUTHOR’S NOTES: Read on Ao3

@geraltwhumpweek

Geralt hated sorcerers. They were never good company, with the except of Yennefer who still had her moments, and they were usually unnaturally cruel whenever given the chance. He had, of course managed to run afoul of this one, he always did. If there was a sorcerer involved, he was going to suffer. That was simply the life of a witcher, or any other poor soul who happened to cross paths with them.

“Geralt of Rivia, Geralt of Nowhere. Geralt of Kaer Morhen, Geralt of No Parentage. Geralt the Witcher, Geralt the Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt the Monster.”

Yes, that was all true, as far as Geralt was concerned. Nothing new, no worse than anything anyone else had said to him.

“I curse you.”

Fuck.

“I curse you so that you will look on the outside as you are on the inside. You will be the hideous monster you truly are. The monster you know yourself to be.”

Pain racked him so hard he thought he might die. His bones shifted like they had during the changes, his face stretching, cheekbones raising and flattening, jaw jutting forward and expanding as his mouth filled with sharp teeth, his lips pulling back and tearing as they failed to keep up with the changes to his skill. He screamed with the pain of it, and horror swamped him when an alien sound came from his mouth.

“Kill me, and it’s permanent,” the mage informed him.

The changes continued, his hands stretching into claws as his nails thickened and turned black like a wolf’s, his silvery hair spreading across more of his body. Geralt’s eyes turned true yellow, and he cried out again, the hoarse howl of a monster as his legs lengthened and thickened, making him taller even as his spine curled forcing him to hunch forward.

“However, true love, the purest kind can break the spell. Someone will have to love you as you are, seeing you as you truly are, for the spell to break.”

As his nose changed, growing sharper and hooking slightly he felt more shifts in his bones and tears in his skin where it failed to keep up and he moaned low in his throat. His voice had been unpleasant before, but now? Now it was the guttural sounds of a monster utterly incapable of speech. He tried. He tried to curse the mage before him, tears and snot running down his mutated face. When he tried to run his forearm across his face, he noticed the sinew and muscle standing out and the once fine dusting of milk white hair was now thick like pelt over his arm. He screamed again, hardly able to think. Geralt tore at it, the thick claws digging into flesh as he tried to pull some of the hair free.

He accidentally raked his own face in horror at the damage his claws had done, lifting them to try and cover his eyes and feeling them pierce the skin around his eyes and howled again.

“I suppose you should get used to your knew form, enjoy it, Geralt. After all, who could learn to love a beast?” The sorcerer opened a portal and stepped through it, smiling. Geralt lunged but was too late.

While his figure was mostly human, he felt, he couldn’t be too sure. His neck had changed and he had more trouble looking down at himself than he had before. Stay calm, focus, breathe, control your heart rate, control yourself. He looked down and saw his clothes mostly hanging in tatters. Something moved behind him and he twisted in panic raising his hands to defend himself with a cry of surprise. But nothing was there. But he could see something from the corner of his vision, and he twisted painfully to look down at himself and saw that he now had a tail.

The shock of it dropped him to his knees, cracking them painfully on the stone floor of the mage’s tower. He gripped it and thought about simply cutting it off. All that stopped him was that when Yennefer reversed the spell, it might hurt him in some other way. All of this had come from his body and to remove some of it might mean he would be less whole when returned to his natural state.

He tried to speak again and again but all that came out of his throat were horrible hoarse sounds. Wasn’t Dandelion always telling him all he did was grunt and grizzle? Now that was true. Perhaps a letter. He could send her a letter.

When he tried to pick up a writing implement from the desk his hands… claws, his hands were very nearly paws, and blackness edged around his vision again. He couldn’t hold the quill. Could barely pick it up, it was too fine, too delicate. Then he realized, who would mail the letter for him? How would he pay? A horrible chuffing sound came out of him and he realized that was his laugh. He screamed again, unable to help it.

It was daylight.  He was effectively trapped in the tower until nightfall. If people saw him they would hunt him down and kill him and he couldn’t even speak to them to explain. Couldn’t write them a message… or perhaps… perhaps he could.

It didn’t occur to him to use the inkwell, which would have been smarter. Instead, he dug his claws into his flesh tipping them in his own blood as he carefully wrote a message to Yennefer on the parchment. He had no idea if she’d ever find it. It said very little, and he had no way to mail it… no coins… but perhaps somehow it would make its way to her.

Yennefer- Mage. Curse. Help. -Geralt.

When he wiped at his eyes again, the fur on his forearm was streaked with blood. Bloodied tears? His heart squeezed. Was no part of him left human? He had to get out of there. He paced around the tower room and stopped when he saw a mirror. It was slightly warped, the silver bent and twisted, not good quality. But it was enough to make him sink to his knees in horror.

His clothing had torn around him, in some places digging into his skin and cutting him. He pulled it off where string and thread still tore into his flesh and looked at himself. While he had never been especially hairy fur had mostly replaced natural body hair and he uncomfortably touched his cheeks. He never even wore a beard, and now he had an odd coating of fur that started an inch or so away from his eyes and ran halfway down his neck. It picked up again at his sternum in a large circular shape before continuing over his abdomen and down to his groin.

“I envy you this, you know. It looks so low maintenance. I’ve never seen you trim or shave any of it,” Dandelion told him softly, stroking along his sides and hips. “Does it truly just grow this way? Nice and neat?”

“I don’t know if it’s neat,” Geralt protested lightly. “But it’s true, I don’t alter it.” Who did?

The poet gently stroked up the insides of his legs and over his hips, circling his groin with gentle touches. Geralt would have given anything for those delicate fingers to never stop. Being comfortable and safe like this was far better than sex. “I do, I spend quite a bit of time on it, maintaining it.”

“Why?” Geralt asked, he hadn’t particularly cared one way or the other about Dandelion’s body hair.

“Oh Geralt,” the bard teased, eyes twinkling. “As much hair grows here, if I didn’t keep it trimmed,” his fingers gently ran through the hair above Geralt’s cock, “people would think me much smaller than I am. Too much hair and you hide too much and even if there’s plenty no one will believe it.”

Geralt snorted in shock and laughed. Dandelion grinned at him, pleased to have made him smile. The bard gently leaned over to press a kiss to Geralt’s hip, and the witcher knew he was being given a choice. They could just continue to lie like this, or they could make love. He found both options tempting, but he didn’t feel like the amount of movement the latter would require. He gently cupped Dandelion’s cheek, guiding him up to kiss him on the mouth.

“Just sit with me,” Geralt asked, voice husky.

“Of course, love,” Dandelion agreed easily, continuing to let his fingers trail over and explore his lover. Every so often Geralt twitched a little, and the bard knew he’d found a new place to touch and tease during their lovemaking, but for now just being together was enough.

Thankfully his genitals were barely visible under the hanging fur, since pants weren’t going to be an option for him. Ashamed in ways he hadn’t thought possible, he tried to pick up his cloak from the chair and drape it around himself. All that happened was his claws caught and shredded the fabric. He laughed bitterly and startled when it came out as the chuffing bark noise from before. Tears ran over his cheeks again, the blood dyeing the fur on his face pink.

How was he going to wash himself? Or dress himself? Keep himself warm? His entire body wasn’t furred.

The mirror allowed him to see his jaw elongated and widened, new teeth full of sharp points that prevented him from closing his mouth entirely, which meant drool was starting to form at the corners of his lips. Hatred for himself sang in his heart. Even his ears had moved slightly, higher on his head and more pointed and leathery like a bat’s, perhaps. Barely recognizable as human other than the color.

His skin had turned even whiter, even less human, more like alabaster than the usual sallow paleness he was used to and his eyes…. Oh, they were so yellow and the slitted pupils- nothing he did would round them again like a normal man’s. The could widen and thin them but not enough. He would have thrown up if he could have.

Mostly his bone structure appeared to be the same, outside of his face, just longer and thicker. His hips pushed against his skin the way they did in lean months where he had little to eat, but he had a feeling this was permanent. Just as his ribs pulled the skin tight between them and his hips, leaving him with a small waist that exemplified several drawings of famine he’d seen.

Unable to bear the sight of himself he slammed a hand against the mirror without thinking and cried out when the silver burned. The glass shattered and bits of it stuck into his knuckles and flew at him, leaving red marks as if he’d been scalded. His claws were too brutish to pull the glass out and he found himself shredding skin attempting to pull the burning embers of silver from his body. Once they were out, he was left with mutilated knuckles and red welts all over himself where the mirror had exploded with the force of his strike.

Unsure of where to walk, his feet were mostly bare, his boots shredded and useless. He glanced at his medallion, he had torn it off along with his shirt. How would he wear it? How would people know it was him? He couldn’t speak, couldn’t tell them, couldn’t write… Moaning, he covered his face with his hands and wept, he had never felt so helpless in his life.

“Yen this is humiliating.”

“Your leg was broken and so was your skull. Get up and walk around with me.”

“I’m wobbling like a fawn, Yen, I don’t want to.”

“And how will you get better if you refuse to use your muscles?”

“My head aches.”

“And I shall rub your neck after, and perhaps your shoulders too, if you stop trying to delay the inevitable and get up and walk with me.”

“Perhaps you could rub something else?”

She snorted. “Are you done whining?”

“I wasn’t whining,” he argued, getting out of the bed shakily. The linen pants moved across the bandages on his shin and he took her hand, allowing her to help him up. Then slid his arm around her shoulders, leaning on her as they walked out of the room. She made him pace the length of the hall and back before allowing him to rest, and he was happy to hold her in his arms as he waited for his muscles to stop shaking.

He loved the feel of her hair over his skin, and the coolness of her touch on his body. She gently ran fingers through his hair, pressing gently as she massaged away the worst of his headache. He loved when they were close together like this, when there was no expectation, no pressure. They could just be.

Walking carefully through the splinters of mirror he knew whenever he failed because the pain burned him. Welts and blisters rose up, but thankfully no more glass made its way into his flesh. Not sure what to do with his old clothes, or his medallion, he did his best to work around his claws and bundle the silver without touching it. His medallion. His mark, who he was. He had no pockets, no pack, nothing.

Pawing through the mage’s things, he did manage to find a satchel with a long strap which he tucked the medallion in, the leather barely touch enough to withstand his claws as he shoved it in. It took some doing but he also managed to get the strap over his shoulder without destroying it or the bag. He couldn’t leave yet, and his body still ached.

There was no food to take, nothing to do but wait. So he crouched down in a corner away from the debris, running a claw over the shaggy rough hair sprouting from his scalp. His sensitive fingers had been covered in thick callous that made it hard to feel, but he could still tell his hair was no longer the fine silky texture his partners had loved. Ciri had loved it, too. His hair was smoother than hers, no curl, and so she had loved brushing it out. She had often put it into braids. Now, the rough strands would be not only unpleasant to touch but near impossible to groom. It was going to mat so easily, he knew.

“Your hair is so soft,” Ciri marveled, running fingers through it as he sat with her by the fire. They had spread out a few blankets and pillows on the hearthstones to wait out the storm. While she wasn’t afraid of the weather, after the Wild Hunt had near taken her, she was a little jumpier about the noise. He didn’t fault her.

He closed the book in his lap, leaving his index finger between the pages to mark their spot. He had chosen a bestiary at her request and was teaching her more of what she would know to be a witcher. Initially, he had wanted to read history or philosophy or something else, anything else. But it was what she had asked him for.

She gently combed out his hair again, having used a little bit of unscented oil to make the strands gleam. Since she had decided to take an interest in grooming him like a beloved feist his hair always shone in the light. It was always neatly brushed. He looked healthier. Of course, taking her into his life he had had to start taking better care of himself simply because he was taking care of her. If she needed food, he found food rather than go hungry. If she felt filthy, he found a place for them to bathe. It was just what he did now.

While he was well able to keep himself clean and his hair free of tangles without assistance, they both found the routine soothing. So many ugly things happened around them day in and day out that it was nice to end the day by the fire together, doing something peaceful. Not to mention both Yennefer and Dandelion had commented on the change in texture of his hair, enjoying the silkiness Ciri’s ministrations had brought out.

He fell asleep somehow, curled into the corner. The stones on his skin were cold enough to leech away some of his body heat and leave him to wake shivering and miserable. So much for the new layer of fur keeping him warm or being useful in any way.

The sky was dark, and most of the village around the tower asleep. Humiliated by his nakedness, he knew he didn’t have a choice about it, or about having to leave. If the mage sent someone back to clear him out, or alert the villagers, he would be killed in a small space unless he was willing to let his actions match his appearance. Perhaps he should just let them kill him.

But he had hope, small hope, that Yennefer would somehow find his message. Would somehow find him and save him. She loved him, didn’t she? So did Dandelion. One of them should work, or perhaps she could just reverse the spell without anything. In case her love wasn’t even… he loved them both so much. Surely, surely one of them could break it. Would it take a kiss? Just some blood? He tried to remember how Nivellen’s curse had been broken with the bruxa, but he didn’t want to have to kill one of his lovers. He wouldn’t. He would kill himself first if that was the only solution.

The doorknob was difficult to grip and slippery against his skin and he barely managed to get it open. Only the terror of acting like the beast he was kept him from smashing through it. He was bigger, and bulkier, and going through the doorway and down the twisting steps made him aware of how much he had changed. It was difficult to navigate where before he would have run quickly.

He paused at the bottom, smelling food. A bit old, perhaps, but not turned. He listened for a while, didn’t smell any signs of human life or hear anything, and the thought of food made his mouth water. Ropes of drool slid over his chin and hung down and he shut his eyes. Nothing he did would take away the feeling. Ashamed, he almost didn’t open the door to the kitchen. He should perhaps just starve to death. But, never seeing Ciri again, never seeing Yennefer or Dandelion… not if there was a chance he could be saved… even if he didn’t deserve it…

Tthe hunger pressed on him and he pushed through the door and raided the stores of food he found. The vegetables were hard to chew, since all of his teeth had apparently been replaced with fangs leaving him with very little molar. He ended up gulping down chunks of carrot and potato raw. The meat he found was dried, and even more difficult to manage. His claws allowed him to tear it easily enough and he swallowed strips whole. He ate until his stomach ached and bulged, knowing he had no way to carry any of it with him.

While he was sure he could hunt, and while he could process raw meat if forced, he had no taste for it. Perhaps his new monster’s body and tongue would. Ripping into raw flesh and still beating hearts… that had always been his destiny hadn’t it? Shunned by society living like an animal? Looking around for anything that might help him, anything that might keep him human, there was nothing.

At the door to the tower he listened, and when he heard no one moving around he ran.

**

“Madam Yennefer, a message for you.”

“Odd, a letter coming from my banker.”

“It’s an odd situation, if you don’t mind me saying,” the dwarf twisted his hands.

“Please, explain.” She took the missive in her hand, looking at the odd parchment. When she opened it, it bore five words written in blood. The implement used to write had scratched the fibers of the page, making it hard to read and the blood had trailed along the disrupted grooves. It was hardly legible, but she know how Geralt made his runes. Even if he was clearly badly injured and writing her in blood. Although the marks were like no quill she had ever seen. It was too thick, and far too coarse. Disturbed, she looked up at the dwarf.

“Well. There was a contract for your witcher, and he took it. Went up to meet a sorcerer who said they had information and would also pay for parts of the beast. I don’t know all the details, mind. But Geralt went in, and he never came out. One of my fellows heard that he hadn’t come to pay his inn bill, or the fee for keeping his horse stabled. I had someone go take care of it. The horse is on her way to your home in Vengerberg, where she and his bags will be safe. I also had the money owed settled.”

“And you’ll have it taken from my accounts?”

“I was simply waiting on approval.”

“That’s neatly done then. I’ll need to withdraw some coin, then. To take with me. If you hear anything of Geralt, have it passed along to me as quickly as possible. Here, I’ll leave a kestrel, send it with any news.”

“Done.”

“Giancardi?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

**

He tried to keep track of the days, scratching a mark into the bark of a tree. But after the first week time became meaningless. He knew it might take a full month before Yennefer got his note, assuming she ever did. He had told her the contact might take him weeks. She wouldn’t think to check for ages yet. He was on his own for much longer.

He had dug up various roots he had found, keeping himself alive as best he could, and much to his disgust he had managed to fell a deer and the carcass had fed him for days. Geralt was doing his best to behave as a human might. He tried to keep himself clean. Bathing in the cold stream was even worse with the added fur to soak in and hold the icy water against his skin.

A bear had chased him out of the first cave he found, and then a pack of wolves another. Finally, he had given in and dug himself a sort of shelter, doing his best to create more space by breaking branches and aligning them to create a sort of roof and wall. With his hands thick and unwieldy he could barely manage. Using vines to tie anything was out of the question. The crude lean-to kept the worst of the wind and damp away but he would have given anything for a fire.

When hunters came through and found his shelter, they almost found him. He hadn’t remembered to hide his tracks and they chased him for days. He could endure more, suffer more, but some part of him hoped they would catch him. Kill him and make all of this end.

The longer he was alone in the wild, the more terrifying he became. He caught glimpses of himself in the streams and rivers and puddles… his appearance continued to change and his body never stopped aching.

 **

“Ciri, pack your things. I’ve found a place to hide you and I’ll need you to stay there.”

“Yennefer, I’m hardly in need of that kind of care anymore. I’m capable in my own right.”

“Geralt would never forgive me.”

“If he was taken as part of a contract, I’m your best bet at luring out whoever it was. If they want a witcher, let’s give them a witcher.”

“I don’t intend to use you as bait.”

“Please, Mamma, please. Don’t make me wait here twiddling my thumbs when I’m just as good with a sword as he is. Let me help.”

“One promise or I will use magic to keep you here.”

“What is it?”

“You obey. Something both you and Geralt are terrible at. But this time, you do as I tell you. Or I will send you through a portal to somewhere only I can find you and take you back out.”

“I promise.”

**

When his knees had reversed to match those of the predators whose forest he shared, the agony was so bad he couldn’t move for days. He laid there in the dirt and leaves, bugs crawling over him and didn’t move, and wished for death.

He fought and killed the giant cat that wanted his territory, and the pelt that grew over his body kept him far warmer than his clothes ever had. This time, he had chosen a place far from humans and higher in the mountains where not many bothered to travel to. Hunting was scarce but he had found a cave that was his and had dragged plenty of dried leaves in it to act as a bed. There was a hollow in the back that collected rain that dripped from a crack in the roof and it kept him from having to leave for fresh water too often.

He had no idea how many days had passed. Time had no meaning for an animal. He woke, he hunted, sometimes he ate, and then he slept.

**

“There’s some sort of silvery-haired werewolf living in our woods, you know, Master Dandelion.”

“Oh pish, I know what werewolves look like. The things your villagers have been saying are lies. Some sort of primal man-ape creature living in the woods.”

“We chased him out,” a man interjected. “We caught sight of him and chased him out. Silver haired and yellow eyed, monstrous. Huge claws, sharp teeth, found his dwelling and razed it so he’d never return. Thought about calling ourselves a witcher but we handled it just fine on our own, we did.”

“Silver hair and yellow eyes?”

“Fangs as big as my arm, ‘e jus’ ran though,” another man called out, this one older and missing some teeth. “Big cowar’ly cretchur,” he explained.

Dandelion looked around the tavern. He had planned to meet Geralt a few days ride from here and they had intended to travel together back to Vengerberg to meet with Yennefer and Ciri. Only Geralt hadn’t been in the area that anyone knew of. Not recently. He had come a month or more ago, had met with the sorcerer and disappeared. All heads were nodding in agreement and he felt a moment of concern.

“What tower did you say the sorcerer lived in?”

“Look outside, Master Poet, and see for yourself.”

He finished his beer, gathered up his things, and did exactly that. Gathering up the reins of his horse, he unhitched Pegasus from the post and mounted up, kicking the fat grey gelding into a slow trot.

When he reached the tower he found the door slightly ajar. Fear mounting in his chest he fairly ran up the steps, and was horrified to find blood all over the floor of the tower, shattered glass all over, and … Geralt’s clothes, shredded to pieces. There was no sign of him. The bard looked over the tower, seeing torn paper, broken quills, a shredded cloak, and Geralt’s things. His sword belt had snapped, and he had left his swords. Or was eaten, Dandelion supposed, tears welling up in his eyes and streaming down his cheeks.

