#cotton would probably be the most time and water consuming

[rhamrhanch]

Shepherd of Death, Don't Herd Me

Part Eight: Fire to the Flame

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (gender-neutral pronouns)

Word Count: 5.2K

Warnings: canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort

A/N: sorry this took forever, hope you all enjoy! now I can finally watch the arcane finale YIPPEE

chapter under the cut ↓

---

You stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide open and not any closer to the blissful numbness that your body craved so desperately. Fatigue sat heavy in your bones, pinning down your limbs until they became one with the firm cotton of your mattress.

While your body was worn and weary, your mind was racing, a living tempest beating against your skull. Ramattra’s words, deep and cavernous, echoed in your mind.

Sleep.

It seemed antithetical to his existence that his voice could sound so soft, gentler than you had ever heard it in its command. Its warmth was even more pronounced, and for that moment part of you understood how someone could be drawn to his cause. If not for his words, powerful in their fierce resolve, his voice held enough gravitas that surely some were entranced by it alone.

You pressed the back of your hand to your forehead, as though trying to smooth away the thoughts you had pushed to the far corners of your mind that now stood to consume you.

Something had changed. You weren’t sure what it was, or when exactly it had happened, but you knew that something was different. It was like the veil of hostility between you had lifted, and you could finally see Ramattra as he was, what shape he took without so many outside forces pressing down on him.

Everything he did was calculated. Words were used as throughways to information, not as a means for conversation. His countenance was still as standing water, his true thoughts hidden beneath the surface while he stood above it all—a quality that you had to admit you envied, as frustrating as it was for you at times. But there had been moments when the dam broke, and you would find yourself drowning in the cognitive dissonance of it all.

When he had hidden you from Talon soldiers, his arms circling your waist in a protective ring.

When he had allowed you the opening move in your first game of chess with him, and every game thereafter, despite knowing full well how much faster it would end were it the other way around.

And, most fresh in your memory, when he had met your determined declaration of inevitable victory against him by laughing—laughing!—in your face.

It should not have surprised you as much as it did. Plenty of times had you heard him laugh, but they all paled in comparison to what you heard then.

It reverberated from his chest, rich and mirthful in its robotic timbre. A laughter so rare that it filled whoever heard it with the overwhelming desire to hear it again and again.

You may not have liked him very much, but you were at least honest enough with yourself to admit that you really, really liked his laugh. As your eyelids drifted shut, you wondered what you could say that you may hear it again.

A sharp ping from your pager rang out in the silence, waking you much earlier than you would have liked. You ignored it, rolling back over. It was probably just another repair request, no need to answer it immediately.

To your misfortune, it pinged again, and again, each one even louder than the last. Groaning, you dragged your pillow over your face and pressed down, hoping to muffle the sound, but it was no use. You threw your pillow to the foot of the bed and angled the pager toward you, squinting at the message that appeared.

From: Winston. New assignment, report to the hangar ASAP.

You shot upright, flinging the covers aside. Damn, you were already late. You snatched your coveralls from the chair you’d thrown them over and yanked them on, all thought of the Ravager forgotten as you rushed out the door.

---

A few hours later, you were back in your workshop, gripping the edge of your worktable so tight that your hands trembled. Bits and pieces of the briefing you'd received surfaced from the fog of anger clouding your mind as you stared at the lifeless omnic in front of you.

His head and eyes were obscured by a device which could only have crawled out from your nightmares. Cylindrical rods jutted out from it like spikes, like the shell of some creature warning all those who came near to stay away.

You sucked in a sharp breath, letting it out gradually before gently taking the omnic’s head between your hands. With practiced grace, you rotated it slowly, inspecting the device closely. Whatever purpose it had been designed for was a mystery to you, but the condition it left its wearer in made you less than optimistic.

You tilted the omnic's chin up, barely revealing the dim glow of his LEDs beneath the shrouding metal—a somewhat good sign, though you felt little joy at its discovery. Carefully, you released him. He did not respond, head limp as it dropped back down.

Toronto. That was where he had been found. You tried to imagine it then, what it must have been like to see airships roam the sky, deploying Nulltroopers by the hundreds as one loud voice called out above the chaos.

This is not war. This is liberation.