Further inspection revealed silvery-white fur littering the room and the heaviest coating was reserved for a bloody corner. “Did it kill you Geralt?” Dandelion asked the swords softly. As if there would be answers there. He lifted them up and gathered up whatever he could of Geralt’s clothes and boots. Some spells required the essence of a person.

He needed to contact Yennefer. And perhaps, with what he’d found, she could do something to track Geralt, or the monster that killed him.

He quickly used the parchment and half a quill to pen a letter, noticing the untouched inkwell. Then he folded it, sealed it after relighting a candle and ran down the steps again, Geralt’s swords crushed to his chest. Dandelion quickly found the messenger service in the town and paid the fee to have his letter sent to Yennefer.

**

Geralt barely knew himself anymore. He knew he was waiting for something. He knew the pouch on his body meant something, but his paws wouldn’t allow him to open it. He couldn’t get it off over his head, it was stuck in matted fur and dried blood. Eventually it snagged on something, choking him and he tore it free, not caring that the strap shredded. He gathered it up in his teeth, the sharp fangs snagging on the leather and brought it back to his cave and left it there among the leaves he used as a bed.

Whatever it was, he couldn’t get to it.

**

“Yennefer!”

“Dandelion!” They hugged briefly. Their affections for each other were largely glued together by Geralt. While they were fond of each other, he was what brought them together.

“I found his things, or what was left of them, I see you got my letter?”

“I got this from him, too, about a day or two before your letter found me.”

“Is… is that blood?”

“It is, his, I think. You’ve been staying in the area?”

“I got the locals to show me the direction they had chased the supposed monster in. I found signs of the habitation, I don’t know… if it’s the thing that killed Geralt, or something he was trying to kill, or what happened to him.”

“I stopped by the tower on the way here, all the blood was his. It called out to the blood on the paper. You’d best show me around the area the monster was in, if it killed him his blood will sing out wherever it was left.”

“And if it didn’t? How will we find him?”

“If he’s injured by it, or kept tracking it, it’ll lead us to wherever his blood was last spilled. We’ll find him. If we can.”

“Ciri?”

“With the horses, waiting. She promised to obey me in all things or I would portal her into a dungeon on a mountain where no one could get to her. At least not without a portal. I’ve promised her that she will help us track down the beast. Or mage. Geralt wrote ‘cursed.’ I don’t… I don’t know what to think. Was he cursed and killed by the monster? Was he cursed… in another way? Was all that fur in the tower his?” her voice shook.

“I don’t know,” the poet said grimly. “I don’t know. But if he’s alive we’ll find him. In whatever condition, and we’ll break the curse, and we’ll take him with us and we’ll put him to rights. It’s what he’d do for us, and what we’ve done for him before, and we’ll do it again. As often as it takes.”

“I miss him, Dandelion. I hadn’t expected to see him for another few weeks, our plan was to meet later, as you well know. But I miss him and it terrifies me there’s no sign of him. I’ll get Ciri, and you can show me the woods.”

**

The monster pawed loosely at the leather in his bed. The hard object inside had hurt him when he’d slept on it, digging into the flesh of his side. Arrows had broken off in his body after an attack he hardly remembered, and whatever it was in his bed had pressed into it, making it hurt worse. He pawed feebly at the wounds, knowing they were infected, but his clawed paws couldn’t pull out the arrowhead. He had scratched himself raw and bloody, creating a further mess in his side. His body didn’t bend to allow him to lick it clean or care for it, he moved half upright and half on all fours, but he hadn’t gone to hunt in a few days.

Food had passed by his cave, but he had stayed, trying to regain his strength and heal. Some part of him remembered cool hands touching him, easing the pains and hurts in his body. Something had cramped his gut and made him ill and he had fallen a long ways, and those hands had nursed him back to health. But it made no sense, his only clear memories of humans were violent and painful. If they saw him, they chased him screaming and firing arrows and waving swords.

They were right to fear him, his slavering jaws and cruel claws were to be hated and feared.

Continued attempts to discover the source of his discomfort in the leather pouch allowed him to open it, claws tearing and shredding, and a round metal object fell out, skittering across the cave floor to land near his water supply.

When he reached out to touch it, nudging it with his muzzle, he roared in pain, feeling his face burn and welts raise up on his sensitive nose. Whimpering and howling, he leaves it alone, afraid to touch it again and curls back on his uninjured side in the leaves.

**

“He bled heavily here, look. Someone shot arrows into him,” Ciri lifted up the fletched half of an arrow. “Broke off, or he broke it off and pulled it through. Don’t see the other half anywhere, though. He was alive when he left here.”

“The question is, was he chasing the beast that the townsfolk were, or is he the beast?”

“Yennefer, don’t say that. Witchers aren’t that strange.”

“Dandelion, he said he was cursed. His blood is all over. He’s still alive, as far as we know, but there’s been no sign of him. The footprints we found are far too large to belong to a normal man, with evidence of clawed feet. So if this is Geralt’s blood, where are his footprints?”

“Yennefer, look, by the shelter, there’s notches in the tree. Keeping track of time. If it was Geralt, he was here a little over a week. Hunting, or waiting for help.”

“Then we press on.”

**

The monster went out hunting, the pain in its side making it gasp and wheeze with each breath. But it had to eat. Food was survival. It got lucky and stumbled across an injured rabbit. The creature hardly lasted a second once the monster had it, ripping it open with stubby claws and sharp teeth. It wasn’t enough, but the rabbit would keep it alive a bit longer.

A little stronger from the meal, it snuffled around, bloody drool hanging off its jaw as it rooted around for tubers in the dirt, digging them out with its paws and eating them straight from the ground. Some part of it knew things weren’t right, but it assumed it was the festering open sores in its side, and not the meal.

After it had dug up what it could, it moved on, looking for something else to eat.

**

“Look, bones.” Ciri kicked over a bundle of them, chunks of fur still clinging in some places.

“He’s out here somewhere,” Yennefer says slowly, hands held out, the letter tucked into her belt. She had opted to wear men’s clothing and a cap over her hair to make travel easier. The woods were not easy to traverse in her usual gowns. “More of his blood here than anywhere we’ve been other than the tower.”

“Something with white hair rubbed up against a tree here, and it’s soaked in blood,” Dandelion calls softly. He looks around the woods, feeling lost. The sun is high in the sky, they weren’t sleeping much. They rested once it was too dark to make the horses go on, and pressed on the minute the sky turned grey with predawn light. He touched the scratched bark and noted the blood was old. There were signs of a creature living in the area, something large. The fur and blood was around shoulder height. “It’s large, whatever it is. Do we think he’s hunting it and got hurt, or do we think he is it?”

“I don’t know,” Yennefer rubbed at her temples. “He would have left us a trail sign, if he was able. I can’t help but think perhaps it is him. But I haven’t seen any time markers, or evidence of him hiding his tracks, but I never saw him doing that before either. But the ‘beast’ the villagers chased, when we looked around that area… it was sentient. Smart enough to brush away tracks, and build a shelter. There’s none of this here. I don’t know, Dandelion. I don’t know. I won’t know until we find one of them. Or if it’s both in one, him.”

“I found some evidence of marking, look, just like a bear does.”

“Good, Ciri, any blood?”

“Some, the blood doesn’t look healthy. Infection. Geralt’s injured.” There was plenty of it splattering the leaves around the tree marked with deep gouges. She found bits of broken claw just like she might have a cat would leave on a rug. Lifting up a chipped piece, the marks had to have been caused by a claw longer than her fingers.

The monster pricked up its ears when it heard voices. It hadn’t heard humans in ages. It swiveled its ears and prepared to run. The injury in its side was exhausting it, and it gathered itself slowly. It would wait until they were too close to avoid, but it hoped they would go and it could stay. It would hate to give up its warm cave and safe watering hole.

It didn’t understand the speech, or the words they were calling out. It just knew the cry was sad, and lonely, and it lay there in the detritus, knowing somewhere in its monster’s heart, the cry hurt.

“Geralt! Geralt are you out there? Geralt! We’ve come to find you, please call out if you can hear me us!” Dandelion shouted at the top of his voice. He was able to be far louder than either Ciri or Yennefer.

Ciri continued to look for tracks, and finally realized she was seeing them. Five deep even punctures, long claws that couldn’t be retracted. It would be painful to walk on anything but loose dirt, where the claws would provide traction. She followed them to a cave and to her shock saw something glinting in the back.

Drawing her sword, she cautiously swept forward. “I see something!” she called back behind her, hoping that she was about to find one of Geralt’s daggers, or something that would indicate he was alive and well.

The leaves littering the cave floor were covered in white hair and blood and reeked of infection. The creature was sick. Badly injured. Or… Geralt was badly injured. She carefully sifted through the leaves and came across a torn leather pouch. It wasn’t Geralt’s, but it meant a human had been here. The pouch was shredded and the strap broken. In the mess of the pouch she found scraps of black cloth. “Geralt.” She sheathed her sword and stepped closer to the small pool of water and almost fainted in a mix of relief and horror when she saw his medallion lying there on the ground. “Yennefer! Dandelion!” Her voice was not as loud as the bard’s, but she could still scream.

The monster’s ears twitched. The humans had invaded its home. A low growl rumbled through it and it snuffled miserably. It was in no shape to fight them out. Its home was lost, again. But it was sick of being forced out of its home by other animals, and it had found a good spot and it didn’t want to leave. Aching and pained, it heard the continued howling and babbling of the humans and dragged itself up, prowling around the edges of the clearing around its cave. It didn’t want to be seen early, but humans were weak prey, perhaps it could scare them off or win the fight. If they didn’t have the things that would stick in him and hurt him so badly.

“His medallion, look!” Ciri held it up with trembling hands.

“Oh, he never takes that off, not ever,” Dandelion moans softly. “Oh, the thing ate him! It isn’t him, he was here hunting it, and he got eaten!”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Yennefer snapped. “It isn’t bloodied. It was kept in a bag wrapped in the scraps of his shirt, look.” She lifted up the black fabric scraps and the remains of the leather satchel. “This cave is filled with his blood all over the leaves,” she lifted up a few. “He’s been camping here.”

Ciri edged towards the front of the cave and froze. “Yennefer,” her voice was tight.

A smallish human, female. Another small human female, and a small male. Nothing that should be too troubling. It didn’t see any of the sharp implements that hurt it so much earlier.

“What?”

“Come here, please, look, do you see it, too?”

“See what?” the sorceress snapped impatiently, holding her hands out to try and sense more blood. There was more, something near the cave mouth. She got up and went over to Ciri and peered out over her shoulder, hands held up in front of her. “I….” she croaked. “I see… Geralt? Geralt is that you? Step into the light, come here, I can’t undo the curse if you won’t come over….”

The beast in the woods growled at her and slunk forward, teeth bared. Saliva ran over its jaws in thick ropey strands. White fur covered its body and it walked with an odd mix of all legs and just the back two, giving it an odd lolling gate.

“He’s injured… its? Mamma… is… is that Geralt?”

“Dandelion, get out of the cave, we’ll corner him in there. Or it. We’ll find out in a moment but be out of the way. Ciri, can you circle back behind it, keep it from running?”

“His eyes…. That’s… that’s got to be him….” her voice came out as a hoarse whisper. But she gathered herself. “Yes, I’ll flank him, he’s hurt badly.”

Dandelion stepped out of the cave and swore. The creature in front of him flinched and growled, peeling its lips back from bloody pink gums to bare sharp white fangs. “Geralt?” his voice came out as a whimper. “Oh, Geralt. Fuck. Yennefer it’s Geralt.”

The monster wasn’t sure what the noises meant, but they still sounded sad. A wolf with no pack. It rested a front paw on the ground, leaning heavily. Its breaths came out short and sharp, side aching. It flared its nostrils wide, taking in their scent. One smelled like ice and something else it didn’t understand. The other smelled like flowers in the meadow, and the smallest of them smelled like the sea and something it couldn’t place. Something familiar. They all smelled familiar but the monster didn’t know humans. It had always been this way, always alone, and always terrifying to behold.

When the dark haired one lifted its hands he flinched and snarled, gnashing his teeth at her. He could remember curls on his fingers. Other than he’d never had fingers. The other one, the one breathing hard and whimpering made noise. Beautiful noise with his hands and mouth. But the small one, the small one was his. He rushed the first one, he would chase them out and the odd feelings would stop. So would the odd images in his head.

Yennefer stepped aside when he charged, she had seen the muscles in his body tense. Dandelion was right, she could feel the magic, the curse was active and changing constantly. When his first charge didn’t work, he tried to circle back but Ciri had closed in on him and shouted, waving her arms widely behind him and Dandelion joined her, cutting off his other avenue of escape. Between the three of them blocking his way he roared in frustration and then ran into the cave, trying to defend the entryway.

Ciri brought out his medallion, holding it out to him, and he backed away, whimpering from them, the silver burned. The monster remembered the silver burned. It wanted nothing to do with them. When he made to charge them again the small one drew a blade and slapped at him with the flat of it.

He cowered low, confused, and terrified, pain glazing his eyes. It was so hard to breathe and all the exertion the humans were causing was making it even harder to get enough air. He hadn’t been eating well, barely able to hunt, and while he had done his best to pull the arrowheads from his side or to rub them against a tree and force them out, he couldn’t. The infection kept his skin hot and rotted the fur around the wound.

“Geralt, it’s me,” Ciri told him quietly.

Geralt meant nothing to him. Neither did the sounds. But the voice was kind, and he hoped that perhaps they would simply kill him quickly.

Yennefer pressed in on his other side, “this is badly infected, and has been. If he was gone at least a month before we started looking, and it’s taken us at least another one to find him… they shot at him near two months ago, it’s a miracle he’s alive.”

Fear and pain dropped him to his side, and he whimpered once, letting his head drop to the leaves, feeling them tickle against his muzzle. Drool slowly began to cover the ground under his head and he waited for them to kill him.

“Let me see, Geralt, let me see it, I can help,” she said in her best attempt at a soothing voice. “Ciri, I don’t think he’s lost all the fight in him yet. Help me. Dandelion? Get our packs, we’ll need them. Also, firewood.”

Yennefer jumped back just in time as he lunged and snapped at her, and he would have taken off her arm if she hadn’t been waiting for him to attack her.

Dandelion came back in to see Geralt lying on his side, wheezing, tongue lolling with his eyes rolling in panic in his head. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing, he tried to attack me and he keeled over,” Yennefer said brusquely.

“Yen, he’s starving,” Ciri said softly. She tried approaching him, hands out, and he lifted his muzzle and snapped at her, growling savagely.

“There’s food in the packs, Dandelion, get out all of it.”

“Will that work?” he asked quietly, dropping the packs to the ground immediately and starting to dig out their travel rations. They had dried meat, hardtack, hard cheese, and they had stopped by a small settlement at the edge of the woods and had some root vegetables and a large loaf of slightly stale bread. They had eaten the other loaves already.

Ciri wasn’t listening, she grabbed up the cheese, meat, and bread, watching Geralt as his nostrils flared and pupils dilated slightly at the sight of food. He licked his chops and continued to pant, lying there and staring at the food. He watched her, watched her hands, and when she lightly tossed a bit of meat he opened his jaws and snapped it up, gulping it down before it could be taken.

He startled when he looked at her next and she was closer, the fur rising up along his back and shoulders and he growled again, a low warning growl. Then the small one held up another piece of meat and lightly tossed it to him, and he snapped that up, as well. There wasn’t enough to fill his belly, not by a long shot, but the girl had more. The blonde girl. The one who smelled familiar. She threw him another piece and then stepped closer. He kept his hackles up, teeth bared after he ate the next piece.

Before he knew it, she was within biting distance, and held up a piece of cheese. He couldn’t recall the taste of it, but the sight and smell made him drool.

“Ciri, be careful,” Yennefer whispered, worried. “Dandelion, get us firewood, and we’ll try and set some snares, he needs to eat more. Although if we could shrink him back down to his usual size, we won’t need as much food… the… the little settlement, they were… a few hours out? Can you make it there for more food and back? Take my palfrey to carry the food, and ride Roach down, don’t take Pegasus. I know you don’t want to leave him, but I can create a spell to keep him from leaving the cave… and it won’t stick if I’m not here to hold it. Can you go?”

“Already leaving, but firewood first?”

“Please,” she said, watching those yellow eyes in the dim light of the cave. They had an odd sheen and she imagined if he’d been human, he would have burned with fever. She could smell the rot in his side. He was near the size of a horse, and she wasn’t sure how much it would take to feed him, but she could feel the edges of the curse, but not the conditions.

The bard stepped out quickly, rushing about to gather up wood. The sooner he left the sooner he could come back. And perhaps they would have made some progress with Geralt in his absence. They had healing supplies with them, they had anticipated he would be hurt. Just, not like this. They had never anticipated this.

Ciri got a little closer, holding out the rest of the cheese. He tipped his head up and his tongue flicked out to grab it, and he swallowed the chunk whole. She was close enough to rest a hand on his muzzle, but she didn’t. She could see the way he kept trying to watch both her and Yennefer, fear making his rib cage flutter as he fought to breathe. “Oh, Geralt,” she said softly. “We’re here now, we’ll fix it.” She tore the loaf of bread into chunks and sat, letting the pieces rest in her lap. She held out another one and he took it from her.

After the last chunk was devoured, she slowly reached out to touch his muzzle. “This isn’t right you know,” she told him quietly, watching as Yennefer held her hands out, brow furrowed in concentration. He flinched away from her, but she ignored it, gently stroking the damp white fur.

The noises she made almost made sense, like a forgotten memory. The food in his belly wasn’t enough, but it was different than the raw meat and whatever he could dig up and scarf down.

“Mamma, please bring me the rest of the food,” she said quietly, idly stroking the fur between his eyes. “He’s still hungry.” Ciri watched some of the fight go out of his body, paws curling as he lay there. His ears swiveled around tracking Yennefer as she moved around the cave. The panting got worse as Yennefer moved, but eased when she was back in his line of sight.

“I can’t imagine he’ll enjoy hardtack.”

“No one enjoys it, that isn’t the point,” Ciri sniffed, and then carefully fed Geralt the rest of their food supplies. He was exhausted, she could tell. He reminded her of her grandfather’s hounds after too long of a hunt. Too tired to rest. She kept up the gently stroking and leaned forward to touch his leathery ears. They were soft and warm, and his eyes closed when she started gently stroking them. Yennefer moved again, shoes scraping on the floor and his eyes opened, and he snarled again, wheezing after. “It’s alright, you’re alright,” Ciri promised him, scratching the top of his muzzle and then the rough hair of his cheeks before moving under his chin. The fur was soaked in spittle but she didn’t mind. It was Geralt. The yellow eyes closed in pleasure and she kept it up as his body slowly relaxed and eased.

Yennefer put her hands over his wound, and he opened one eye to stare, dragging his lip back over his teeth to show her their sharpness.

“Geralt, it’s alright,” Ciri said softly, and the words almost had meaning. His ears flicked forward to her and she smiled at him. “Do you want me to keep talking to you?”

Yennefer watched carefully, and then gently laid her hands on his side, feeling the heat and swelling radiating from the wound. The initial injury had to be somewhere in the middle of his ribs, but it had radiated from shoulder to flank and her heart dropped. He was very ill. Dangerously ill. Half starved, he didn’t have what he needed to fight off the infection that was killing him.

His skin twitched and rippled under her palms, and she felt tears slide over her cheeks. They could save him, it would be even easier to do it if they could turn him back. “True love often breaks curses,” she tells Ciri quietly. “Can you keep him calm while I come around to his head?”

“You plan to kiss him on the mouth?”

“No, the forehead,” Yennefer told her dryly.

Ciri stuck out her tongue impudently and continued to let her hands smooth the thick white fur under her palms. “I imagine you’re exhausted. You’ve been running a while, and you’re hurting badly. I’m sorry Geralt. I’m sorry we didn’t find you sooner. You can understand me, can’t you? I want you to understand me.”

Yennefer knelt down at his head and gently started stroking his fur. “I love you,” she told him gently. “Even when we’re fighting, or I’m angry, I always love you. I always will. We always love each other.” She leaned over him and ignored the way his lips peeled back from his gums and kissed him gently on the top of his head, feeling the coarse fur brush her lips. She pulled away, tears dripping down her cheeks to soak into his fur. “Oh Geralt, what kind of curse weas this? Can you talk to me? Can you understand us?” There was a catch in her voice and she hated it.

Both she and Ciri waited with bated breath, and Ciri sighed when nothing happened. Tears ran down her cheeks when she realized Geralt wasn’t miraculously changing back. They sat with him, stroking and comforting him until it started to get cool.

Yennefer gathered up leaves and the firewood and started a fire. Geralt had started to tremble and she knew he was going to need help staying warm. The fur didn’t seem to be doing him much good. Not with the illness such as it was. It was obvious he had tried to get the arrowheads out, but she could see part of the shaft of one still sticking out. He had probably driven them deeper in, dangerously close to his lungs.

She planned to wait until Dandelion got back before she attempted to pull the arrows out and start any of the healing process. They would need to boil water and prepare bandages and two sets of hands wouldn’t be enough.

Ciri kept up a steady stream of chatter, and Yennefer gasped in surprise when Geralt nodded his head to something she said. Ciri looked up at her in shock, and then kept talking, her words speeding up with an almost frantic edge. He didn’t seem to know what she wanted from him when she tried asking him questions.

“Let him rest, Ciri, let him sleep, he’s exhausted.”

They kept vigil together, hands gently smoothing the matted white fur on his head and chest. Dandelion came back before full dark, laden with bags of food and more bandaging.

Geralt woke up at the sound and with raised hackles, snarling and growling, he staggered up on all fours, backing himself into the wall of the cave.

“Stop!” Ciri said quietly, holding her hands up. “Geralt, it’s me, you know me, it’s Ciri. I’m your destiny. Geralt, do you remember? I’m your destiny. Tell me, nod, something, but tell me you understand. Do it!”

“Ciri,” Yennefer said softly, putting a hand on her shoulder, not expecting Geralt to respond. But instead he whined low in his throat and ducked his head, ears flattening and tail curling up between his legs. He bobbed his head lightly and stepped closer to her, snuffling her shirt and allowing her to pet him and scratch him around his neck and under his chin.

“He understands,” Dandelion said softly, voice awed.

“Feed him,” Yennefer told him immediately. “We need to feed him,” she added. Perhaps the bard was his true love, perhaps the bard would break the spell.

Dandelion pulled a roast chicken he’d purchased specifically for Geralt. He unwrapped it from the linen it had been wrapped in. Carefully, he edged in until he could hand Geralt the food. Dandelion jumped when Geralt carefully took it from him, mindful not to bite his hands. “Oh sweet Melitele, is that really him? Is that really you? Oh, Geralt. You’re so large, how can we possibly keep you full?”  He bravely put out a hand and let Geralt snuffle his palm, smiling when he received a lick for his troubles. “I love you so much,” he smiled. It was easy to step in closer and he wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck, kissing his cheek.

“Fuck,” Yennefer said softly, she had hoped. She had hoped so much that if it wasn’t her it would be Dandelion. They could worry about the curse once they cleaned out his wounds, at least. She would figure out how to undo it, since true love wasn’t going to do it, or he hadn’t met his yet.

“What?”

“I had hoped that would break the spell.”

“Geralt,” Ciri smiled. “Come lie down, let us see your side, it hurts right?”

Dropping his head, he let the words wash over him. He could mostly understand now. ‘Geralt’ still didn’t mean anything to him, but ‘hurt’ was a word he knew. He laid down where he was, unwilling to get too close to the flames.

“You’re so big,” Ciri mumbled, smoothing hands over his skull. “I wish you were smaller, like you were. Do you remember? Geralt? Do you remember being human?” she asked gently. “You were a good size, the proper size for a witcher. The perfect height for hugging,” she added.

“Ciri, whatever you do, keep talking, don’t stop,” Yennefer told her quietly. “Don’t stop.”

“When I was younger I barely came up to your waist, and you put me up on your shoulders in Broklin, do you remember? You called me a brat and threatened to belt me if I wouldn’t behave. Your shoulders are a little broader than Dandelion’s, do you remember? But strong. You’re so strong. And we can take care of you better if you were back to your usual size.” She felt his head start to shrink under her hands, and her breath caught in her throat only for tears to pour over her cheeks when she saw he wasn’t changing, just shrinking some. When he finished, he still looked the same, he was still covered in fur, and still barely resembled a human in the loosest sense possible.

“That’s better,” Yennefer told her.

“How do we change him back?”

“I don’t know, Ciri, but first we have to make sure he doesn’t die.”

It took them half the night to cut away the putrid flesh to allow Yennefer to pull the arrowheads out of the festering wounds they’d created. Geralt had snarled, snapped, and made pitiful attempts to attack them the pain was so bad. It was clearly he didn’t quite know them and didn’t understand all the words they said to him. When they tried to return his medallion, he whined and whimpered, drawing back with his hackles up and tail between his legs.

They stayed with him a week in the cave before they gained any more ground. Keeping the wounds clean and clear of infection had been near impossible, and he had gotten sicker and sicker with each day that passed. It was terrifying, wondering if they would lose him without him ever knowing who they were or who he was. They would have tried his elixirs but since he was nothing like himself, they didn’t know how they would react with his body chemistry and they might kill him immediately.

Dandelion made routine trips down the mountain and back to bring up more food and supplies. They kept Geralt fed, and as comfortable as they could. The next bit of progress was made when he curled up between his lovers’ bedrolls. After that, he started to respond to his name, and would nod or shake his head.

Yennefer made little to no progress on the curse other than to say it was still active and adapting and she wasn’t sure how to break it yet, it was too flexible. Geralt was also still incredibly weak and sick, and prone to pacing until he was panting too hard to breathe and would simply lay on the cave floor, wheezing until he fell asleep again. They were all miserable.

Ciri woke up, unsurprised to feel Geralt’s bulk pressed against her back. She rolled over and wrapped an arm around his neck. “You were human like us, you know,” she told him softly. She tickled his ear, watching it twitch away from her touch. “You had ears like mine. And hands I could hold. Hands that could hold me. I miss that. You weren’t covered in fur either. I used to brush your hair, do you remember? I would brush it and oil it and keep it clean. You won’t let us bathe you,” she wrinkled her nose. “Even though you need it. You make a very smelly whatever you are. I think if you had less fur it would help.” When she reached up to tease his ear again, it wasn’t there, and she sat up to look and saw a human ear nestled in all the fur, hairless and pale, just like it had been before.

When Yennefer and Dandelion woke next, they immediately noticed the change and monitored him for others, but saw nothing other than perhaps less fur, but they couldn’t be sure. He was docile at almost all times, even when having his wounds poked at.

“Geralt,” Ciri started one night, tickling the pads of his paws, pushing her fingertips against the blunt claws at the ends. “Do you ever miss holding hands? I think I would. I miss training with you, so even if you don’t miss holding hands, do you think you miss holding a sword?”

She gasped when the claws against her fingertips melted away and the pads of his paws followed after, fingers elongating as his hands became human. He flexed them in wonder, he couldn’t recall what he had looked like or felt like before. He barely knew himself, but hands made it far easier to eat. Exhausted, he fell asleep and didn’t wake until the next morning.

When he felt tapping against his teeth he woke up and tried not to snarl. It was just Ciri.

“These are ridiculously large, you know, they don’t even fit in your mouth, Geralt. What kind of idiot mage cursed you with these? It makes no sense, you can’t close your mouth, you drool all over your fur… you’re very messy.” She opened her mouth and pointed, “These are what your teeth should look like,” she informed him. “Your whole head should look more like mine,” she added. “I don’t see what the fur adds, either, if I’m being honest.”

She wasn’t surprised this time when magic crackled and swirled around him as his teeth and jaw shrank, his muzzle flattening into his skull to form an almost human jawline.

More days passed and none of her suggestions took. His memory seemed to be coming back and while he couldn’t speak, he could write, fingers in the dirt. They communicated well enough, until one day he just stopped.

When they went to bed he was there, and when they woke up, he was gone.

They split up to find him, he had remembered to hide his tracks. Ciri found him some time well after midnight.

“Geralt? Don’t run, please don’t go.”

“Ciri,” his voice grated from his throat. “Go, just go. Please…”

“Why?”

He had pressed himself against a hollow log, seeking some small shelter from the cold. No fire, nothing. No clothes. He still mostly moved hunched over, rather than upright. He was so ashamed. “I don’t want you to see me like this,” his voice broke.

“I love you,” she said simply. “How you look doesn’t matter.”

“I’m a monster,” his voice broke. He could remember now, all of it. How he had failed them. “The curse didn’t change me, it revealed me,” he told her hoarsely. “The curse was to show my true self,” he whispered, bloody tears trailing over his cheeks. “Go away, Ciri,” he told her more firmly, baring his teeth and lunging at her.

She didn’t move. “No. No, I will not. You can’t make me. You told me once you would always be there for me. We would never be apart. You haven’t done the best of jobs keeping that promise. I’m going to hold you to it, now.”

“Please,” he moaned. “Ciri, you don’t deserve the horror of having someone like me in your life.”

“Horror? The horror?” She slapped him before she could stop herself. “You idiot!” He didn’t make a move to stop her, or to cower away from another strike when she raised her hand again and she stared in shock at what she’d done. “I’m sorry!” She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly and sobbing. “I love you, Geralt, I love you, there’s nothing horrible about you!”

He hesitated before holding her, thinking of the things he had done with his hands recently. Digging around like a boar, ripping rabbits open to eat them raw and bloody. He shouldn’t touch her. “Ciri, I’m a monster,” he told her softly. “Inside and out, I’m… let me go. I… it would be better if I just disappeared.”

“No!” she clung even more tightly to him, tangling her fingers in his fur and hanging on tightly, her tears and snot soaking the fur on his shoulder. His own bloody tears dripped into her hair, staining the strands pinkish red. “You aren’t a monster! You’re Geralt! You’re a witcher, and a mutant, but not a monster! Even if you never change back, even if you look like this forever, you aren’t a monster. Your outside has nothing to do with your inside! You taught me that! You, and Eskel, and Lambert, and Coën. I was so afraid at first, but I know now. I know witchers are just men, Geralt.” She couldn’t keep talking when another sob choked her and she fell silent.  

Her sobs shook her entire body and she clung to him so tightly he had no hope of dislodging her. He shifted as best he could to hold her, and stroke her hair, and soothe her. He didn’t notice when her tears fell on his bare skin, didn’t notice the crackle of magic around him as he worked to hold her better, closer. He wanted to be the man she wanted him to be. He loved her. She was his child surprise.

“Ciri, I… I’m not what you think I am, I can’t be who you want me to be.”

She screamed in rage, shaking her head against his chest, slamming her fists weakly against him as she battered his chest, sobbing harshly. “Don’t leave me!”

He didn’t try to stop her from hitting him, the blows didn’t hurt. And even if they had, he deserved them. He let her vent her rage and fear against him, and ran his forearm across his nose and eyes, trying to clear them. Geralt didn’t notice he wiped tears against his skin, the fur covering his arm gone.

“I’m sorry,” he told her, rocking her back and forth on the forest floor, ignoring the unpleasant sensation of detritus poking into his legs and backside. “I love you, Ciri, I love you. I’ll stay. I’ll stay.”

Yennefer and Dandelion came upon them some time later, the sky grey with the coming dawn.

“Geralt!” Yennefer cried out in shock, rushing forward to drop to her knees beside them, wrapping her arms around them and kissing him hard. He looked at her in shock. He could feel her palms on his cheeks. Feel the scrape of stubble, not fur, on her hands. Her skin was cool against his, like it always was.

Before he could process it, Dandelion was at his other side, holding him tightly and swearing vehemently at him and the whole world. The bard rocked them all back and forth slightly, kissing Geralt’s face, neck, shoulder, and any part of him he could reach without pushing Ciri out of his way.

The bandaging had come loose as his body shifted and changed, and the impact and hugging along with everything else had aggravated his wounds.

“Ciri, Ciri, look, Ciri,” Yennefer stroked her hair, gently pulling her away from Geralt’s chest. “Look, look at him.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Ciri said softly, her voice full of wonder as she stoked his hair, and then his face. “You’re you again,” she hiccupped and sobbed. She ran her hands over his face and hair and shoulders over and over, kissing his cheeks and forehead as she did, frequently bumping heads with either Yennefer or Dandelion who kept touching and kissing him, too.

When he started to shiver, they pulled away in concern. Dandelion dragged off his cloak and wrapped it around Geralt’s shoulders, as Yennefer and Ciri went to get the horses. Dandelion helped him to his feet, tucking the cloak around him tightly. He held Geralt as the sun rose, glad to have him back.

Geralt had near forgotten how to walk like a man, much less ride, in the months he’d spent living as a beast. With a little help from the poet, he was able to mount up when Yennefer returned with Ciri and their mounts. They would get near the edge of the settlement and find him something to wear until they could go home.

He had agreed in spite of his deep fear, to allow Yennefer to portal them to Vengerberg after, and to begin his recovery in earnest there. His wounds would need further care, and he needed time to rest. He was exhausted. But he was home. And returned to the people who loved him.

[fleckcmscott]

Another Year

Summary: Arthur’s birthday is coming up. Y/N wants nothing more than to make it great.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 3,892

A/N: This request came from the one-of-a-kind, fabulous @sweet-nothings04​! Thank you for asking for this. I enjoyed writing it a lot! 

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open! Keep them coming!

Y/N hadn't realized how much she'd missed putting together birthday celebrations. Not until the unexpected serendipity of falling in love again. Her ex-husband had preferred not to make a big deal of them, had stated he hated getting older. (Considering he'd been in his twenties, she'd found that assertion silly.) As her father had slipped away, special events and gifts had gone by the wayside to focus on routines that wouldn't throw him off kilter. She'd been invited to her sister's and brother-in-law's parties but had only stayed for the hour or two she'd hired a sitter. And while she wasn't the most attentive aunt, she always ensured her nephews and nieces at least got a card and money for a treat.

From what she'd gathered, birthdays had never been an important facet of Arthur's life. That had become obvious upon learning his was 11/21/1946 by reading documents instead of from him. When she'd discovered he'd turned thirty-five and hadn't even told her. But unlike her ex, it wasn't because he didn't want them to be. It was due to neglect, isolation, and the inability to connect. As much sympathy as she had for Penny, for her own illnesses and suffering, for what had been done to her, the wounds she'd inflicted on her son hurt Y/N’s heart. There were so many lost years. She was determined to make-up for them by spoiling him.

The diner where Patricia and she often met for lunch was halfway between their two offices. A five- or six-minute walk for them both. Y/N arrived first. She sat at the white and gold Formica counter and perused the menu. (Though she'd already decided to get her usual pastrami on wheat, garlic pickle, and coleslaw.) Patricia strolled in as the waitress jotted down Y/N's order, and told the young lady she'd have whatever Y/N was having.

They caught up quickly. The Wayne Foundation case was going to have a preliminary hearing in three weeks. Y/N couldn't have rolled her eyes harder. ("Thank god I won't be there. They'd have to drag me off the stand.") Patricia listened with interest while Y/N went on about a dispute involving break violations at Ace Chemicals. And Patricia invited her to stop by the office soon, claiming Matt had realized he'd been stupid to let her quit. ("I'm sure he misses me being a pain in his ass.")

Y/N was picking at the crust of her sandwich when she changed the subject. “I need a favor.”

Patricia arched a brow at her. “Is this going to involve me lugging boxes of files to your apartment?”

“Only if you want the workout.” Chuckling, Y/N shook her head. “Arthur’s birthday is next Saturday. You bake the best cakes. If I’m left to my own devices, he’s going to get something out of a Universal Foods’ box.”

“Mine are out of a box. I just modify the directions and make my own frosting.” Patricia used the rest of her bread to sop up her coleslaw’s dressing. “How old did you say he’s going to be? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-six.”

Swallowing her last bite, Patricia quirked up the corner of her lips. “I still owe you for running those supplies to the office when my foot was broken. What kind does he like?”

Y/N hugged her tight across the shoulders. After a short discussion, they decided on chocolate with vanilla cream frosting - a safe choice. It would be small, since it was only for the two of them. Arthur had a job the day before. That would allow her to take it home without him seeing. She’d just have to keep him away from the fridge the rest of the evening.

They talked about the other things Y/N had in-store for him, the reservation, the gifts. She giggled, pleased at having successfully hidden it all from him so far. “You’re putting a lot of work into this,” Patricia said. “What did you do last year?”

“I didn’t know about it last year. He didn’t mention it.” Though Patricia was already aware of some of Arthur’s past, Y/N had kept the details to a minimum. She tried to think of an elaboration, one that respected his privacy but was honest. She started in on her pickle. “With Penny being sick - with everything he was going through...”

Sipping her coffee, Patricia spun her stool to face Y/N fully. “You don’t need to say anymore. I remember. It was hard for you both.”

The empathy in Patricia’s gaze prompted a smile. And reminded Y/N how grateful she was for a friend who was frank but unjudgmental. “Back then, he thought needing or wanting anything from me was a bother. But he’s getting better at letting me love him.” Y/N put a hand on her chest. “And now he’ll never need to mention it. It’s locked in here for good.”

~~~~~

Yesterday had left Arthur in a funk. One that showed signs of adhering to his brain the way flies had stuck to the tape he’d had to hang from the ceiling of his old apartment every spring. He’d spent close to twelve hours dancing and waving a “Store Closing! Everything 50-70% off!” placard in front of Dave’s Pleasure Emporium in Gotham Square. (The city must really be fucked if its denizens’ finances were shitty enough that adult shops were shutting down.) It had been his least favorite gig in months. But the slow season was coming on, and the pay had been decent.

The dull ache in his lower spine, radiating to his hip, had made it harder than usual to sleep. And soreness was seeping from familiar spots to sinews he’d forgotten were there. Even the tips of his toes hurt. Two more ibuprofen tablets and acetaminophen went down easily. Carefully, not wanting to rouse her, he removed Y/N’s hand from his stomach, wincing as he shifted onto his left side to alleviate the pressure on his right.

Thirty-five was too old for this. While he loved performing for children, he should have made it as a comic by now. And he should have finished school. He’d be able to do more than be on his feet all day, then. Have more options. Opportunities...

Or maybe he simply shouldn’t have taken that particular job.

The ability to stop catastrophizing, adjust his way of thinking, was new. And rare. He made a mental note to write today’s accomplishment in his journal and share it at his next appointment. The therapist would be impressed with him. Dozing, he thought his funk might abate after all.

It could have been five or fifty minutes later when he felt the comforter being dragged down. Heard the zip of the shades being rolled up. But he was in that snug state between wakefulness and slumber and refused to react. Then there was a pinch on his chin, a light weight on his scalp. “What are you doing?” he mumbled gravelly.

“It’s someone’s special day today,” Y/N said.

Oh. That’s right. He was thirty-six now.

Squinting in the bright sunlight filtering through their sheer curtains, he propped himself on his forearm. She was half-reclined next to him, draped in a short, black nightdress. The one she found a tad tawdry but he liked. He rubbed his eyes, his forehead. Thin cardboard stopped him when he reached his hair. His fingers followed it, found it tapered into a point.

A party hat. She’d gotten him a party hat. He couldn’t hold back his snort.

In his line of work, birthdays were for kids. He’d stopped caring about his own as a teenager. Penny had seemingly been glad he was around. But she never remembered. Hell, he’d had to remind her of her own. But the last acknowledgment of it, the last one before meeting Y/N, had been by a teacher. He’d gotten an extra five minutes of recess and escaped punishment for inappropriate laughter for the day.

This was his first birthday with a person who saw and loved him. Understood who he was. Knew he was more than some image projected onto him. A person who appeared thrilled he existed and to be in his life. As a husband. Every sit-com and film he’d watched had clued him in: wives deemed them important. They hid gifts, cooked special meals, sneaked around arranging parties. There hadn’t been any sneaking on Y/N’s part, none that he could detect. He wondered what she could have planned.

The kneading of her thumb in the hollow of his hip, briefs slung too low as usual, gave him a good idea of her plan for this morning. The entangling of their legs confirmed it. “I got donuts. Coffee’s ready.”

“You, um-“ He cleared his throat, closed his eyes at the brush of her thigh against his length. Which was getting harder with each touch of her lips to the crook of his neck. “You didn’t make breakfast?”

“No.” Her chuckle was throaty, full of desire. “I wasn’t going to torture you with burnt eggs.” She was pulling at his biceps, trying to get him to settle over her. “Let’s work up your appetite, Mr. Fleck.”

But he flinched and halted her movements. The painkillers hadn't kicked in yet. His muscles burned. "We'll get to it later," he promised between languid, lingering kisses. The kind that made him feel safe. Loved. Famished for her. She guided him onto his stomach, stroked him affectionately. Breaths mingling, they chatted lazily until they both cooled off.

Once his stomach started rumbling, Y/N insisted they get up, despite his protestations that he wasn't hungry. That staying under the covers with her for hours would be fun. That they could eat in bed, crumbs be damned. His back would get worse if he continued laying like that, she told him. He needed to stretch and move. Although he grumbled, his experiences with injuries, whether from overwork, assholes, or sleeping on a couch most of his life, had taught him she was right.

Following a cigarette on the fire escape, he went to the kitchen, grabbed a mug, and did a double-take at the round table in the dining nook. He approached it in disbelief. He tensed as he ran his hand along the rectangular gifts and their shiny red paper. Squeezed the puffy, tan winter coat. Fingered the silver ribbon tied to the chair, dangling from an aluminum helium balloon. The lump in his throat forced a short laugh. But he didn't cover his mouth, not having to hide from her. He shook his head, wiping at the sudden wetness in his eyes. "All this is for me?" He did his best to sound normal.

"No. They're for my other husband, Carnival." She came behind him, hugged him around his torso and splayed her fingers on his chest. "You may have met him. Has a penchant for making balloon animals? Wears pants with the cutest patch on his bottom?" He grasped her forearm, held her tight to him as his shoulders shook with mirth.

It wasn't yet eight o'clock. And the day was already shaping up to be one of his favorites.