If this was liberation, then it bastardized the word. Its meaning had been warped and distorted into something unrecognizable.

So much time had passed, so used to seeing Ramattra had you become, that you let yourself forget. Forget who he was, and why he was here. Why he was kept under lock and key, always under a watchful eye. Now, as if punishment for your ambivalence, you were forced to see the proof of who he was with your own eyes.

Even still, you were being spared. The omnic on your worktable was only one out of hundreds. So many more had been taken, an even larger number abandoned in the streets. All with their agency, their very being having been ripped from them in an instant like their lives and souls meant nothing.

And all the while you had been here, devoting your time and your empathy to the one responsible for it.

The shame of it all was going to burn you from the inside.

With one harsh motion, you shoved off the worktable, grabbing a cable and plugging one end into a port on the back of the omnic's neck and the other into the tower under your desk. You had been sulking long enough—there was work to do.

You chewed the inside of your cheek as you watched the monitor flicker to life, eyes scanning the ribbons of graphs as they oscillated on the screen.

All except one.

He was still alive, of that you were certain. But the line that represented CPU activity plateaued, cutting into your eyes like a wire. You knew from the flicker of his LEDs that the omnic was awake as well, though perhaps not fully cognizant of the condition he was in. Even so, that line should have been fluctuating, yet it remained unmoving, as clear an indicator as any that the omnic was little more than a husk of his former self.

For the rest of the day, you toiled in your workshop, running diagnostic test after diagnostic test and hoping, praying to see any change in the omnic's neural activity.

A day turned into two, and then to three, and by the fourth day of no change you had gotten deep into the habit of breaking things just to release some of the tension. Old scrap, broken projects, anything you could get your hands on, you would disassemble and then reassemble until your fingertips were sore, as if trying to prove to yourself that you still had the ability to fix something.

But eventually, that too ceased to bring any satisfaction, and you found yourself sitting with your head in your hands, an empty numbness overtaking your entire body as you stared blankly at the scattered notes on your worktable. Realization crept up your back as you felt a disbelieving laugh threaten to burst from your throat.

Trying to fix something like this was the ultimate catch twenty-two. You couldn't deduce the purpose of the device without removing it, and you couldn't remove it without risking the life of the omnic. No wonder Torbjörn had passed the buck to you for this. You wouldn't want this job either.

The fleeting urge to laugh at your circumstances dissolved as a familiar ache settled in your chest.

What if you couldn't do it? If even Torbjörn, a man who had decades of engineering experience on you, dared not to try, how could you possibly measure up? No amount of skill gave you the ability to conjure miracles out of thin air.

You almost resented it now, the amount of faith that your fellow agents put in you. How much your skill was esteemed, without even knowing how you had honed it.

All you had promised was that you would try your best. Your senior engineer had thanked you with a grateful smile, wishing you luck.

Don't thank me, you wanted to say. Please don't.

The thought made you recall the first conversation you had with Winston, when you had been on the cusp of joining Overwatch. He had wanted to discuss your previous work, mentioning a dissertation you had written long ago when you were still a fledgling engineer in your field. Something about simulated neuromodulation in robotics—you couldn't quite remember, as you hated reading your old work.

Inspired, you remembered him calling it. Ahead of its time.

Recalling the words now made you cringe. Your optimism when you had published that paper was blinding back then, leading you down a path that you took too long to realize led to nothing but despair. And now, because of the decision you made to shed your past life, you found yourself here, at the precipice of an indescribably important task and unable to do anything about it.

If only you knew the device's purpose, then maybe you could have an idea of where to start, some inkling of what to do. But the thought of even speaking to its creator made you feel ill, a mixture of disappointment and guilt and anger rising to your tongue like bile. Your failure at being able to solve this problem on your own made you feel useless enough; you did not need to rub any more salt into the wound by begging for help.

You did not sleep, staying up all hours of the night with your head on your desk as you waited for the tests to take their toll, watching the lines flicker on the screen and knowing that they would be the same as they always were.

You heard that same voice that once warmed you with its kindness urge you to rest. Rubbing your eyes tiredly, you banished it from your mind, refusing to indulge in something you did not deserve. You would not stop working, not while the fate of this omnic rested on your shoulders.