~~~~~

At the vanity on Arthur's side of the bed, Y/N was attempting to create the perfect oval eye with brown liner. The wide smile creeping onto her face wasn't making it easy. But it couldn't be helped. Everything had gone wonderfully so far. Had more than met her expectations. She hoped his had been met, too.

She'd been badgering him to get a winter coat since last Christmas. (His teeth had chattered almost the entire time they'd stood outside to watch Gotham's Christmas parade. The hot chocolate from a vendor hadn't done much good. A long bath had been necessary to finally warm him up.) The one she'd picked out fit him well, and he'd seemed to like it, hanging it by the door next to his tan jacket. And she'd known he was attached to his trusty, foil razor. But it was over fifteen years old, taped together, and on its way out. The new one had a rechargeable battery. He wouldn't be tethered to the outlet over the sink if he wanted to move around a bit.

The twitch of his nostrils, his hitched breath as he'd whispered, "Thank you," had compelled her to kneel next to his chair. The poignancy of his reaction had affected her keenly. Hollowed out her core and filled it with compassion and love. He'd frowned and wiped his nose with the back of his knuckles. "Sorry," he'd scoffed, glistening eyes darting to hers. "I don't mean to be weird."

"You're not, Arthur." She'd gently removed his black and red polka-dotted party hat, set it on the table. "You're being you."

After a quick lunch, they'd leisurely strolled arm-in-arm through the neighborhood, including a visit to the nearby park. Arthur had wanted to stop into the used record shop three or four blocks away. She'd caressed up and down his back, observing his content visage as he flipped through the LPs. It was lovely to see him treat himself to a couple without hesitating to worry about the cost for too long. At home, he'd settled on the floor by the record player and put them on. He must have been feeling better, because he'd kept his earlier promise: they'd made love on the carpet. Unhurried, sweet, and giggling like idiots.

The opening of the bathroom door broke her out of her reverie. She started blotting her darker-than-usual red lipstick with a tissue. "It was nice of Patricia to get me aftershave," he said.

She smoothed the lines of her champagne color, mid-length dress, adjusted its petal sleeves, then twisted around just as he entered the bedroom. Her movements halted. Would his handsomeness, his beauty, ever fail to stun her? Gaze roaming his slender form, she stared at him. He'd only worn his black and brown oxfords seldomly, saving them for special occasions. The wrinkled white socks didn't match his black pants, but they paired well with him.

It was the teal button-up, patterned with white circles of various opacities and sizes, that caused her to need a few seconds to process his remark. It'd hung in the corner of his old living room; she'd eyed it in their closet since he'd moved in. It was such a contrast to his usual conservative clothing. Quite unlike him, she'd assumed. But seeing him standing there in it, the way it complimented his lithe figure and brought out the light green of his irises, made him look a little less withdrawn, she realized she'd been mistaken.

"She thought it'd suit your new shaver." He gave a gentle hum in response, bashful smile appearing. Such gestures were unfamiliar to him. Eventually, they'd become such an integral part of his life he'd grow tired of them. Y/N would make sure of that. The idea prompted a grin and she stepped around the bed to approach him. "You look great. Are you ready?"

“Yeah.” The crook of his mouth, the furrow of his forehead alerted her to his nervousness. He rubbed the back of his neck, flitted his look to hers. “It sounds fancy.”

She kissed him soundly and he eased into her embrace. “You don’t have to impress me,” she said. “You already did that. Use whichever fork you want.”

The restaurant was in Gotham’s Little Italy district, only a block or two from Chinatown. Y/N had never been to Bamonte’s but her colleagues had given it good reviews. (One had said he and his wife went there every anniversary.) Arthur gaped when they went inside. She watched him survey the lavish, red curtains decorating the walls; the dim lanterns suspended from the ceiling; the faux-marble floor. Huffing, he turned to her, concern clear on his face. She grasped his elbow. “It’s all right. You belong here as much as anyone else.”

The maitre’d led them to a secluded table, behind its own drawn back drapes in the rear corner of the smoking section. Arthur traced the edges of the three lit, tulip-shaped votive holders. Caressed the cream color tablecloth as he sat in the fabric covered chair. An anxious chuckle left him and he smoothed his palm over his thigh. “I hope I don’t spill anything.”

Y/N assisted Arthur with the menu, explaining some of the more exotic-to-him dishes. He was interested in the antipasto, which wasn’t unexpected, since he always kept a jar of olives in the fridge. The gnocchi with tomatoes, spinach, fresh basil, and mozzarella was what he thought sounded best. She chose an old favorite, chicken in a mushroom and white wine sauce and a Caesar salad on the side. Arthur picked the least expensive Moscato on the wine list. When the bottle was opened and left on the table, he blinked at it, then shrugged and filled their glasses.

After a couple of sips, he crossed his legs and puffed on his cigarette. “I wrote a new joke. Well, I really just changed an old one.” He reached across the table to graze across the back of her hand. “Why didn’t the old man like having insomnia?”

Her eyelids fluttered, his gossamer touch setting her aflame. She ran her toes along his calf, his resulting twitch causing her to giggle in delight. “He wanted to sleep with his wife?”

Dark brows shot up in surprise, his eyes lighting up. Their fingers laced together. “How did you know?”

Leaning forward, she traced his crow's feet, prominent due to his beaming smile. Then her touch drifted to his jawline. “It was the first joke you ever told me," she murmured. "How could I forget?” Clutching her hand, he pressed a kiss to her wrist. He held her to his lips, hard enough to feel his teeth. And he grew quiet. “What is it?” she asked after a minute.

His eyelids shut. She could feel his pulse quicken together with hers. “I- I wanna sleep with you forever,” he breathed.

Out of anyone else’s mouth, she would have taken that to mean sex. From him, however, she knew it meant mountains more. Adoration welling in her chest, her fingertips weaved into his loose, chestnut curls. “You will.”

~~~~~

Once, in high school, Arthur had gotten a hold of some grass. It was supposed to induce giddiness and euphoria, make a person relax. God knows he could have used it back then; Penny had started declining and he’d had to learn to run a household. Plus, he’d thought at the time, it’d make him one of the guys. All the cool kids were doing it. Maybe he’d be able to connect with one and learn how to be popular. But all it had done was make him nauseous and paranoid. There hadn’t been one iota of the “high” he’d imagined. He’d thrown it out and never tried it again.

Now he wondered: was it possible to be high on a person? To be drunk on their presence? To feel their essence down to the cell? Necking on the sofa with Y/N, their coffee forgotten on the coffee table, he figured it must be. Enraptured, he wanted to capture her ragged breaths, take her into his lungs, make her a perpetual part of his being. Perhaps he’d stay happy naturally, then, like everyone else. Even if that didn’t work, she’d always be close.

Giggling, she pushed him off her and headed towards the kitchen. “Wait here. No peeking.”

Laughing softly, Arthur pushed his hair out of his face. She’d already gotten him gifts. Let him make love to her. Taken him to an eatery where he was totally out of place and managed to make it comfortable. What else could she possibly do? Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long. He eagerly followed at the call of his name.

The loveliest cake he’d ever seen was on the counter. Dark chocolate shavings embellished its round border. And it was the perfect size for the two of them. Y/N was rushing to light a mass of candles on it. “Quick, make a wish before wax drips onto the frosting.”

He mused for a moment. He no longer needed to pine for daydreams and delusions of companionship - he had Y/N. In spite of the icons his mother had had in every room of their apartment, he’d long ago stopped praying to what he suspected was nothing for his conditions and illnesses to go away. Then it occurred to him. Bending to blow out the candles, he wished for his innate comedic gifts to be recognized. To be validated as the stand-up he knew he was. And to provide for Y/N. To be what she needed. To make her happy.

Although he was grateful for Patricia’s thoughtfulness, and he knew Y/N’s baking wasn’t better than his own, part of him had wanted her to be the one who made the cake. But he tried to push that aside and appreciate it regardless. The slice she gave him was far too generous. He ate it all, anyway, because it was delicious. The sponge was fluffy. And the chocolate could actually be detected, instead of a vague, sugary flavor. The frosting tasted finer than that on the grocery store bakery cupcakes he’d sampled in the past.

As he was rinsing off the cutlery, Y/N saddled up beside him and held out a bright purple envelope, inscribed with “Happy Birthday!” in her pretty longhand. He leaned his hip against the counter as he grasped it, intentionally brushing his hand against hers. Gingerly, he lifted the flap and pulled out the card.

The cardstock was a vibrant gold and white. Two mugs, one green and labeled, “Yours,” one pink and labeled, “Mine” sat on sketched coasters. The shiny purple letters underneath proclaimed, “You get me. I get you.” Pressing his thin lips together, he opened it. And sighed when he read the rest: “Hope you know how happy that makes me.”

One of his wishes had already come true.

The elation coursing through his veins made him shudder. He nearly missed the stiff papers that fell from the envelope. Y/N retrieved them and gently placed them in his palm. A wide smile spread across his cheeks as he read aloud. “‘Gotham Pops presents A Night with Gershwin?’” He double-checked the date. “These are for New Year’s Eve.”

She nodded. “I snagged them as soon as they went on sale. They’re orchestra seats.” Then she squeezed him flush to her side, bumped her nose to his. “Don’t think I haven’t heard you sing to yourself in the tub.”

“Oh,” he chuckled, eyes tracing the diamond pattern of the grey, linoleum floor. “I thought I was quieter.”

“I’m glad you weren’t.” Enthusiastically, her lips pulled at his before she grinned up at him. “Did you have a happy birthday? Was it worth getting older?”

Arthur’s answer came without delay. “Yes.” There wasn’t a way to explain what it meant to him, to explain that she helped him feel good to be alive. How full his heart was. That she patched cracks in his soul he hadn’t known existed. He longed to do the same for her. He cupped her jaw on either side, guiding her to his mouth and rasping, “I don’t mind getting older with you.”

~~~~~

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[curiosity-killed]

a bow for the bad decisions: chapter 20

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(on ao3)

warnings: mentions of Wei Wuxian's death and suicidal ideation; anxiety attack and discussion of the golden core transfer

Late morning light streams softly through the jingshi when Wei Wuxian wakes again. He doesn’t need to check to know he’s alone this time; no matter how quiet he is, Lan Zhan’s presence fills the space he’s in. Blindfolded, Wei Wuxian would still feel him there the same way he could stand before a great lake and feel its gravity without use of any senses. Some deeper tether binds them, the harmonics of their souls. Padding across the house, he finds a bath waiting behind a privacy screen, a warming talisman stuck to the side, and a set of clean robes. Surprised pleasure curls behind his ribs at the thoughtfulness, and he sheds his robes to settle in and scrub away the dirt and sweat of the past three days of being alive again. Once he’s clean, he shakes out the neat stack. He’s always been a little taller than Lan Zhan, but when he holds the robes before him he finds them suited to him: a dark blue-grey with more closely fitted sleeves than Lan Zhan usually wears. They fall to the proper length at his ankles and wrists, and he hums in quiet contentment at the dark against the white underrobe left with them. 

A plain dizi lies on the same table as the robes, and he spins it between his fingers curiously. It’s far higher quality than the hack job he’d made on Dafan Mountain, likely made with better instruments than a sword and the first length of bamboo he spied. His hands itch for Chenqing, for the echo of his own spellwork through its familiar timbre, but the chances of him reforging a spiritual tool of that caliber again are…daunting. By the time he’s dressed, Lan Zhan hasn’t returned, so he sets out to find him. Cloud Recesses is quiet, hushed like a monastery even now in the middle of the morning. He passes courtyards and thinks he sees the ghosts of his own history, flickers of white that could be shijie or Nie Huaisang or his own shadow. His feet take him down the path to the Cold Spring Pond unconsciously, but when he recognizes his destination, he decides it’s as good a place to start as anywhere else. He passes through the bamboo humming absently along to the song Lan Zhan played as he fell asleep. Hopping down the last step before the pond, Wei Wuxian spots Lan Zhan immediately and stops short. Without all his robes and layers, Lan Zhan’s bared frame is surprisingly small, but what’s revealed is all lean muscle — and scars. Discipline whips leave distinctive marks. It takes a certain kind of weapon to scar anyone with cultivation as high as Lan Zhan, and discipline whips are meant to leave reminders, biting into the spiritual energy of the recipient with each hit. A single lash to a cultivator with a weak core can leave them unconscious; twenty can kill. The lines across Lan Zhan’s back form a lattice. Before he can say anything or even attempt to count the tallies cutting through his skin, Lan Zhan has risen and pulled his robes back over himself. He ties the last knot as he steps up to where Wei Wuxian has frozen. “Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian starts, “your back—” He doesn’t know how to finish, can’t find the words. Lan Zhan has always been a model disciple, the kind every sect wishes they had. What could he possibly have done to warrant such punishment? “How do you feel?” Lan Zhan asks. Wei Wuxian frowns at him. Confused, mostly, but he doesn’t think that’s what Lan Zhan’s asking. Huffing out a breath, he’s about to answer when quiet steps crunch on the gravel behind him and Lan Zhan straightens, gaze shifting up and past Wei Wuxian. Turning, Wei Wuxian’s stomach drops. Lan Zhan had said Lan Xichen already knew of Wei Wuxian’s presence here, but he still feels a little uneasy before the Lan Sect leader. Lan Xichen has always seemed kind and amicable, but Wei Wuxian has the sneaking suspicion he doesn’t like him very much. It’s not an unwarranted assessment, but it makes nerves crawl up his spine anyway. He bows politely, back of his neck prickling the way it did when he was a kid and Sect Leader Yu would visit with an imperious stare that made even Madam Yu seem mild. “Xiongzhang,” Lan Zhan greets. “Wangji, Wei-gongzi,” Lan Xichen replies with a gentle smile and a nod before turning to Lan Zhan. “Wangji, Uncle has requested your assistance in the summoning in the mingshi.” Lan Zhan hesitates, his gaze flicking toward Wei Wuxian, and Lan Xichen breathes out something almost like a suppressed laugh. He turns to Wei Wuxian, still with that pleasant expression. “Wei-gongzi, would you walk with me?” he asks. Lan Zhan’s eyes flit to Lan Xichen, mouth parting slightly as if to speak. Before he can object, Wei Wuxian salutes. “Of course, Zewu-jun,” he agrees. He doesn’t want to cause any more trouble for Lan Zhan, especially not with the brother he so admires. Besides, Lan Xichen is too righteous to attack him under the guise of a peaceful walk and too patient to be provoked by Wei Wuxian’s mere presence. He’s confident he could accidentally goad any other sect leader into stabbing him, but Lan Xichen’s tranquility and self-control are legendary. After a small hesitation, Lan Zhan bows in acceptance and starts back up the path. Lan Xichen watches him go for a moment before turning back to Wei Wuxian and inclining his head in a clear prompt. They walk quietly for a few moments, Wei Wuxian growing increasingly itchy in the silence. “Thank you for allowing Lan Zhan to bring me here, Zewu-jun,” he says finally. “I apologize for any trouble I have caused you.” Lan Xichen tilts his head more in acknowledgment than acceptance. “I am glad to see you well, Wei-gongzi,” he says. “I confess I did not hope to see you again, when neither Inquiry nor summoning received any answer.” Something shifts in Wei Wuxian’s chest like a bone shard floating loose under his skin. Shame and something else — the echo of that great consuming darkness that had filled him back then — rise up in his throat and he falters, losing a step. Lan Xichen slows just enough for him to regain his footing. Patient as he is, he’s clearly waiting for a reply, and Wei Wuxian fumbles for any answer. He can’t tell Lan Xichen that, when he’d let himself think about it at all, he hadn’t really thought his soul still existed when he walked out of the Burial Mounds the first time. He hadn’t thought there was enough left for anything like living. In the end, he’d been so tired, so ready to be done. He’d tried so hard — to protect his family, to protect the Wens, to do what was right in the face of injustice — and in the end, he had failed every single time. He hadn’t wanted to die, exactly, but it had still felt like a relief to accept the inevitable. “In all sincerity, Zewu-jun,” he says, “I don’t remember anything from these years. I remember being in the Burial Mounds and destroying the Stygian Tiger Seal but…” He remembers resentment digging in and tearing him away strip by strip. He remembers the way his entire body had been remade in agony, every tendon and sinew searing pain. He has some ideas of what the Seal might have tried to grab in its desperate struggles not to be destroyed. “Apologies, Wei-gongzi,” Lan Xichen says, breaking him out of his thoughts, “I did not mean to bring up painful memories.” “Ah, no, no need,” Wei Wuxian says quickly, pasting on a smile. “Like I said, I don’t remember much.” Lan Xichen studies him for a moment with a look that reminds him strangely of Uncle Jiang, gentle and knowing. He didn’t get that look too often growing up, mostly just when he took the blame for some mischief he’d gotten Jiang Cheng into. They walk together toward the gates of Cloud Recesses in quiet for a few moments before Wei Wuxian gets up the nerve to speak. “Ah, Zewu-jun, could I ask you something?” he asks. The look Lan Xichen slides him is a little curious, but he nods. “The scars on Lan Zhan’s back,” Wei Wuxian starts, and immediate understanding dawns over Lan Xichen’s expression, forestalling anything further. Standing just shy of the gates, Lan Xichen lifts his chin slightly, just enough to turn his perfect posture into something a little taller, more rooted. His face isn’t quite cold when he looks at Wei Wuxian, but the smile is gone and something has closed off behind his gaze. “Of course. As Wangji does not see it as anything important, he wouldn’t say.” He sighs, gaze dipping briefly before resettling on Wei Wuxian’s face. “During the Siege of the Burial Mounds, Wangji left our disciples to try to reach you. After you had died, he defied our uncle and elders when they tried to take him from your cave.” The earth is tilting strangely, or maybe his knees are getting weak. He feels like he needs to sit down, press himself close to something steady. Lan Zhan was there? He was at the Burial Mounds? Wei Wuxian doesn’t remember him there, can’t call any recollection to mind. Lan Zhan had said— The last time you saw me. “He received thirty-three lashes from the discipline whip for trying to protect you,” Lan Xichen continues, even and steady as a death knell, “and was sentenced to three years’ seclusion to consider his errors.” Swallowing, Wei Wuxian tries to push away the horror sinking long fingers under his collarbones. “But—why—” he starts and can’t finish. Lan Zhan is the shining model of Gusu Lan, a beacon to all disciples in how they should behave and act: brave and righteous and capable. He was always the one trying to pull Wei Wuxian back to the righteous path, back into the sunlight of the broad avenue. His stomach twists as he struggles to understand. Lan Xichen meets his gaze evenly. “Our actions have consequences, Wei-gongzi,” he says. “It is important to remember that.” He nods mutely. There’s always a cost: his soul for survival, his core for Jiang Cheng’s life. He’s known all his life that the things that matter, the things worth anything, never come free. The trick is not to worry about the cost but to remember what it’s for — family, love, home. As long as it matters, the sacrifice comes easy. But he’s the one who’s supposed to pay. He made the Seal, he took the remnants to the Burial Mounds. Lan Zhan never tried to do anything but what was right. He shouldn’t have to— “A-Li—” bones breaking red writhing through the pass resentment revenge revenge — shijie— “Wei-gongzi?” He blinks, startled, and finds Lan Xichen watching him closely, leaning in a little as if to catch his eye. Wei Wuxian flinches back. “Ah — I’m sorry,” he blurts out. Frozen where he’d stopped a half-step away with his hands raised in the start of a seal, he catches himself and forces his hands down, tucks them neatly behind his back. A small furrow grows between Lan Xichen’s brows. His lips thin just-so. “Perhaps you might visit the healers while you are here in Cloud Recesses,” he suggests after a moment. “There’s no need, really,” Wei Wuxian says and tries to draw up his most convincing smile. “I don’t want to trouble anyone. I’m fine.” He can already imagine their horror. Whatever effects dying might have had on his body and spirit, it will pale in comparison to their realization of his golden core. Jiang Cheng was right all those years ago; mediocre is worse than a death sentence in the cultivation world. If he goes to the healers, they’ll want to check everything: the wounds from the sacrifice summons, any sign of physical ailment from being dead for thirteen years, and, of course, his spiritual energy. They’ll find it sitting sluggish and unmoving along his meridians like old blood in a corpse’s veins. He can picture their revulsion, the way they’ll recoil as if from a plague victim. He’d been lucky with Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan and even then, he can still taste the sting of their pity and despair. He’d rather they think him strange and unorthodox than look at him like a broken thing, a half-dead body still stubbornly dragging itself along. Lan Xichen exhales, closing his eyes briefly, before he shakes his head. “I hope you will consider what we have discussed, Wei-gongzi,” he says in clear dismissal, and Wei Wuxian hurries to salute. Turning, the sect leader passes through the gates before stepping up onto his blade and rising effortlessly into the air. Wei Wuxian swallows and averts his eyes. The last time he flew— No, no sense following that track. He stands on the footpath before the gates for long minutes, trying to reconcile the fuzzy humming of his brain into something approaching ordered thoughts. Lan Zhan was in the Burial Mounds when he died. Lan Zhan left the Lan disciples to reach Wei Wuxian. His thoughts circle and buzz like a hundred cicadas chorusing in the back of his skull. A great clanging rings out, the clamor of a warning bell breaking through his fruitless worries. Startling, Wei Wuxian hesitates only a moment before eschewing every warning he received as a student and bolting back up the path. Rule three hundred and twenty-six can kiss his ass. The tolling takes him to a staunch grey-black building on the opposite side of the complex as the jingshi. A handful of disciples, mostly juniors with two seniors marked out by their heavier robes, stand around the doorway with swords drawn and make no move forward. As he skids to a halt, the great doors swing open and two juniors stumble out, supporting each other. Blood is smeared down the side of one of their faces and the other is coughing up weak spoonfuls of it. “Senior Mo!” Lan Jingyi calls, wiping blood off his lips with the back of his hand. “What’s happened?” he demands. “It’s the arm from Mo Manor,” Lan Sizhui says. “It’s too strong. The summoning isn’t working.” Catching Lan Jingyi’s other side, Wei Wuxian squeezes his wrist to draw his focus. The kid’s eyes are wide, fear paling his face. “Where’s Hanguang-jun?” he demands. On his other side, Lan Sizhui jerks his head back toward the sealed doors. His dark eyes are big and scared, hands trembling even as he tries to hold up his friend. “Hanguang-jun is inside,” he says. “He told us to run.” Well that makes things easier. Turning from the juniors, he jogs up the stairs to the mingshi. “Senior Mo, wait! The doors are sealed—” “Open!” he commands, drawing up every ounce of will. The doors boom open, and he steps forward into the stifling dark.  Smoke hangs heavy in the air, and resentment hums deep in the heart of the building. Through the narrow entry, he can hear the sound of Lan Zhan’s playing and he frowns as he tugs the dizi from his belt and tries to catch which song is being used. Blood and soot mar the central chamber when he steps out of the hall. Near to the entrance, Lan Qiren lays limp and bruised, and three senior disciples are collapsed across the array carved into the floor. Across from him, Lan Zhan still sits upright with his guqin across his lap. There’s a streak of blood from his lip and a patch soaked through at his waist, but it looks more like he got hit than spiritual exhaustion. In the center of the room, the arm sits planted on end, fingers claw-like and straining. Lifting the dizi to his lips, Wei Wuxian joins in on Evocation. There’s enough resentment rippling off the arm to flood the spell, fill it with that heavy, curling energy; between him and Lan Zhan, no spirit should be able to evade the lure. The guqin and dizi sing together, weaving the melody around and around the arm. It’s been a long time since they played together, but it comes back to him naturally. They’d always made a good team before. There should be a surge when the spirit is summoned, a pulse of energy that reverberates through the walls based on the strength of the arm. Nothing comes. Even as their notes wind down into silence, the arm stays fixed and straining with barely-repressed rage. It shouldn’t be possible — unless the spirit was cut up along with the body. Frowning, Wei Wuxian brings the dizi back and starts into a new melody. It’s one he wrote during the war, to suppress the Seal and settle his corpses after a battle. A few bars in, Lan Zhan picks up the harmony and plays along. At last the arm finally drops to the ground, sealed off for now, and Wei Wuxian lowers the flute from his lips. “Suppression is still only temporary,” he says. Lan Zhan gives a slight nod, gaze falling to the arm. There’s a bang behind Wei Wuxian, the sound of the doors swinging open and footsteps hurrying down the hall. “Hanguang-jun! Hanguang-jun, are you alright?” The crowd from outside has flooded in now that Lan Zhan’s released the doors, and Wei Wuxian stifles a smile as both Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui rush to Lan Zhan. He stands, dismissing his guqin with a graceful wave of his hand. “See to the injured,” he says. “Check that the warding is secure.” The juniors bow hurriedly and set to their tasks, though Jingyi stops to ogle the arm. “Did you summon the spirit?” he asks. “What was it? It looks terrible.” “We will trace its source,” Lan Zhan says, stepping around to Wei Wuxian’s side. He glances over him as if checking for any harm, like Wei Wuxian was the one stuck in here with a spirit that took out four Lan cultivators. “Trace its source?” Lan SIzhui echoes. He looks up with a solemn frown from where he’s channeling spiritual energy into one of the other cultivators. “How do you know where to go, Hanguang-jun?” Amused, Wei Wuxian taps his arm with the dizi. “Eh, can’t you see?” he prompts. “Our friend is telling us.” Lan Jingyi recoils, incredulous, while the other disciples around the chamber try to squint at Wei Wuxian without abandoning their tasks. Wei Wuxian nods toward the arm and where it’s fallen. As the cultivator Lan Sizhui’s tending stirs, he props his shoulder underneath their arm and helps them to their feet. With the change in angle seems to come understanding; his eyes widen abruptly, mouth parting in a sharp intake of breath. “Oh! I see,” he says. “It’s pointing northwest on the array, isn’t it?” “Very good, Little Lan!” Wei Wuxian praises. The boy — he can’t be more than seventeen, really — smiles in surprised pleasure, a look that crinkles up by his eyes, and Wei Wuxian is hit with a funny wave of fondness. He really did miss his shidis over that last year of his life. There’s something about working with kids that always just feels right — their curiosity, their bright pleasure at praise, the funny tangles they knot themselves into. “Hanguang-jun,” Lan Jingyi says, suddenly standing very straight before bowing deeply, “this disciple would like to request to join you in following this spirit.” “Ah!” Lan Sizhui gently passes the cultivator leaning against him to another disciple and hurries to join Lan Jingyi. “This disciple as well, Hanguang-jun. It was our night hunt that brought the arm. Rule eighty-four states that one must take responsibility for their actions.” Wei Wuxian has to hide his laughter behind his fist as he tries to reign in his expression. Of course Lan Zhan’s juniors would cite the sect principles from memory in order to justify going on an adventure. Once his smile is restrained, Wei Wuxian affects a stern expression and raises his eyebrow. “Are you going to remember all your supplies this time?” he chides. Lan Sizhui looks up, eyes widened in alarm, before he bows again. At his side, Lan Zhan slides a questioning look toward Wei Wuxian. “These disciples will be sure to prepare thoroughly,” Lan Sizhui says, “and we will copy out the chapter of proper night hunt procedure ten times to meditate on our mistakes at Dafan Mountain.” What are you doing to these kids? Wei Wuxian wants to ask. There really is something unnerving about Gusu Lan to have their juniors volunteering their own punishment. “Ah, Lan Zhan, don’t be too hard on them,” he says, knocking their shoulders together. “They really did well at Mo Manor.” Lan Zhan cuts him a look that’s more exasperation than annoyance, and Wei Wuxian grins. Lan Zhan takes a neat step to the side that moves his shoulder out from where Wei Wuxian’s leaning. Stumbling a step, Wei Wuxian laughs and straightens up. “So, what about it, Hanguang-jun?” he asks. “Will you let your dutiful disciples help out?” They wind up leaving a little past midday, after the juniors have rattled off everything they’ve packed and shown Wei Wuxian and Lan Zhan the signal flares in particular. “Hanguang-jun, why aren’t we flying to Qinghe?” Lan Jingyi asks as they leave Cloud Recesses. “Ah, Lan Jingyi, do you see a sword?” Wei Wuxian chides. “Not all of us are rich young masters.” The kid scowls at Wei Wuxian, crossing his arms over his chest. “Senior Mo, we could take turns flying with you,” Lan Sizhui offers. Unease flips in Wei Wuxian’s belly at the thought of being up in the air under someone else’s control. Before he can come up with a reasonable excuse, Lan Zhan has turned toward the road once more. “We will get horses in Caiyi,” he says. There’s a twist to Lan Jingyi’s lips like he wants to protest, but he falls in with Sizhui. Relieved, Wei Wuxian bumps his shoulder into Lan Zhan’s arm in silent thank you. He pauses as he pulls back, something a little off about the motion. Canting his head, he straightens up to his full height and realizes he has to look up to meet Lan Zhan’s eyes now. “Lan Zhan,” he gasps, horrified, “I’ve shrunk.” Concern flits through Lan Zhan’s eyes as he turns to look at Wei Wuxian, but it quickly disappears and something like amusement twitches at the corner of his lips. “I grew,” he corrects. Huffing out a breath, Wei Wuxian can’t help frowning a little, disgruntled. It’s such a silly little thing, but— He shakes his head and brushes the thought away.

“Lan Zhan, you ought to catch me up on what I’ve missed,” he teases instead, only half hoping for a real answer. “Is Emperor’s Smile still made in Caiyi Town? Has Nie Huaisang built a wing for all his fans? Is — is my shijie still in Lanling?” He tries to ask it all with the same nonchalance, but he stumbles a little on the last. He hurt her, he knows. He doesn’t deserve forgiveness for it, but — but he wants to know that she’s alright at least. That she’s been safe all these years. Lan Zhan fixes him with a funny look, a slight furrow in his brow. “Jiang Yanli has been the madam of Jinlintai for eight years,” he says. “Oh.” Wei Wuxian blinks. She must have remarried, he supposed. It doesn’t seem right — shijie was always too devoted to Jin Zixuan, though the thought now makes guilt twist in his belly — but Madam Jin had always been so fond of her. Maybe she thought remarrying would protect her, keep her in Lanling. Jin Guangyao was not the worst option; he’d always seemed conscientious at least.

“Ah well that’s good,” he says. “Jin Guangyao seemed nice enough; I’m sure he would be kind to shijie.” There’s a hitch in Lan Zhan’s next step, and a strangled noise from the juniors behind him. “Ah, Senior Mo,” Lan Sizhui says delicately, “Lianfang-zun is the Chief Cultivator, not the Jin Sect Leader. Jin-zongzhu is Jin Zixuan.” “Aren’t you from the Jin sect?” Jingyi demands. “Jin Ling said you were—” It sounds like Sizhui’s stuffed his hand over Jingyi’s mouth, but Wei Wuxian can’t spare them any attention. He stares at Lan Zhan, his heart thudding too-loud in his ears. “Lan Zhan?” he asks. “Is it true? Jin Zixuan—” It can’t be. He killed him. He doesn’t remember much, but he remembers the sound of bones breaking, of Jin Zixuan’s rattling breath as he gasped out shijie’s name. It had been the mistake that ended everything, that brought them to tear down the Burial Mounds. Lan Zhan’s hand lifts to brush against Wei Wuxian’s wrist but falls short, fingers curling to his palm without quite touching. “Wei Ying,” he says, low and gentle, too quiet for the juniors to hear. “But— Qiongqi Pass—” “Jin-zongzhu was injured many years ago, Senior Mo,” Sizhui provides helpfully. “Yeah, they say the Yiling laozu sicced the Ghost General on him,” Jingyi adds, “and he only survived because Chifeng-zun arrived.” There’s a hand-sized hurt digging at the backs of his ribs, and he swallows hard. There, in the edges of his memory, the dark figure that appeared just before it all went black. “Wei Ying.” He forces a smile on his lips even as he feels it tremble and nudges them back into motion. He doesn’t think he’ll survive Lan Zhan’s steady gaze at the moment, not without some kind of distraction. “So that really was Jin Ling at Dafan Mountain,” he says, “and his sister?” “Mn,” Lan Zhan hums in affirmation. “Jin Mu, courtesy Ruxia. Their younger son is Jin Xue, courtesy Ruliang.” Swallowing hard, Wei Wuxian releases an unsteady breath. He has a niece and two nephews. Shijie has a whole family in Lanling. The hand clenches tighter in the soft meat of his belly, digging in. He’s happy for her. She deserves nothing less than a beautiful family who love and respect her. She’s always looked forward to her marriage. “Good,” he says. “That’s good.” Lan Zhan still has that worried look in his eyes, the one that’s only apparent by the way his eyes tighten ever-so slightly. Before he can say anything, Wei Wuxian laughs and tugs the dizi from his belt to spin through his fingers. “Next you’re going to tell me that Jiang Cheng went off and married some beautiful young maiden and has a dozen baby stormclouds running around Lotus Pier,” he jokes. He can still probably rattle off the list Jiang Cheng had made when they were young, of all the traits he wanted in a wife. Wei Wuxian had always wondered if such a woman even existed, but he assumed the Jiang elders would sort it out. For himself, Wei Wuxian had never worried much about marriage. His duty was to Yunmeng Jiang, as their Head Disciple, as Jiang Cheng’s right hand. His family was Jiang Cheng and shijie and that was enough. Lan Zhan makes a small humming noise that isn’t quite affirmation but isn’t outright denial. Twisting around, Wei Wuxian tilts his head at him. “Lan Zhan?” he asks. “Jiang Wanyin married Wen Qing,” Lan Zhan says after a long moment, the words coming out as if he’s having to pull them up by their roots. “They have a daughter, Jiang Lu.” Wei Wuxian stares. “Wen Qing?!” he demands. It’s absolutely incomprehensible. When would they even— Wen Qing has far too much sense for that and anyway, she hardly meets Jiang Cheng’s requirements of a delicate, obedient young woman. Some part of him thinks that he must still be dying and this is the punishment he gets for denying the natural order of things. None of this makes sense otherwise. “Lan Zhan, please tell me truthfully,” he says, because he can’t really take any more of these surprises, “do you have a wife hidden in Cloud Recesses that you’ve forgotten to mention?” “Y—” Jingyi bursts out before being suddenly stifled. Lan Zhan’s expression has shaded from worried to outright displeasure, and Wei Wuxian feels a rush of relief run through him. He’d wanted Lan Zhan to move on. He wants all of them to be happy and live good lives. He just hadn’t expected to be around to watch them leave him behind. Even with horses, it’s a long day’s travel, and he’s grateful when they stop at an inn just past Moling. The juniors set to brushing down the horses and settling them in the inn’s stable while he and Lan Zhan head in to reserve rooms. He’s never been to this part of the region before, but there’s something soothing about the great canal running through the city. It’s far too orderly to compare to the rivers of Yunmeng, but the sense of water moving is always comforting. They eat dinner all together on the lower floor, silent per the Lan sect rules. For once, Wei Wuxian’s almost glad for the quiet. His head still feels a little like a swarm of gnats all fluttering around in maddening spirals. A hollow discomfort sits heavy in his chest, weighing down his stomach, and he picks at the food as much as he eats it. His appetite never did really return from the Burial Mounds. When the juniors are dismissed and he and Lan Zhan turn to enter their room, there’s a moment where Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui’s eyes go wide, but they hurry off to their own room next door before he can do more than frown a little at them. Weird kids, he thinks but it’s a little fond. Sliding the door closed, Wei Wuxian groans and presses his hands against his lower back before twisting. His knees feel fused, like tired wet sand clumped together. It’s been a long time since he rode — not since that flight from Qiongqi Pass, and he’d had a few other things to worry about than his own aches — but he swears it didn’t use to feel like this. “Ugh,” he whines, “if this Mo Xuanyu really wanted to bring me back, he could’ve given me a better body.” He drops his hands with a huff and rolls his neck. It’s pointless to be frustrated about this. He’s alive. He’s got more of a body than he had when he died. It’s a miracle! He’d still like the back of his hip to stop aching like the muscle’s being stretched too far around the bone. “Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan’s voice is gentle, a hint of a question in his tone. Glancing over, Wei Wuxian’s startled to find him down to his inner robes, setting aside his silver hair pieces. Half his hair spills down across the white, turns him softer and more open. Wei Wuxian freezes, struck by the sudden urge to reach out, to settle his hands on Lan Zhan’s waist and pull him close. A hint of a frown lingers in the angle of Lan Zhan’s brow, his amber eyes intent on Wei Wuxian. Swallowing the sudden dryness of his mouth, Wei Wuxian waves his hand and forces out a laugh. “I’m just joking, Lan Zhan,” he says lightly. “Don’t worry about it. It’s almost nine, isn’t it? You must be tired.” He starts away from the door with the intent to strip down and shake his own hair out of the high tail that’s fallen in tendrils and hanks around his face during the ride. “Wei Ying, why didn’t Jiang Wanyin know about the golden core transfer?” He freezes. The thing is, he always knew it wasn’t a good plan. Wen Qing had bombarded him with questions when he was trying to convince her, demanding how he thought Jiang Cheng wouldn’t find out, how he was going to survive a war without it, what he was going to do if it went wrong. He’d mostly answered her with non-answers: Jiang Cheng wouldn’t find out, Wei Wuxian would figure out how to keep going, Wen Qing was too skilled to mess up. He hadn’t let himself think about anything except it working. Jiang Cheng had been lying there, refusing to eat or sleep, saying only that he didn’t want to live, didn’t have any reason to live. Even shijie hadn’t been able to draw anything out of him, and the whole time, Wei Wuxian had stood there with Madam Yu’s voice and Uncle Jiang’s command ringing in his ears. This is your fault. You have to protect Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli. He’d already failed. He couldn’t afford to fail again. So. He fiddles with his belt, loosening it more deliberately than necessary. “Aha what do you mean, Lan Zhan?” he says. “What transfer?” Under other circumstances, he’d be proud of the sigh he draws from Lan Zhan. Now, it just makes the skin along his neck and shoulder blades prickle with the start of something like panic. “During the months you were missing,” Lan Zhan says, “Jiang Wanyin said that you’d been attacked and his core damaged. You lost your core and said you were indebted to Wen Qing and Wen Ning.” Fuck. Wei Wuxian swallows, his hands stilled and white-knuckled around his belt. Hadn’t he once scoffed at others for underestimating Lan Zhan? Sudden fear surges up in his chest, and he twists around to meet Lan Zhan’s eyes. “Lan Zhan,” he says, “you didn’t tell Jiang Cheng. Tell me you didn’t tell him.” Lan Zhan’s eyes dip down, lashes a sooty curve against his cheeks, and ice branches through Wei Wuxian’s chest in horror. No. No, Jiang Cheng can’t know — he’ll never forgive him, he’ll tear himself up over it— “I did not expect such an operation could be done without the recipient’s knowledge,” Lan Zhan says. There isn’t exactly condemnation in his tone, but Wei Wuxian still feels guilt creep up his spine. He’s disagreed with Lan Zhan a hundred thousand times — over following Lan principles, over battle plans, over his own cultivation. As long as he knew he was doing what was right, what he believed was right, it had always been easy enough to laugh it off and breeze on through. This time— “I didn’t know how else to save him,” he admits before drawing in a breath and pasting on a grin. “Anyway, it worked out fine. He had to be sect leader, and I’ve gotten on fine, haven’t I?” Minus the whole dying thing and piecing himself back together beforehand, but really, he’s pretty sure the Burial Mounds would have been worse with a golden core. If he’d had traditional cultivation to even try using, he wouldn’t have been desperate enough to figure out demonic cultivation until it was too late, and then what? He’d just have died even earlier in the very same place, and then they wouldn’t have defeated Wen Ruohan and shijie and Jiang Cheng would’ve been dead or prisoners or— He sets the belt down and starts untying his outer robes with jerky motions. He can’t think about that. “I wish you wouldn’t have told him, Lan Zhan,” he says, and his voice comes out cheerful but he’s trying too hard to keep himself from panicking to keep the edge out of his tone. “You shouldn’t have— I made Wen Qing and Wen Ning promise to never tell him. He’s never going to forgive—” He’s never going to forgive him. Jiang Cheng will never forgive Wei Wuxian. He shouldn’t. For all his justifications, Wei Wuxian knew it was a violation, knew he was reaching in and altering something fundamental to Jiang Cheng and wrapping it all in lies. He knew and he couldn’t let his little brother die, couldn’t do anything to save him but this horrible offering. There’s a hand covering his wrist, and he realizes from that contact that he’s shaking all over, fine tremors running through him as his heart rabbits in his chest. Lan Zhan’s eyes are wide and worried, eyebrows pinching together in concern. Wei Wuxian swallows and forces out a shaking exhale. “Wei Ying, I’m sorry,” Lan Zhan says, hand a tether on Wei Wuxian’s wrist. He manages a slight nod, jerky. He can’t quite get the words out. ‘Sorry’ is an anchor around his neck.