Hearing a signal from your computer, you lifted your head from where it rested in the crook of your elbow, feeling a familiar burn in your eyes as you stared at the monitor for what felt like the hundredth time. Today was the fifth day you had slouched over this table, monitoring the omnic for any sign of change, only to see nothing.

Hot tears of frustration sprung to your eyes as you gazed at the omnic on your worktable, motionless as he had been since the day he was brought to you. There would be no sixth, you decided then. Tomorrow, you would tell Winston that there was nothing more you could do.

Reaching forward, you took the omnic's hand in your own, realizing that you did not even know his name. You wondered to yourself what kind of person he had been before all of this happened to him.

Did he have a job? Any hobbies, a favorite song?

Did he have a family, someone waiting for him to return?

Your heart began to beat faster as the last question weighed in your mind. How could you give up on him, without knowing whether there were people out there who still needed him? What gave you the right to decide that, when there was still one last thing you had not tried?

Gently, you placed his hand atop his chest, before sitting up from your chair and throwing open the door of your workshop. You refused to let your pride stand in the way of helping someone who needed it.

---

Ramattra lifted his head immediately at the sound of footsteps, having heard their specific rhythm enough times to recognize who they belonged to.

He felt his body warm slightly at the expectation of your arrival. When you had not returned like you promised, Ramattra had initially thought nothing of it. You had other duties to attend to, and he welcomed the quiet solemnity that solitude offered him.

But when almost a week had passed and you still had not come, he had realized how much he had come to look forward to your visits, and how noticeable your absence now was to him. With you came the knowledge that for at least a few hours he would have something else to focus on besides the dull and colorless walls of the room, an element of his imprisonment that he was growing more and more weary of.

It was with this expectation that his internal fans began to circulate, his processor running wild to compute the possibilities of what you might do today. But when he finally caught sight of you across the hall, you were not wearing the expression he had grown accustomed to seeing.

Your eyes were dull, the shadows beneath it having grown darker since he saw you last. Clearly, you had not taken his suggestion to heart. But as tired as you seemed, there was a quickness to your stride that could only have come from determination.

The keypad outside the door beeped in rapid succession and then you were entering, something he couldn't quite identify clutched in your hand. Ramattra stood instantly as you came to a stop in front of him.

"You need to come with me," you said, and then your hands were around his wrists without warning. There was an urgency to your motions that was a far cry from the care with which you touched his wrist before, and he instinctively pulled away, finally seeing what exactly it was that you had brought with you.

Handcuffs.

"What is the meaning of this?" he growled, and you sighed as if frustrated.

"I'll explain it to you later, but right now I need you to—" You reached for his hand again, but he snatched it away.

"I will not be kept in restraints—"

"Winston won't let you leave this room without them," you said through grit teeth. "Just let me put them on." A moment passed, and then, "Please."

Ramattra analyzed your face, searching for signs of deception. Finding none, he let his processor run through the possibilities that your words implied.

Silently, he stepped closer to you, holding his hands slightly away from his body. You slid the restraints over his wrist, and he grunted as the bolts snapped into place. Immediately, he felt his body grow lethargic, as if it suddenly lost the strength to hold itself up properly. He lifted his arms slightly, actuators feeling like they were moving through tar with the movement. Electromagnetic handcuffs, he realized. That ape was smarter than he gave him credit for.

Ramattra had no choice but to follow you as you grasped his elbow, leading him away from the conference room. Though his body was weakened, his system remained unburdened, and he took every opportunity he had to memorize his surroundings, storing them away for future reference. As you proceeded further into the base, though, the halls became more familiar, and he soon realized where exactly you were taking him.

Your workshop was a mess compared to the last time he seen it, scattered papers and miscellaneous scrap covering every surface. When he saw the omnic you had sprawled on your worktable, one of his subjugators on their head and a wire at their neck, alarm sparked through his system. He tried to reach for them, only for his hands to strain against the cuffs, pulling a noise of frustration from his vocalizer.

"What have you done?" he asked, unable to mask the urgency in his voice.

You paused, as if surprised by his reaction, before your brow furrowed. "Nothing yet. Not until you tell me what this is for," you said, before pointing at the subjugator.