[myhockeyworld87]

Careless - Jamie Benn - Part 2

Requested: No

Word Count: 2667

Warning: Smut, like NSFW smut, oral, sex, cursing

Notes: So I was totally in my Jamie Benn feels yesterday and after I wrote the first part; I just had an overwhelming need to write the smut that came afterwards. I hope you guys enjoy this one. Also, I apologize in advance to any misspellings, etc...I didn’t proof read these last two pieces very well before posting them.

READER POV

 The kiss with Jamie was everything and had you wanting more, before it even ended. So, when he pulled back you said the only thing that came to your mind, “Let’s get out of here.” Jamie didn’t have to be asked twice. He was grabbing your hand and ready to head straight out the door. “Jamie, I need to finish up here first.”

 “Oh, right. Sorry.” He was anxious, but then so were you.

 “Give me fifteen minutes, to clean up the tables and then we can be out of here.” One of his hands still held you by the waist, as if he let go of you; you might not return. Going up on your tip toes you kissed him fast and hard; anything more and you’d never get out of the store room. Grabbing the hand on your waist, you led him back to the bar.

Thankfully, all the customers had left. You assumed one of the bartenders had settled up the tab from the rowdy bunch you’d had earlier. Jamie sat at the end of the bar, leg bouncing up and down in anticipation of what was to come; you weren’t far behind him, as the tray of empty glasses wobbled when you carried it back to the kitchen. Quickly you wiped down all the tables, then clocked yourself out. Grabbing your stuff, from backstage; you sauntered up to Jamie, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Ready to go?”

 “Mmmm,” it was all he said; as if he didn’t trust his own voice to speak. His hand held yours as you walked out the door and headed to the car. You’d both taken this path, numerous times over the last few weeks, but never like this; and usually to your lonely car to head home. Assuming your vehicle was the destination, you started to dig through your purse to find your keys. “Leave it, we’ll get your car later.” Crossing over to the customer lot, Jamie took you to his SUV. In true gentleman fashion, he opened the door for you and you slid inside; the cool leather caused a chill up your spine. Jamie made his way to the driver’s seat and within minutes you were on the road.

  JAMIE’S POV

 Finally, you had (Y/N) exactly where you wanted her; well not exactly, but you were headed in that direction. She was in your car, on the way to your home. There was no question as to where you two were headed; you wanted her in your house and in your bed. An overwhelming need to possess her, overtook you; you wanted to show her everything you could give her, if she’d let you.

 Reaching over you put her hand in yours; music played in the background, but you paid it no mind. The fifteen-minute ride to your place was silent, but not uncomfortable. Deactivating the alarm, you pulled into the garage and hopped out of the SUV quickly; to get the door for (Y/N). Grabbing her bag and her hand, you led her into your home.

 Her eyes swept over the house, which wasn’t quite prepared for entertaining; yet still she seemed to admire it. “Wow Jamie, this place is amazing.” You’d only made it through the kitchen; which opened up to a family room. It looked better in the daylight and you relished the chance to show it to her in the morning.

 “Do you want something to drink or eat or…” shit, it’s been a long time since you’d done this; though you never were one to have the smoothest moves, you were failing miserably with (Y/N). You always seemed tongue-tied around this woman.

 You still held her hand, as well as her bag; so, you set it down on the kitchen island. She tugged your hand then, drawing you close to her. “I don’t need anything…but you.” Your lips crushed hers, as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Mouths fused together, tongues swirling learning what the other liked. Vaguely you heard a moan, whether it was yours or (Y/N)’s you couldn’t tell. Releasing her hand from your grasp, you trailed it down her spine; causing her to shiver. Hands threading through your hair, she pulled you deeper into the kiss.

 Her body pressed up against you, and your cock twitched in expectation; you were certain she could feel its hard length against her. You needed more, but not here in your damn kitchen. Unwilling to break the kiss, you reached down and cupped her ass; lifting her in the air. Her legs wrapped around your waist as you slowly carried her down the hall to your bedroom. The lights were off, only the dim light from the hall lit the room. Gently you laid her down onto the duvet; only then did you break the kiss, both of you breathing harshly. She looked stunning sprawled out on your bed; and you took a moment to absorb the imagine into your brain. Lips swollen and red from the kisses you’d shared, long gorgeous hair spread out like spun silk strands; to say she was beautiful was an understatement and didn’t do her justice. “God, (Y/N) you’re exquisite.”

 Lifting your shirt over your head, you tossed it aside; you saw her eyes roam your body appreciatively. She pulled her lip between her teeth and you swore your dick hardened tenfold. Slowly you climbed over top of the goddess spread out before you; bending down to capture her lips once again. Her hands roamed your chest; nails lightly raking your skin. Trailing kisses down her neck, you slid a strap off her shoulder; exposing one of her breasts. The skimpy costume didn’t allow for a bra and at the moment you were thanking the dress making gods for their easy access. Soft and full, you cupped the breast in your palm, drawing her nipple in your mouth. She inhaled sharply and a moan escaped her lips. “Mmmm, yes Jamie yes.” Easing the other strap down, you gave the same lavish attention to her other nipple; flicking your tongue over it. She squirmed underneath your ministrations, a feeling that had you on edge.

 Gliding your hand down, you scrunched her dress down to her hips; it wasn’t enough, you wanted the offense garment off her body. Impatiently she lifted her hips and slid it down around her knees; where you were able to remove it all together. Clad only in a black thong, she was everything you’d ever wanted. Sliding your hand up her thigh, you slowly made your way to her sweet center. Running a finger over her panties you could feel her desire for you. “Babe, you’re so fucking wet.” A blush slowly crept up her body; which was soon squirming as you danced your fingers over the cloth covering her clit. Kissing down her stomach; you hooked a finger on each side of the thong. Drawing it down as you inhaled her scent. It was intoxicating.

 Trailing your lips up her thighs, you made your way up to her sweet little pussy. You blew a warm breath of air over her folds and she shivered. “Oh god!” You flicked your tongue across her clit and were rewarded as she screamed out, “Jamie.” Slowly you licked up and down her folds; hands on her hips to keep her still. She moaned some more, which only spurred you on. Glancing up you saw she was playing with her breast, rubbing her nipple between her thumb and finger.

 “God that’s so fucking hot, (Y/N).” Resuming your assault on her clit; you gradually pressed a finger inside her. Another moan came from her mouth, as you slowly moved your finger in and out of her. Her hips bucked up into your mouth, and you picked up speed; suckling at the swollen bud between your lips. Gently you added another finger, her walls compressing against them as they stroked her core. “You’re so tight.”

 “Jamie” she panted. “I’m…gonna.” Lapping harder with your tongue on her clit; you moved your fingers in and out of her entrance, fucking her with your hand. She shuddered then, screaming your name as she broke apart. Legs shaking, head lolling back and forth as the orgasm hit her. Her juices drenched your mouth and fingers. You continued to pump your digits as she came down from the high, she just experienced. Gradually, her body relaxed. She reached for you then, bringing your mouth to hers; she tasted her juices on your lips. This woman was everything and so much more.

  READER’S POV

 The climax you’d just had with Jamie was like none you’d ever experienced before, but you still wanted more. You wanted to feel him deep inside you. So, as you kissed your wetness off his lips; you trailed your hands down to his jeans. Undoing his belt proved more of a challenge than you thought; your hand fumbled. Probably more from the orgasm you’d just had then anything else. Once you regained composure you easily unfastened it, as well as the button; sliding them down to his knees. Your hand snaked back up to feel the length of cock through his boxer briefs. Just like the rest of him, his dick was impressive; you knew you’d be sore tomorrow just from the girth of it. Breaking the kiss, you moved to kiss your way down and return the favor you’d just received. Jamie halted your progress. “Not this time baby, I’ll never last and I want this to be good for both of us.”

 Standing, Jamie strode to the nightstand and pulled out a condom; sliding his jeans and his boxer briefs off at the same time. If a man could be gorgeous, Jamie was definitely that. He was all muscle and sinew. Tattoos covering different limbs of his body; you wanted to spend all night tracing them with your finger. But that was for another time. Right now, he was standing in front of you rock hard; more wetness flooded your pussy. Rolling the condom on his length; he then climbed back on to the bed. You wanted to feel his cock in your hand, but Jamie wasn’t having any of that. Instead he laid you back down on the bed, pushed your knees further apart and settled himself between them. His cock in hand, he stroked it up and down your pussy, coating it with your wetness, and eliciting another moan from your lips; before pressing the tip at your entrance. Painstakingly slow he pressed into you; only giving you one inch at a time.

 You wanted him pressed all the way inside you, but Jamie was not to be rushed. A weak plea escaped your lips. “Please, Jamie, please…I need you.”

 “You want more baby girl. You need me to fill you up.”

 “God, Jamie yes…please.” Finally, he pushed forward filling you with his cock. He stayed there just for a minute. Hands on either side of your head; breathing harshly. It was if he needed a minute to get himself under control. You lifted up and pressed a soft kiss to his lips; he deepened the kiss right away as he began to pump in and out of you. The two of you built up a steady rhythm, you meeting each of his thrust. A fine sheen of sweat broke out across his brow. You could tell he was getting close, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to climax again without some direct stimulation to your clit. So, you reached between your bodies and found the little nub so desperate for attention.

 “Yes baby” Jamie panted out. “MMhmmm. I’m so close. Are you?’

 You flicked your clit once, then again; finally applying just the right amount of pressure to go with Jamie’s thrust. The next thing you knew, you were coming around his cock. Screaming “Jamie.” Your walls spasmed around him and with a few short thrusts he came with you, spilling his seed into the condom. Groaning your name as the force of his orgasm hit. He collapsed on top you then. The weight of him felt wonderful; you could stay like this for days. That was until he moved, rolling you both onto your sides; his cock flaccid, still inside you. He held you tight, while he rained kisses all over your body.

 “That was fucking amazing babe.” His hands were running up and down your back now; you felt completely satisfied.

 “Mmhmmm. It really was.” Lazily you traced circles on his arms and chest. You didn’t want to move, but you weren’t sure how Jamie would feel about you staying. During the ride over you’d already decided you could just Uber to your car and head home from there; the only problem was his cock was still inside you. His callused fingertips ran down your spine causing you to shiver.

 “You ok?” When you nodded, he gently pulled his cock out of you and got off the bed; instantly you felt empty without him. He walked into the ensuite then; you could hear the water running. Mind racing, you weren’t sure if you should get up and gather your clothes or perhaps stay and see if there would be a round two. Blowing out a frustrated breath, you swung your legs to the side of the bed and started to get up. “What are you doing?”

 “I was just going to grab my stuff.” Your eyes searched in the dim light for where he had discarded your dress. “Don’t worry, I’m just going to call an Uber; you don’t have to get dressed or anything.”

 He looked confused and disappointed. “So, you’re not staying?”

 “Ummm…I didn’t really think you wanted me to.” Gesturing over to the bathroom that he’d just been in minutes ago.

 “What? Of course, I want you to stay. I just went to get this for you.” A wet wash cloth, hung limply in his hands. “(Y/N) I meant it when I said I want you to be my girlfriend.”

 “Oh” it was all you could say as your brain processed his last comment.

 Standing in front of you naked as the day he was born, he looked vulnerable and masculine all at the same time. “I understand if you don’t want that. Just give me a second and I’ll take you back to your car.”

 He started to turn back to the bathroom then; “Jamie, no…I mean...” you got up, striding over to this soft teddy bear of a man. Taking a deep breath, you started over. “I’d love to be your girlfriend Jamie. In fact, I’ve wanted that for a long time now.” His lips quirked up into a devasting smile; making you yearn for this man even more. Sliding your hands up, you brought his lips close to yours; just letting them hover there not quite making contact.

 Softly, he whispered, “Really?”

 “Yes, really silly. I’ve wanted you from the first night I saw you Jamie; when all your teammates were acting like jerks. You, you saw me for me and not just some piece of ass. But when you didn’t do anything after that I thought maybe…you just wanted to be friends; and I respected that.”

 He pressed closer to your body then, taking one of your hands, he placed it on his dick; it hardened instantaneously. “I want more than friendship from you (Y/N).” Kissing you firm on the mouth; he pulled back too soon for your liking. “Stay with me tonight, and then tomorrow; and possibly everyday after that.”

 “Mmmm. Yes.” Crushing your mouth against his, wordlessly you showed him how much you wanted that. The two of you stayed like that for some time; worshiping each other with your mouths. Needing air, you finally broke apart. “Take me back to bed Jamie.” You didn’t have to ask twice; you never had to with Jamie. He always knew what you wanted and needed from there on out.

[goljath-a]

' pyrrhic. '

pyrrhic ( adj. ) - won lost at too great a cost.

AND THE WORLD CRIES HAVOC: dogs howling with their snappish jaws / men screaming war, screaming revenge / a thunderous roar sweeping over the hills, blood gushing from an open wound, leaving behind nothing but dry salt. Yet all this arrives underwater, delayed by the weight that presses down on his chest and flexes its palms over his sternum, urging them to crack in twain / daring his ribs to yawn open ever wider, telltale heart unmoored - TO THE VICTOR GO THE SPOILS. Everything ripples like water in his ears - his eyes roll back in their sockets without input / thoughts as waves crashing against an unyielding cliff-face, fingers catching painfully on the jagged shards of rock jutting out like rows upon of serrated teeth. GET UP. GET UP, YOU USELESS WASTE OF SKIN. YOU HAVE TO FIGHT !! JUST GET UP ALREADY !! GET UP AND FIGHT !! Never before has he felt this degree of pain, this all-consuming disorientation. Even the earth beneath him - which he can do no more than twitch against - feels too soft, liable to swallow him whole any minute now. ( I’m tired. I want to go to sleep. I want to lie here and rest for a minute. Why do I have to move ? I’m so tired. Just let me ... )

He closes his eyes and shudders against the Paths to his back. This, too, is a raw nerve: a wildfire with flames licking up the length of his spine, senses all askewer. Is this a drowning ? Is this a funeral pyre ? Is this, somehow, a strange paradox of both ? Reluctantly, he feels the familiar tether to reality growing stronger with each passing century, Mother’s hands working tirelessly to rebuild his broken body / plucking invisible strings out of thin air to weave his poorly-stitched tapestry back together. He feels a surge of anger, suddenly, though it feels misplaced - no, Mother does not work at his behest, Mother does not know what she is doing. She has no eyes / no mouth / no will of her own. Only her hands. Only her aching feet. Only her ears and the King’s will echoing through them. He cannot resent her for her diligence - isn’t he, after all, supposed to be the one looking after her, looking out for her ? ( YOU HAVE TO PROTECT THEM / YOU HAVE TO SHOW THEM THAT WE CAN RELY ON YOU - ) He feels sick. He feels abused. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. He doesn’t want to be anything / he just wants to go home.

The sigh that punches through him is a monumental effort in-and-of itself: his lungs bellow like a smothered furnace, trying desperately to expel the smoke that is sealing the chimney up / coughing and hacking and spitting little sparks of ember-ash. Unbidden the image comes to mind of Shiganshina in apocalypse, her dying throes a guttural scream he arrived too late to salvage. He remembers sloughing away at the wreckage, oblivious to it all, confused and apathetic ( BLOOD EVERYWHERE: ON HIS HANDS IN HIS EYES UNDER HIS FEET TOO LATE TOO LATE CAN’T MOVE CAN’T SCREAM CAN’T FIGHT- ). And then the turning away, the indifferent numbness, the slow trek back to his home of the past one-hundred years. Too late. It was something he could have intervened upon, should have prevented - but how ? And why ? Why then ? Why there ? Why them ? Why Humanity ?! Why HER ?! WHY HAD HE NOT SAVED HER ?! WHY HAD HE NOT DONE ANYTHING AT ALL ?!?! WHY HAD HE JUST LET HER DIE- ?!?!

                                         ... No, that’s wrong.                                          It was always ... you.                                          YOU ... PIECE OF SHIT.

He rises slowly, a carcass suspended from butcher’s twine. He is no stranger to vertigo but the process is nauseating all the same, despite what little he had done to prepare himself for it. A thick wash of ichor trickles from the back of his throat and he spits it out in disdain. His insides shift awkwardly / joints popping back into place / bones groaning / muscles flexing. GOD, WHAT A FUCKING DISAPPOINTMENT. He is no unlikely savior - the blow he had just been dealt had been an abundantly-clear reminder of that - but still he must stand / take stance. ( Someone has to do it. Someone has to get up, has to fight back, has to- has to- to ... ) A growl breaks open his aching mandible, the corners of his lipless maw tugging into a snarl as he feels his enemy’s approach draw ever-nearer. AND YOU- YOU ARE MY ENEMY, MAKE NO MISTAKE OF THAT. It infuriates - that cautious, calculated approach, that leisurely gait. There’s nothing to discern past the Armored’s impenetrable expression, though despite that he still feels the Other’s presence / the way They carefully hide Themselves behind layers of thick sinew and hardened exoskeleton, as though They could be protected from his sight. Yes, he sees Them - glares through the Armored’s vacant skull through to the inept pilot lurking beneath. YOU ... IF IT WEREN’T FOR YOU ... IT WAS ALWAYS YOU / YOU / YOU !!

( What kind of face are you making right now ? Was it all an act ? Was this all predetermined ? Was it worth it ? Well ... it doesn’t matter now, anyways. Despite everything - ... No, despite you. Everything in spite of you. THIS TIME / I’LL DESTROY YOU - I’LL FIND YOU, I’LL HAVE MY FILL. THIS TIME, I’LL BE THE HUNTER ... AND YOU MY PREY. )

uncommon words.

[sunshineandfangs]

Saudade, Retrouvailles pt.2

Ping: @scarletwidow-shipper (Sorry, I forgot since it was a few months since I wrote something. Let me know if you still want me to ping you).

I know @geeky-greek was looking forward to the next part so here it is! Mini sequel to Saudade, Retrouvailles.

---

Caroline knew the two Originals could hear the tinge of exhaustion underlying her tone, watched as they leveled weighted glances at both her and each other. Thankfully, curiosity won out, and she could feel tension dissipating from the air. Eagerly, took the opportunity to duck out of the entryway, unable to help the way she relaxed ever so slightly now that no barrier stood between her and Klaus. 

In fact, it was unconscious on her part that she settled at his side, the apparent oddity of it registering in her brain only when she felt the heavy weight of the Hybrid’s gaze. She glanced up at him, reading the flickering of curiosity and suspicion in his eyes.

He voiced none of it though, gesturing her forward with a sweep of his arm. “After you, sweetheart, it seems we have much to discuss.”

“Quite.” Kol’s voice was sharp and far closer than expected. “Do keep up, brother.”

A growl sounded in the distance as wind rushed by her ears, Caroline’s form stiff as the most unpredictable of the Originals yanked her across town. The world blurred by faster than her enhanced senses could track, and before she could get her bearings everything was abruptly still once more.

Caroline stumbled back a step from the Mikaelson Mansion’s front entrance. Not even a split second later Klaus was there too, slamming his brother against one of the stone columns. He didn’t say a word, perhaps the most frightening thing he could have done when every line of muscle and sinew screamed menace.

She could just make out Kol’s face beyond Klaus, something savage, primal in his expression. His lips pulled back in a smirk and a bearing of teeth as he hissed something she couldn’t understand. Clearly, it meant something to Klaus who froze for several long moments and then released his brother. Stepping back, he turned to look at her as if nothing had happened.

“Apologies, love. Please, come in.”

She glanced between them warily. Of course nothing could be simple. She hadn’t even begun to explain what made her situation complicated, let alone their display of a millennium of issues. Even so…

Caroline straightened her spine and walked in with her head held high.

---

There had been stilted silence as everyone brooded over their respective thoughts. The three of them settling in one of the sitting rooms, each swirling around potent alcohol in crystal glasses. With a bracing sip, Caroline set her glass down with a quiet clack, eyeing each brother who turned to look at her.

“So...what do you know of Silas?”

Kol lounged across a settee with all the grace and air of a panther as he regarded her with half-lidded eyes, his lashes doing little to hide their gleam. “No, no, sweet-cheeks. The question is what do you know of Silas.”

Klaus didn’t voice his incredulity again, though it was painted clearly across his face. If only his disbelief could prove true.

Caroline sighed. “More than I’d like and unfortunately less than I need to.” Before either Mikaelson could grumble about her non-answer, she continued. “Love triangles are apparently as old as the universe and their consequences decidedly more troublesome when magic is involved. Silas…he’s somewhere around two thousand years old, twice as old as even you guys. Truly Immortal outside of Curing him and in possession of frighteningly powerful illusion and psychic abilities.”

Even she could read the note of shock on Kol’s face, though Klaus spoke before first.

“Caroline, you can’t truly believe such nonsense?” He asked with a slight snort.

Her temper sparked, not having the patience to deal with his somewhat condescending dismissal. Especially not when she was right.

A sharp pivot allowed her to stare him down, eyebrows arched. “Nonsense, seriously? What makes his legend any less believable than yours? A thousand year-old werewolf-vampire hybrid? Sounds like the plot of the latest teen romance book.”

His face had instantly contorted at her comparison, disgust clear. Though he also didn’t have a strong rebuttal. “Wherever has he been then, Caroline? If you are so assured he exists, why has there been nary a trace in all this time?”

Her eyes flicked to glance at Kol, his expression intrigued, hungry even for the information and their quarrel. Looking back at Klaus, she met his eyes squarely. “If you ask your brother I’m sure he can tell you of all the traces there have been. But you want to know why there haven’t been more. Simple, really. He did what most men do, something idiotic. Like going behind his partner’s back and sleeping with another woman and pissing her off royally. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and all that. Qetsiyah surely invented that expression.” Caroline shook her head. “It’s all quite convoluted and messy, really. But the short answer is she locked him away. Immortal, but dessicated.”

---

Klaus was many things, but an idiot and a fool were never among them. Caroline’s easy recitation of details lended credence to her story but also his suspicion. It certainly didn’t help that the more time he spent in her presence the more he noticed how very unlike herself she was acting. Not just in knowing things he was quite sure she hadn’t known the day before, but her mannerisms, her speech patterns. It was as if someone took all that was Caroline and moved it slightly to the left, similar, but off. Different.

So he skipped past the currently unimportant questions of who and how and why Silas was being freed from his eternal prison.

“As fascinating as this tale has been, love, I must ask, what happened to Caroline Forbes?”

---

She jolted at his unexpected question, the silken menace in his tone. A tone that had never been directed at her before, not really. And her stupid heart didn’t know whether to feel fright in the face of it or flattered that he so rapidly noticed how different she was. Not that she had been particularly subtle, but it was more that there had been no doubt in his tone.

It made it the perfect moment to explain, explain everything. She needed to. But the words caught in her throat.

“What is she doing here?!”

Caroline almost broke into hysterical laughter. God, who knew a day would come when she would feel grateful to hear Rebekah’s voice.

[the-observant-frisbeetarian]

Chapter 1 - Blue

Blue, White, Red by George deValier

BLUE

The first time, Alfred is washing his feet. He whistles as he does so, happily splashing his ankles in the cool, blue water of the cool, blue lake. His boots, jacket and rifle sit unheeded beside him, a crumpled heap of brown and blue, a forgotten bundle of discipline and duty. Alfred throws back his head and smiles at the warm sunlight on his face; laughs up at the clear, blue sky. It is a beautiful day, and a beautiful sky, and a beautiful place to be lost.

It has been one whole night and one whole day. But Alfred has been lost for longer, and he knows he will find his regiment again. This is many miles north from his farm in Virginia, but Alfred still knows this country. He knows the wild yellow fields behind him and the hanging black willow trees beside him. He knows the warm, clean scent of the sweeping breeze and the endless blue sky above; knows the fresh touch of the green grass against his fingers and the cool stroke of the depthless blue water at his feet. Alfred knows this country, and here he can never truly be lost. This country is why he will fight. This country is the reason for the rifle at his side.

Alfred is not used to the discipline of the army. But when his country cried for liberty, he did as any patriot should: he enlisted, and he pledged to fight for its freedom. Seventeen years spent running through forests and fields and rivers, Alfred has never known anything but freedom. But he thinks, as he splashes his feet and laughs at the sky, that if this is war, it's not so bad.

The intruding presence shudders down his spine before it sounds in his ears. A rustle in the grass behind; a faint shift of the wind. Alfred's shoulders stiffen and his gut tightens. Tensing excitement floods his veins. Slowly, carefully, he stretches his hand behind him: past the rough fabric of his discarded jacket, the newly-cobbled tread of his boots, until the cool, hard butt of his rifle brushes his knuckles. Swiftly, he grasps it, hauls it to his shoulder; swiftly, he turns.

The warm breeze gusts broadly; a flock of birds fly from a nearby willow. The enemy soldier's body is straight, his rifle pointed down at Alfred with an expert grip and aim. "Lower your weapon, rebel." The British voice seems to carry on the wind. His uniform is red, white, blue - the right colours in the wrong arrangement.

Alfred's eyes are wide, his skin tingling. Sight, scent, sound - his senses overwhelm him. His breath is thunder in his ears. He stares from where he crouches on the ground, his hands surprisingly steady on the rifle. "Lower yours."

The enemy raises his chin, stares down his nose. "I won't."

Alfred does not know how to respond to that. His heart is pounding against his chest, pounding so hard it feels it is trying to beat through his skin. Alfred has not seen battle. He has never seen a British soldier so close. A few times he has passed them, lying dead: broken bodies on broken carts or uneven corpses contorted on fences. Some of the men laugh - Alfred looks away, and those unseeing eyes haunt him for days. But this close, this real, this alive… Alfred swallows heavily, the countryside turning vivid and clear around him. He tightens his grip. "Neither will I."

The soldier's lips turn, startlingly, into a smirk. "Well. I suppose we are at rather an impasse, aren't we, rebel?"

The world changes. The war becomes real. Everything Alfred has been told to hate is now before him: before him, and aiming a rifle at his heart. Not a monster but a man, speaking words he understands. Alfred's very universe spins, and it spins right back to his rifle. It is all he has now.

It takes perhaps an hour, and a fair bit of manoeuvring, but eventually Alfred settles his back against a willow tree. His rifle is still pointed towards the enemy soldier, sitting against the tree opposite, his own weapon still aimed at Alfred. The slowly descending sky sends a golden gleam across the clear blue lake, and the evening birds are already starting to sing. Alfred rests his arm against his knee, refusing to let his rifle droop. He takes a moment to inspect the British soldier. He is older than Alfred, with a worn pack and tattered boots, and his red jacket is embroidered with gold lace. He looks tired, but he is oddly handsome, and his intense stare has not wavered once. Finally Alfred takes an accepting breath and speaks. "Alfred."

The Brit looks briefly thrown. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I ain't lowering this rifle anytime soon, and I'm gonna make a guess you ain't lowering yours neither. So I figured that if we're gonna be sittin' here like this 'till doomsday, we may as well be civil like and introduce ourselves. Alfred." Alfred nods. "The name's Alfred."

The Brit pauses as though stunned. He seems to think about answering, then steadies his rifle on his knee before he does. "Captain Kirkland of the Royal Fusiliers. London Regiment."

"Captain?" Alfred whistles. "Fancy. I'm only a private. At least, that's what they're always yellin' at me. You must've been in the army a long time. Captain's real high, ain't it? Ye're a long way from your regiment out here, though. You get lost or somethin'?"

Kirkland tilts his head, framed by the leaves that fall from the willow tree behind him. His face is bewildered, casting that same stare Alfred has received his entire life, from family and farmhands to soldiers and slaves. Alfred is always told he does not know his place. But this British captain's bewildered stare is also curious, and strangely amused. "What do you know of my regiment's movements, rebel?"

Alfred raises a free hand, lets his rifle slip slightly. "Hey, I know nothin' but that I ain't seen a live Brit since… well, ever, to be truthful. I only left home a few weeks ago. I ain't seen no… er… Royal Fusleers 'round anywhere. So I wondered if ye'd got lost."

The corner of Kirkland's lip rises in a sneer. "I am not lost. I am a veteran of twelve campaigns. I do not get lost."

"Ah. Right." Alfred nods, looks at the blue lake and the green trees and the violet sky. "If ye're not lost then, do you mind telling me where we are? Because I, well… I sort of am."

Kirkland stares for a moment more before letting out a brief breath of laughter. It only lasts a short moment, however, and he forces himself to stare evenly at Alfred once again. "Is your militia so unorganised? Were you not given a map, American?"

Alfred feels his forehead furrow angrily. "Sure I was. I probably left it in my pack, give me a minute…" It isn't until he places his rifle on the ground that Alfred realises what he has done. The skin burns on his neck, the muscles in his back tense painfully. His hand trembles above his foolishly abandoned weapon and he looks up slowly, warily, at the smugly triumphant British soldier.

"There." The soldier manages to look superior and sympathetic at the same time. To Alfred's incredulous surprise, the captain deliberately places his own rifle down beside him. "That was not so difficult, was it?"

Alfred's blood thrums wildly to his head. "Y'ain't gonna shoot me?"

The Brit pauses, his large eyebrows drawing together. "Who would shoot an unarmed man?"

Alfred raises his chin and replies with all the certainty of rebellion. "An Englishman!"

Kirkland raises one great, bushy eyebrow. "Do you believe that not a single Englishman would have the slightest hesitation in shooting an unarmed American?"

"Well…" Alfred trails into the uncertainty of reason. "Well, why else are we fightin' this war?"

Kirkland gives a tiny shrug. "Why are you fighting this war?"

This annoys Alfred. He folds his arms huffily and kicks out his feet. "Don't go gettin' smart, English."

"Arthur." His lips turn upwards slightly. "The name's Arthur."

Arthur joined the redcoats because his father did. Arthur fights the Americans because he believes in loyalty, tradition, and duty. Arthur has oranges in his pack, and tobacco, and a thick, torn book from which he draws lines of poetry.

Minutes pass like seconds. Alfred savours the taste of fresh fruit after weeks of dry bread. Arthur offers Alfred dried leaf for his pipe, but Alfred does not have one. "But when the blast of war blows in our ears," Arthur reads, "Then imitate the action of the tiger: stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood."

Alfred does not understand that. All he understands is that Arthur is noble and proud, with golden hair and a coat of red, more a lion than this tiger he speaks of. He has paper white skin and eyes as green as willow trees. Arthur is one real, good thing in these few hard, blood-tinged weeks. Arthur is an enemy, but he is the first man to give his words to Alfred, and he is nothing like the evil royalists Alfred is told are choking this country. It is as the sun is finally dipping below the horizon, the last of its golden light spreading over the water, that Alfred realises. In fact… "I like you, Arthur."

Arthur's lips might turn into a smile, or he might just look away and place his hand over his mouth. Either way, his words come in a sarcastic monotone when he replies. "I am so very delighted."

"D'you think we'll ever see each other again?" It is the first either has spoken of departure, and Arthur lowers his head at the words.

"It is highly doubtful."

Alfred believes insistently. "If we do, it'll be fate, won't it?"

Arthur sneers at that. "No. If anything, it would be a coincidence."

Alfred leans forward earnestly. Maybe they believe things differently in England. But the kind ladies on the nearby plantations always speak of fate, and to Alfred it always makes sense. "Don't you believe in destiny, Arthur?"

Arthur only scoffs as he places the yellow book in his pack, brushes the orange peel and tobacco aside. "No, Alfred. If we see each other again, we will be trying to kill each other."

Alfred lowers his eyes, brushes his own orange peel into the scrub. "Ah, we'll see."

"Yes." Arthur sounds uncertain, yet oddly hopeful. "I suppose we will."

Arthur turns to look behind as he leaves: straight, hard and proud in a uniform of red, white and blue. His eyes meet Alfred's, not dead and unseeing as the British eyes Alfred used to know, but curious and confused and darkened with something warm and unfamiliar. Alfred's heart aches to see him go, an ache he has never felt, one which brightens his world and darkens it at the same time.

In the growing darkness, the red, white and blue of Arthur's uniform blend with his golden hair and white skin and blazing green eyes. Colours indistinguishable.

And then white...

.

Next Chapter

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

[writeanapocalae]

The Cabin

“You’re safe with me,” Killigan had said.

He was all warm smiles, his teeth white and pearly and perfect, even if a little too sharp. His eyes crinkled at the sides. He was expressive and kind, his hands always reaching, always touching, always smoothing. His nails were black and short and he never wore jewelry so that he could run his hands through people’s hair without a free of getting snagged. His body was cold but not distant, wrapped in soft fabrics that were easy to hide inside.

“I won’t hurt you,” Killigan had said.

His hands shook and he hid it, pulling his long hair away from his face. The only give away were his ears, the soft points leading people to think he was more fae than fiend. His teeth were sharper and his eyes lingered, not on his friends, not on anyone specifically, but on bared skin, fresh cut meat, whoever was close. He pulled people close, breathed in, and held them in.

“I’ll never hurt you,” Killigan had said.

There was red in his eyes, not in the iris but in the white. He bit at his own lip and when he sliced through it with teeth that were razors no blood spilled down his pale cheeks. His hands were hidden in pockets, his gaze on the floor, and he was erratic, frightened more than frightening. He couldn’t focus, not on words, because he was listening too hard, to something under the skin.

“You’re safe with them,” Killigan had said.

Rhys knew what he was. It was in the crowd that he hung around. Vampires weren’t the worst out there, they at least had control, most of the time. Xi was a lot less in control and the forest scared xim. There were wolves out in the distance and xi could hear them, wondering why xi decided to come here at night anyway. Xi knew that if xi lost control xi would be with them, running through the underbrush, catching and killing whatever they found.

The cabin was terrifying as well though. There were hunting traps and tools hanging off of the slanted roof, long metal things that may have once been weapons or tools. There was a welcome mat, but it couldn’t be read anymore, too worn through, too full of blood. The windows were all boarded up, but from the inside. Xi knew that xi was in the right place, but xi wanted to be anywhere else.

There were traps, ready to be sprung on the porch, in the leaves on the way. They were obvious though and they were old. Rhys poked a few of them with sticks and only one in four snapped closed, and even that was slow and with such low force that the stick came away unscathed. They had been purposefully blunted.

Killigan didn’t want to hurt visitors. He wanted them to go away. He was trying to be frightening with the cabin, not with himself.

Rhys knocked on the door. Xi could see movement inside, a pale, emaciated humanoid figure pausing, looking around, and then shambling away. He knew that xi was there, there was no way that he couldn’t. Rhys was sure that Killigan had known that xi was there as soon as xi had gotten out of the car, more than a mile away. The cabin was secluded, there was no road to get there.

Xi didn’t bother knocking again, just took the doorknob and pushed. The door was locked by a small rod of metal, like a camp bathroom, nothing really. Rhys’ hackles rose, xir sense of smell growing to catch a whiff of old blood, wood rot, mildew, and xir own sweat, as xi pushed, feeling the wolf’s strength in xir arm as the small bolt broke out from the wall.

“Killigan?” Xi asked, entering the cold cabin. Other than a few books, left open with their spines broken on the floor, upset by movement, a swath of hardwood polished by pacing, and a lack of dust on a few surfaces, it didn’t look like anyone lived there. The fireplace was dead and had been so for a long time. There was nothing around aside from a sagging couch to provide comfort. It was more like a messy cell, a place of punishment, than a reprieve from the world.

Rhys called out for Killigan again but he didn’t respond. He wouldn’t. The others had told xim to expect this, that this was just how Killigan got sometimes, when he didn’t let himself eat. He would go out to his cabin, pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist, and sulk. This seemed to be more than just sulking though. Rhys kept xir eyes wide, focusing for any movement. Xi could feel the muscles in xir face ache, twisting and stretching to make xir eyes capable of sight, xir nose capable of smell, and xir ears capable of hearing. Xi didn’t want to go full wolf. Xi never did, but a little would only help xim.

There was a kitchen towards the back, which had a stairwell down, into the cellar. Xi didn’t know why Killigan would want to hide down there, but xi followed the scent, a small hint of the humanity that Killigan still had in the detergent of his clothes.

Nothing was locked in xir path and xi caught up quickly enough. The cellar was more of a crawlspace than anything else, and what Rhys saw there made xir hair grow, a thick collar of fur around xir throat, claws growing from xir nail beds.

“Kee ajan?” Xi asked, the syllables hard in xir mouth, too hard to come out. Xi was getting close, too close, to losing ximself.

There were bones down here. A lot of them. They were animal, mostly, with pink outlines made of rotten fur and whatever was left of their bodies. There was no skin on any of them, though there were tendons and sinews keeping some of them in their proper shapes. They all had their one spot, none of the skeletons touching one another, almost as if they were used in a ritual or had been laid out in shame.