His optics flicked from the omnic back to you. "You cannot remove it," he said, not willing to disclose any further.

You held firm, crossing your arms over your chest as you fixed him with an inquisitive gaze. "Why not? Surely now that you are confined to this place, you have no need for soldiers."

"Soldiers?" His head tilted in confusion. "They are not soldiers."

Your shoulders slackened, meeting his confusion with your own. "They aren't? Then why… why would you do this?” Hands falling to your sides, you had a pained look on your face that he had not seen before. “How could you do this to other omnics, your own kind—"

Ramattra caught the waver in your tone, but it did not sway him. "All I have ever done, I have done for the sake of my people. This is a necessary measure, to keep them safe—"

"Safe?" you interrupted, eyes wide with disbelief. "You must be joking."

Irritation ignited in his processor. "I am not."

You seemed to have abandoned your earlier attempt to appeal to him as you stepped forward, eyes piercing daggers through his chassis. "How does robbing them of choice keep them safe? How does suppressing their entire being keep them safe?"

The logical part of his mind knew you would not understand, knew that this conversation would do nothing but unearth a deep bitterness that roiled inside him like thunder, yet still words rose in his vocalizer, a desperate desire for just one person to see things the way he did.

"Would you let your kind walk freely if it meant they were walking into fire?" he snapped. "Too many of my people would rather throw their lives away protecting the very humans that call for our destruction than dare to raise a hand against them.” His hands fought against the restraints as he spoke, feeling the familiar burn in his processor as his buried rage clawed its way to the surface. “I have chosen to walk the latter path, but I will not allow my people to put themselves in danger by standing in my way."

"But it’s a danger of your own creation!" Your voice was rising now, but Ramattra did not falter.

"It is a necessary endeavor I must take to ensure the survival of my people," he said, fighting to keep his voice measured as frustration at your refusal to understand began building in his processor. "Without being threatened, humanity has no motivation to ever treat us fairly. Omnics will forever remain second-class citizens, relics of the war to be whittled down until there are none of us left. If my people refuse to recognize that, then I must make them—"

"You have no right to decide that!" you shouted. "Their freedom is not yours for the taking! To so callously rid them of their autonomy, treating them with little more dignity than as a means to an end—" You stopped as you took a breath, punching out your next words with venom.

“It’s cruel!"

Ramattra stilled. Cruel? What could you possibly know of the word? As far as he was concerned, no human had the right to use that word against him, not after everything he bore witness to in his life.

Slowly, he walked forward, drawing close enough to you that his chest nearly touched yours. He angled his head over you, looking down at you silently. You remained as still as a statue, only tilting your head up to meet his gaze dead on.

Good. He wanted to see the look in your eyes when he said this.

"Do you know how many omnics there were after the war?" he growled, the sound sitting low in his vocalizer. Your gaze faltered slightly, and you clenched your jaw, but you did not answer.

"Do you know how many have died since then?"

Again, you had no answer, so he answered for you.

"One tenth," he said. "In less than thirty years, one tenth of all the omnics who have ever existed and will ever exist are now gone, forever. Just a single generation, and we have been decimated permanently.”

He watched the defiant fire in your eyes flicker out as his words sunk in, but still you did not look away.

“If you want to call me cruel, do not ever forget again why I have been forced to be.”

Silence hung between you for a moment, and he felt a lick of satisfaction at your apparent speechlessness. But it did not last long.

"If you do not let them decide for themselves if they want to fight," you said, your voice eerily calm, "how does that make you any different from Anubis?"

Something jolted in Ramattra's processor, a pointed memory that he had suppressed when the pain of remembering became too strong. An argument, just like this one, with friends long gone.

“I refuse to aid you in undoing all that I have worked for,” he said eventually, turning away from your gaze.

"Fine." You snagged the bridge between his cuffs. "Have it your way. I will do this on my own."

---

You sat against the wall in the hangar, your knees pulled up and your face buried in your arms. Now late in the evening, the blazing anger from your argument with Ramattra had flickered out, leaving you only with the sad reality of what you were now faced with. Having burned a bridge with the only potential lead you had, you were back where you began.

The worst part was that you could not convince yourself to hate him. You wanted to, so badly you wanted to, but after hearing everything he said, you could not fault him for how he felt. He was right, and the reality of it had slapped you in the face.

You had no idea what it had been like for omnics after the war. You had no memories of your own of the Crisis, only what it had felt like to live in the aftermath. Whatever you felt could never compare to the weight of experience that belonged to those who had existed since the beginning.

How many times had your hands swept over the broken bodies of omnics, your own undoing the imprints of hatred left behind by your fellow humans? How many times had you felt the urge to scream from the rooftops, your demands for others to look at the world around them repeatedly ignored?

Your own bitterness and frustration had led you to make choices you now regretted, and you were only human. What must it have been like for Ramattra, for all the omnics, to suddenly awaken from some horrible dream only to be met with hatred and violence for things they had no memory of doing?

You jumped at the sound of grinding metal as the garage doors of the hanger opened slowly, splitting from the middle as the anodized white of the ship’s hull peeked through. Wind from the ship’s landing gear whipped your collar around your neck as you approached it. The hangar closed behind it with a loud slam, echoing around the walls as the main door opened outward. Two figures exited, and you lifted a hand in greeting.

"Genji!" you said upon recognizing the neon green of his armor. "You're back!"

His head darted up, as though surprised to see you. "Oh, hello. I apologize, I did not realize you were waiting for us."

Us? "No, I was just nearby—" you began to say, before finally realizing who was standing beside him. Or floating, rather.

Your eyes flickered between Genji and the unfamiliar omnic before recognition sparked in your memory. "Oh, you must be Zenyatta!" you said, feeling slightly embarrassed at your rudeness and holding your hand out. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long day.”

The omnic bent his head down in greeting before taking your extended hand. "Hello. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise. Genji has spoken about you often." You straightened up, clasping your hands in front of you as you struggled to think of something to say. "Have you come to join Overwatch as well?"

"No, that is not the nature of my visit," he replied calmly, his voice smooth and tempered. "Genji informed me that my presence here was needed. For what purpose, I have yet to find out."

"I see," you said, looking down awkwardly. "Well then, I won't keep you." You moved to leave, only to stop when Zenyatta spoke again.

“My student has told me that you are quite an engineer. Would you be willing to have a look at my shoulder?” He placed a hand over it, rotating it a bit too stiffly for an omnic. “Perhaps one of my servos has locked up.”

"Oh," you said softly, haphazardly looking back in the direction of your workshop. "I suppose, but I really should be getting back to—”

“Wonderful!” the monk interrupted, placing a hand on your back and leading you in the direction that was not where your workshop was. You spared a questioning glance over your shoulder at Genji, but he only shrugged.

Soon you found yourself in the base’s common area, resting your elbows on the island as you watched Zenyatta leisurely float about the kitchen as he prepared tea. How he even knew where the kitchen was you had no idea, but you had no reason to complain.

After a moment, he set a ceramic cup in front of you. You brought it close, letting the curling steam warm your face for a moment.

“I thought you wanted me to check your shoulder,” you said, turning in your chair to face the omnic as he came to hover beside you.

"During my travels I have found that sharing a cup of tea creates a pleasant environment for conversation," he said, clasping his hands in front of him. “It’s good for an omnic to get to know his mechanic, don’t you think?”

You smiled softly, already endeared to this somewhat mystifying monk. One hand beneath your cup, you lifted it to your lips, feeling warmth spread throughout your body. The tea was sharp and bitter, but it gave way to a cooling aftertaste that loosened the tension in your shoulders immediately. For someone with no sense of smell or taste, Zenyatta made an excellent cup of tea.

"This blend is lovely," you said. "Where did you find it?"

"At a village apothecary in Huangshan," he answered. “That is where I was when Genji contacted me. The locals recommended it as a good visiting gift.”

"Isn’t the monastery in Nepal?" you asked, taking another sip. "That seems quite a distance to go just for tea."

Zenyatta’s chin tilted downward, and for a moment your heart leaped, fearing you had offended him.

“I have not been to the monastery for some time now. I sought my own path and have been travelling the world in the years since I met Genji.”

You set your cup down, sitting with rapt attention at Zenyatta’s words. “I see. What inspired your travels, if you don’t mind my asking?”