Killigan was in a corner, curled in on himself, clutching at the bones of one of them, not the whole skeleton, it had been moved too much to keep its form, just random pieces. He didn’t look much like Killigan, not now. His curly hair was all matted, his hands and feet elongated and clawed. He was still wearing his black robe and loose pants, but there was a pinched quality too them, far too large and yet constricting him at the same time.

“No,” Killigan whimpered, “No, go away!”

“M’not,” Rhys kept approaching, stepping over the bones as best xi could. “Not without oo.”

There was a crack, the bones in Killigan’s hold snapping from how tightly he was holding them. “I can’t! Please! You have to understand! I can’t! I can’t...”

Rhys stopped, a few feet away from Killigan. The bones in his hold weren’t like the others, weren’t that of a deer or rabbit. These were cherished, hidden away, and now damaged by his own fear. Fear of his own hunger. These were human.

Killigan was a monster. He had killed people, a lot of people, when he’d Reaved in the past. Now he had a small cabin, where he could hide away from the world, when he felt the need to again. But he regretted it. They all did. Some hiker, probably, had stumbled close enough to the cabin while Killigan was starving, and he’d drained them completely.

They were all monsters. They were doing what they could to make up for that.

Killigan was crying, though there was no moisture in his eyes, in his body. He was ricking though, eyes closed, and his gaunt, broken features were twisted into such sorrow. He wasn’t mindless, not yet. He still knew what he had done. He knew what he might do.

Rhys breathed, tried to control ximself. Slowly, xi could feel the wolf squirm and wriggle, bury itself once more under xir skin. Xi felt tired, muscles aching, but ximself. It was just the two of them, in a cellar, as much themselves as they could be.

“It’s okay,” Rhys promised, kneeling down, extending xir arms. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

“You don’t!” Killigan glared. “Please, you have to leave, before I...”

“What, kill me?” Rhys rolled xir eyes, over dramatic, on purpose. “You know I have a death wish already. You kill me I’ll probably thank you.”

Killigan was just staring though. There was something wrong with his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know.” Rhys crawled closer, touched Killigan’s arm, made him jump. “Why don’t you put those down?”

“Reminder,” Killigan chuffed and there was a sob in his throat, no way to get it out. “What I am, what I’ve done. I’m… I’m the worst. The absolute worst. She was just lost. She didn’t know what I was. She didn’t deserve it. None of them ever did. I’m a monster. The absolute worst! I should just go to the hunters, let them destroy me, so I can’t hurt anyone else!” The words were coming faster and faster, a terrible knot in Rhys’ chest as xi heard them. Killigan meant it. He really felt that way.

Rhys was sure that xi would feel that way with xir first kill. Xi wished xi’d never get to that point. “Punishing yourself like this is just going to make things worse though. You’re more likely to do it again if you’re like this. You have to take better care of yourself.”

Killigan shook his head. “No. No, If I’m far enough away, if people were to just leave me alone, they’d be safe!”

“People love you, Killigan! They love you! Everyone you know loves you so much. They’d come even if you were completely gone, if you were full Revenant. They want you to be safe, to be happy. I’m just the first but others are coming, they’re all coming, to make sure you’re okay.”

“You’re lying.”

Rhys could feel anger flare in xim. Xi didn’t know how to break through this, xi never had been any good at it. “I’m not! Think about it. You do this sometimes, hide away from the world, and people always come, don’t they? Why would they do that if they didn’t care about you?”

Rhys was close enough now, they xi could touch Killigan. Xi reached out, the same way that Killigan had so many times. “Come on now, let’s go upstairs and get you something to eat.”

Killigan was staring at xim, and now xi could see that the whites of his eyes were the color of fresh bruises, the skin around them dark from exhaustion.

“I’ll hurt you,” Killigan said.

“I know, but that’s okay,” Rhys replied, peeling Killigan’s arms around from the hiker’s skull. “I trust you to stop when you need to.”

Killigan dropped the skeleton and pulled himself into Rhys’ arms, burying his face in xir chest. He was shaking, quaking, in the midst of a breakdown, but there were no fluids, not yet. Not until the feeding started. Rhys was surprised it hadn’t started yet, but xi pulled Killigan up to his feet, found his skin papery and delicate, his figure so thin that he was mostly bone, and led him back towards the kitchen.

[monstersandmaw]

Female orc x buff female reader (sfw, mostly)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Anon suggested that there should be more buff/strong/muscular women readers, and I wholeheartedly agreed, and spent the rest of the day writing this story. It was posted on my Patreon on early release, and it’s time to put it up here now. If you want exclusive early access to all Tumblr stories (except paid commissions when they’re open), and a Patreon-only story once a month, then head on over to my page and subscribe if you can! There are monster aesthetics and polls to help me decide what to write next, as well as posts from my original fiction and little snippets that I’ve come up with along the way. 

Anyway, here’s a modern orc lady and a buff female reader.

___

All gyms are essentially the same, no matter whether it’s a 24hr one or an exclusive city gym full of Instagrammers and fitness bloggers.

There’s the row of treadmills, filled with people puffing and panting, some just starting their fitness journey while others have steel-hard thighs and calves already; there are the bikes with the people texting and barely pedalling to the would-be Tour de France-ers going at it hell for leather; there’s the stupidly good-looking trainer walking around doing fuck-all and fist-bumping the regulars; and the shy folk working up the courage to use a machine in the main area: it’s the familiarity from which you draw comfort, even in a new place.

You adjust your thick ponytail and crick the tension out of your neck. You’ve done your warm up, and you’re ready to go to the hallowed weights section, enshrined in a far corner.

And sure enough, there’s the usual minotaur showing off how much she can bench, and there’s the orc doing bicep curls with a dumbbell as big at each end as your head, but it’s home to you. It’s only as you step closer that you notice the most beautiful orc you’ve ever seen, doing squats with a barbell.

Her ass is so perfect it makes you want to cry. She’s wearing tiny compression shorts that show every muscle of her gleaming, emerald green thighs, and a crop top that reveals washboard abs that actually make you a little dizzy. Her thick, red-dyed dreds are tied back in a low ponytail and they clack and clink with beads and shells. When she carefully sets it down and straightens, she glances over her shoulder, apparently looking around for her water bottle.

It’s sitting at your feet beside the racks. She catches sight of it, her liquid, dark brown eye seeing it, and then her gaze rakes up your body in a way that’s so much more than simply ‘appreciative’. Her lips part softly but before you can watch any more of her reaction to your tall, lean, hard body, you grin, stoop down and pick up the bottle.

“This yours?”

She nods mutely, and you toss it at her. She catches it flawlessly and drinks deeply from it before looking you straight in the eye and grinning her thanks.

“You free?” you ask, and she frowns, curious. You laugh at the crinkle in her brow. “If you fancy it, would you mind spotting for me when you get a minute?”

She eyes your biceps in the sleeveless top you tend to favour for weights days. “You look like you’d last longer than a minute,” she mutters. Her voice – a rich, rasping alto – sends a rush of blood straight down between your legs. She sets her bottle down and juts her chin at the bench.

As you set the weight and settle onto it, you toss her a cheeky grin. “Oh I can go for hours.”

“Careful,” she smiles, hands hovering momentarily as you adjust your grip on the bar. “Don’t distract me too much. You need me to count for you?”

“Sure.”

By now your little encounter has attracted the attention of the big male orc and his buddy, a massive centaur with the body of a draft horse. Even the minotaur has stopped her routine for a moment. They’re watching with unveiled interest and curiosity as you begin, and you feel that familiar, gritty determination sink into your muscles, into your bones, suffusing your whole being with the fervour to push yourself to your limit and then half a step beyond.

Your orc’s sculpted eyebrows, both pierced, rise a little higher as you keep going, until finally you nod and she helps you guide it back onto the rest. You’re panting hard, lactic acid burning your shoulders, setting the sinews aflame, but she’s just standing there as you sit up, one hand on her hip, the other flicking her towel over her shoulder. “Damn,” she finally chuckles, clearly at a loss for something more eloquent.

“I’d love to see what you can lift,” you say as you lever yourself to your feet and stretch your shoulders and arms out.

“I could always bench press you,” she grins.

“I usually save the acrobatics for at least the second date,” you reply instantly, and laugh as her eyes go wide.

It’s odd to see a shy expression on such a tough beauty. “You… You want to?” she falters.

“What, have you bench press me, or go on a date?” you chuckle, heading to the water fountain to refill your bottle, not looking back at her.

You know the shorts your wearing look good on you. You know she’s looking at your shoulders and arm muscles. It’s also the first time she’s seen the slogan on the back of your shirt, and she snorts with laughter as she reads it.

It reads: worth the weight.

You fill up your bottle and then stoop somewhat provocatively over the fountain, comfortable with the way your body moves, with the looks your hard muscles garner. It’s not to everyone’s taste, but you’re proud of your hard work, and you know you look good. Wiping the sweat and water off your chin with the bottom of your loose tank, you reveal your stomach to her before letting it fall to cover you again. “Coz I’d be open to either, preferably the latter then the former, but whatever works for you.”

“You free after your session?” she asks as you nod. “I’m Lily, by the way.”

Somehow the name really suits her. You tell her your name, and she repeats it softly, grinning around her big tusks.

She hangs around in the gym longer while you finish up, and you head down to the changing rooms and showers together. She comes out of her cubicle a while later with her hair piled out of the way on top of her head, her back is still wet, and she’s utterly, unabashedly naked.

“Warn a girl,” you mutter as you step out into the air-conditioned room, your own towel wrapped around under your armpits still.

She has the physique of an Amazon, and the gentlest looking hands. She turns over her shoulder and flashes you a grin. She’s got two dimples at the base of her spine and the curve of her ass was just so perfect you wanted to lay your hand on it. You can just see her rounded breast and dark nipple, pebbled against the chill of the room.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Lily replies with a grin. “You got me off-guard upstairs. It’s only fair I try to return the favour…”

She reminds you of the best kind of sparring partner and you grin openly at her. “I like you,” is all you have to say.

Your lockers are on opposite sides of the changing room, and when you’re done, you turn to find her sitting cross-legged on the bench in the middle of the room, watching you. She’s wearing a loose-fitting tank top, small, denim shorts, and baby-pink Converses. You’re surprised by the amount of jewellery on, particularly rings on her hands. It’s not overdone, but you’d not imagined she would be a jewellery type. Despite the rock solid muscles in her arms and thighs, her style suits her perfectly, just like her name.

She walks with you out of the gym, asking you about where you live and what you do. You tell her that you recently moved to the area for a new and better job, and she smiles. Lily works at the university, and rolls her eyes at your ‘brains and brawn’ comment. “You must get that a lot, I’m sorry,” you say, blushing.

“Coming from you?” she chuckles, shooting a sideways glance that rakes up your body again in a way that makes you shiver and your mouth go dry. “Come on, there’s this great ice cream place just round the corner from here. You’re gonna love it, and you earned it today!”

“You bet I did!” you laugh.

You both end up having chocolate and sitting on a park bench to enjoy it.

As you finish yours, you look up and see her watching you. Her tongue flits to the corner of her mouth, just catching her tusk.

“What, did I miss a bit?” you ask playfully.

“Yeah,” she says, eyes locked on your lips.

You smile and tilt your head in clear, if not overly-ostentatious invitation.

Her big, gentle hands come down on either side of your jaw and she leans down, kissing you so tenderly it’s almost hesitant.

“You’re not going to break me,” you whisper, and she inhales deeply.

“You want to come back to mine?” she asks, voice thick and rasping.

You nod. “Sure.”

Grinning, she stands, her denim shorts showing her legs off to incredible advantage, and she takes your hand and leads you back to her apartment.

___________________________

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[xiinzhan]

" I will endure it. by now I am used to suffering - at sea and in the war. let this come too. "

meme.

SENTENCE STARTERS: MYTH.TXT

@prdigy​  • not accepting !

He’s kept time of his loss—of every month, week, day, hour, second since he’d seen him last— with the stubbornly metronomic thrum of a splintered heart, and a vigilant recall that’s more vivid than it has any business being. 

If he closes his eyes, he can remember the last time he’d seen Sephiroth: half obscured in the darkness of his apartment, backlit by the the garish neon cityscape of Midgar at midnight, which shrouds him in a corona of sideral light. A single wing stretches behind him, flourishing once before it cloaks his shoulders at the sight of tseng installed in the threshold of his door, as pale as a pilgrim, and stilled with wonder that inhibits any sense but a complete and abject numinity. 

He can’t see his expression for the darkness, but Tseng recalls the sharp shadows that cut the quadrants of his face, all part and parcel to a terrifying beauty that he would worship before for the rest of his life, given half the chance. But he sees the arm that rests at Sephiroth’s side, unconcealed by the wing, wrapped in hastily-wound bandages from wrist to elbow upon which a darkness blooms, spreading like sin. 

And when Tseng steps back from the threshold, retreating into the darkness of the living room and out into the quiet of the sleeping city, it feels like defeat.

It is defeat.

There had been no words between them after. Tseng remembers how many myriad times he’d compulsively turned his phone over to find no alert from him—no text, no call, no voicemail asking after him. That night, the twilight air had resolved him to have one of those difficult sorts conversations with Sephiroth, the kind of talk of uncertain terms and uncertain ends. But every second, every hour, every day without him proved a deprivation that ached, his heart inhabiting the old adage about absence and fondness and whatever other foolishness came with the imprudence of falling in love.

And then he was off. On another mission, of such great importance that his victorious return had merited a celebration of unprecedented magnificence, to fete his triumph and consecrate his efforts. It isn’t where he’d prefer to see him again, amidst a gala of the glitterati who would designate him a god where Tseng would rather find flesh and blood in the form of a man he’d known in the veracity of darkness. 

The ballroom is lavishly decorated, pristine white marble walls illuminated by hundreds of slender candles. White. Tseng always thought Shinra’s preoccupation with white was more than a little mordent. Black swallowed sins. White exhibited it. But it is a thought beyond his ken to reason.

Garlands of exotic white flowers ornament towering pilasters edged in gold, velvet curtains the color of deepest crimson frame stately windows that opened to an inky night sky. It is a magnificently ostentatious display, and one expected of the aristocrats that luxuriated in the comfort afforded to those who lent their support to the conglomeration. 

Tseng’s eyes sweep the hall by rote, knowing full well they would not alight upon the sight he wants so desperately to find. Sephiroth is not here. 

It’s nearly another hour until he does show, his entrance invoking the usual rush of an unabashedly curious throng of bodies that never fails to overwhelm. The general enters to chorus’ swell of gasps, to a crescendo of footsteps, admiration hummed in concert at his arrival.  Tseng watches as he forces himself to smile as warmly as he can at a gaggle of silk-clad young women who peek at him from behind the coquettish obscuration of their gilded fans. Beset upon from all sides, crystal flutes of expensive champagne are pushed into Sephiroth’s hands, trays of delectable finger foods called to his vicinity. Tseng is acutely aware of the irritation that flickers invariably in Sephiroth’s gaze, even from this distance: he dislikes being the center of attention at these things. And yet it is his job to be just that.

The Turk weaves his way through the crowd to his lover’s side, fingers pressed lightly to the small of his back. It’s an offhanded gesture intended to be a custodial one, reassuring and encouraging. But a small flood of panic washes over him as he feels Sephiroth shift away from his touch and let himself be led away, leaving Tseng’s fingertips reaching uselessly after him.

Bile rises bitter at the back of his tongue. Maybe Sephiroth hadn’t seen him. He’d come in from behind, out of his line of sight. A part of him forms an astringent argument that Sephiroth had always known his touch. Another part of him fears that he had.

From his position against the wall, Tseng notes the meandering of Sephiroth’s path, watches with eyes slit with what feels like jealousy. What had any of these people done to assume the right to Sephiroth’s time? His attention? What possible contribution could any of them have made to merit the general’s recognition?

Nothing. But they’ve likely never failed him.  

It’s a consideration that sends his stomach roiling, to join the freneticism of his heart, the scatter of his thoughts.

And when the general finds an opportunity to slip away, so does Tseng. 

He expects to find him rushing to the sanctuary of the bathroom, but when Tseng finds the hallways curiously empty, it takes a moment to regroup. He only hears the piano as he nears the antechamber door, plaintive chords struck with a resolved hand, reverberating through the marble hall, high to the cathedralic ceilings. Like an invocation, a call to worship that draws Tseng in like a siren’s song. 

Sephiroth sits at a white grand piano, his argent hair spilling over his shoulders, swathed in moonlight that paints him pallid and pale. His head is bent to regard the ivory graced by his elegant fingers, which play with an unceremonious perfection. And when he raises his gaze to mind the moon, Tseng braces the frame of the door as his lips part to sing:

And I’m a shadow of a ghostIt’s feeling as if somebody has taken hostBabe, I don’t wanna make a sceneBut I get self-destructiveAnd it’s driving you awayIt’s driving you awayPiece by pieceDay by day

Baby, tell me if I’m being strangeAnd if I need to rearrangeMy particlesI will for you …..

He sings with a timbre so velutinous that Tseng shivers, as though the back of his neck is graced with the taunt of eiderdown. And how his voice soars stratospheric, high and holy, with an abstracted effortlessness that seems transcendent. Like he’s witnessing some aniconic simulacrum, a wonderment beyond words. 

And when Tseng is close enough for his hand to alight upon the shelf of the grand instrument, tears shine crystalline in the corners of his eyes. It’s hubris to assume that the song is about him. But he feels it, in the marrow of his bones, the castigation and concession both heavy in the consonance of his voice

Tseng sinks to his knees like a prodigal found, hands in his lap as he sits back dejectedly upon his heels. “Do you think that?” he asks, in barely a whisper, looking up at cerulean eyes slit narrowly with black, that had once softened at the sight of him. How vacant and vacuous they seemed now. “Do you think there is anything you could do short of telling me to leave, that could impel me to abandon you?”

“If you must go, go,” came Sephiroth’s adjucation. He says it simply. A simple truth. And for all the delicacy he says it with, it destroys Tseng all the more. “I will endure it. By now I am used to suffering - at sea and in the war. Let this come too.”

Desolation marks the curl of his shoulders, sorrow describes itself in the curve of his spine. It is the pronunciation of defeat, like a sentence, like a verdict. Like a maledict. Tseng’s eyes slide shut, in depuration of this unique misery. “My hesitation had nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me,” Tseng announces, with a quiet finality. “I’ve been to war, same as you. I’ve seen terrors and tragedies and weathered them all. I’ve dealt with the aftermath. I’m not scared of what it takes to find slivers of peace. But god, the burdens you carry are atlantean in magnitude, and I’m at least smart enough to know that I could never fathom the scope of the shit you go through. I’m not …. I’m not equipped …. To understand the depth of everything you’re going through. I want to. But that’s where I fail you. Because no matter how encompassing, how completely and unwaveringly I love you, it won’t be enough. It’ll never be enough.”

His hands alight upon Sephiroth’s thighs, following the line of sinews and muscles up to the terminus of his hips. Tseng moves between the spread of the general’s knees, settles between them to incline his lips to where the scar vivisects his ribs, and kisses it over the perfectly pressed linen of his shirt. “But I am sadly as loyal as the dog they take me for. And even if you sent me away, ordered me away, I’d still love you. I’d still watch over you as best I could. From the wings, where i’ve always belonged.”

He rests his forehead against the ballast of his sternum and sighs with a profundity that aches. “I remember the shape of your mouth when you told me the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard. How you told me I ground you. How I keep you human.”  How you loved me. “You cycle through medications that wane in their efficacy, with an exponentiality that frankly frightens me. You hurt yourself to whatever end—to purge yourself, to punish yourself, to prove something to yourself …. What the fuck could I possibly offer you, that wouldn’t end up useless eventually, too?”

He’s quiet after that confession, and allows an ineloquent silence to sit thickly between them. He swallows and tries to find his words, his thumbs finding the jut of Sephiroth’s hips and circling idly as he gathers up the courage to speak. “It’s alright if I’m useless. I thought maybe …. I wouldn’t waste your time. I shouldn’t, at least. You’d be better off without having to worry about everything that haunts you, and me on the side. But it turns out I’d rather exist as an afterthought to you, than nothing at all. I’ll live out my usefulness to you. But until then, I’m here. I’m yours. To do with what you will.”