"A great many things,” he said. “But the idea had first come to me from a brother of mine, another monk of the Shambali, long ago."

“Really?”

He nodded. "Yes. He had grown dissatisfied with the teachings of the Shambali and wanted to search for a method toward peace for our people outside of the monastery. Back then, he had asked me to accompany him, but I declined.”

“Did you ever regret it?” The question slipped from your mouth before you could think, and you immediately kicked yourself internally. But Zenyatta only hummed in thought, his spheres chiming as they rotated around him.

“At the time, I felt I had more to learn at the monastery, that perhaps there was something he had not seen that I had yet to know. It was one of the points of disagreement between us, but he did not try to convince me to go, and I did not try to convince him to stay.”

“One of?” you asked, your voice curious. Perhaps your own ignorance was to blame, but you never imagined two members of the same monastic order could be that different. “Did you disagree often?”

"Sometimes. But our bond did not suffer for it. We both shared the same goal, so disagreements were only another way to understand each other. At least, we used to." There was something almost sorrowful in Zenyatta’s tone, hardly noticeable if you were not paying such close attention. "I often wonder what would have become of him, had I taken his offer from the beginning. But the past is a mirror that distorts the memory. I can only look toward the future now to guide me."

You looked down at the tea in your cup, seeing your own face reflected back at you. "Do you still believe people very different from each other can get along?"

Zenyatta tilted his head at you. For a moment, the gesture reminded you of Ramattra, but the feeling was fleeting. "Is there someone in particular you are thinking of?"

You felt a shiver run down your back at how incredibly astute he was. It took only one sentence for him to instantly pinpoint the true intent behind your question.

Your first instinct was to say no. You hardly knew Zenyatta, had only just begun speaking to him less than an hour ago. Yet you felt a strange familiarity with him, like you had met before somehow. Perhaps this was just the way all monks were—somewhat omniscient and easy to talk to. Something you needed right now.

"Yes,” you answered after a moment. “I want—need—to work together with him for something important, but we just… can’t seem to find common ground.” You sighed, feeling a dull pain in your chest at the memory.

“When two people feel passionate about something, it is usually because they care very deeply about it,” Zenyatta said. “Perhaps it would be fruitful to think about the ways in which your goals align.”

You leaned back in your chair, humming contemplatively. It would probably be good advice for someone in any other situation besides yours. Though, at this point, what did you have to lose?

"Maybe you’re right,” you acquiesced. “But I find it difficult to imagine how I could share any goals with the leader of Null Sector—"

The chiming stopped, and you paused, looking back to Zenyatta only to see that his spheres had frozen in place.

You were about to ask him what was wrong when he leaned forward, his voice earnest as he asked, “Ramattra? Ramattra is here?”

[sixwaystocopewithloss]

I also want to collect my own fiber be it hemp flax cotton or agave

And I want to start buying raw wool too

[dark-and-kawaii]

꧁༺ 𝐵𝒾𝓇𝓉𝒽 𝒪𝒻 𝒜 𝑀𝒾𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓁𝑒 ༻꧂

Astarion didn’t think this pregnancy would last, that the gods would laugh at his face once more while stripping him of his child. However the wiggling infant in his arms confirms that the gods showed him mercy for once in his life.

Pregnancy - Birth - Angst - Fluff

(Click For Part 1)

A cry escaped your lips when the pain became too much, leaning on the wall for support. Astarion wasn’t too far from you, never was ever since he found out you were caring something precious within you. He was fast on his feet bursting through the twin doors in Elven Tavern; he took in your appearance and notices the sweat that glistens on your body, your damp hair clinging to your face, “What is it!? What’s wrong?!”

Astarion’s face was full of apprehension, he only ever expected the worst to happen with either you or the child. He didn’t think this pregnancy would last and that the gods would laugh at his face once more while stripping him of his child. He had heard rumors about vampires being able to get others pregnant but most would wind up as miscarriages… or worse, the death of the mother.

“Astarion! I-its happening, the bab-” another pained scream erupts from you as you hold below your swollen belly. Your eyes wander over to where your water had broken, no blood evident. The sheer dread in Astarion slowly dissipates and instead is replaced with a fangy grin as he sees the puddle on the floor.

High spirits only last so long with Astarion though, his doubts always end up consuming him, “Are you sure?…” it was still so hard for him to believe that this world would show him some sort of mercy or happiness. “H-how do you know…” his voice was quiet, “that it’s not already dead inside you…?” Head hanging while his vermilion eyes stared at your stomach.

You can only nod with a soft smile, “it would seem not every god or goddess loathes you, Astarion… Your child- our child, is ready.”

‘’If you’re sure I’ll find Shadowhe-’’

You grabbed Astarions cotton shirt with a steel grip, stopping him from leaving. “Ther-“ you hold back another scream, “ngh-! There’s no time, you’ll have to do-“ You couldn’t contain it, your cries interrupted you, Astarion holding onto you as panic filled his face. He never thought he could get more pale, but he’s sure if he could see himself he’d be as white as the snow in Icewind Dale.

“No! no! No! Absolutely not! You want my help?! What are you thinking!? I only know how to stick a child inside you, not the other way around!?’’

The way his voice always gets so high pitched when irritable was something you always found amusing. Had you not been in so much agony you probably would’ve had some sort of retort.

Instead you twist your body in his grip to grab hold the sides of his face, “You can do this, you’re so much stronger than you give yourself credit for. Look at everything you’ve overcome.”

Astarion clicked his tongue, “I’ve only made it this far because I’ve had you at my side.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m the one carrying your child and at your side now,” removing your hands from his face you grabbed his hand, “we can do this.”

Wasting no more time, Astarion rolled up his sleeves and ripped your dress before helping you onto the bed. His hands were shaking as he helped you on the bed, the veins and muscles in his arms slightly protruding as he grabbed your legs from under you to move you closer to the bed's edge. Nervous was an understatement, he was the one who was going to deliver his own child, what if he uses too much strength- “Astarion,” you broke his thoughts, nodding to him, reassuring him it’s okay.

Bending forward, Astarion gazes at your stomach speaking to his unborn child, “you pick now of all times to want out… really?”

Your legs were propped up and spread as you took a sharp breath through the contractions. He looked at you and kissed the inside of your thigh, praying for the first time in years that the gods would make sure it all goes smoothly.

You never heard how the doors to your shared inn opened up to reveal the rest of your companions. Never heard how your baby cried out as Gale shoved a finger in its face trying to be playful, or how Astarion yelled at him, “Gods! Why do you always have to ruin a good moment, Gale!”

“Awh look at the little guy, little Astary!” Karlach was so happy for you both that she couldn’t contain her tears of joy, “H-how’s” wiping away her tears, “how’s mama bear doing?”

Astarion took a seat on the bed next to you, cradling his son best he could as the infant tries to grab the string on his ruffled shirt. “Exhausted. I’m not sure if you noticed, but if you look around to see the mess we made we had to deliver our son on our own since someone wasn’t around.” He looks to shadowheart.

“It looks like my skills weren’t needed,” she smiles at the vampire, “good job, Astarion.”

Halsin spoke out for you knowing full well that they should let you get some sleep, “We should all take our leave for a while, or at least give the new parents some space. This is a precious time, a joyous one for them both.” His large arms stretch out to guide the party away from you both.

Astarion’s grip on his son tightens as he carefully maneuvers down next to you. His smile never falters while placing yours and his son between you both, his arm wrapping around the two of you pulling you both into him. It never crossed his mind until now, but he never needed to ascend, never needed that type of power because he’s realized that you are what gives him strength. You and his son are what will keep him strong enough be your shield.

[andmaybegayer]

idle Google scholar searching isn't really helping but I do often wonder whether the "they don't make hard-wearing clothes anymore" thing is partially down to the dramatic shift in the cost and style of clothing production and wear trends. This is entirely contradictory spitballing.

Firstly, survivorship bias, a lot of Ye Olden clothing is completely gone because it was cheap thin linen worn to death by some peasant, the stuff that persists is either rich person clothes worn only a few times or lucky to have been preserved. It's well known that historical clothing collections are largely the clothing of nobles and very wealthy merchants. That linen was probably pretty hard-wearing, because, it's linen, but it was also probably heavily repaired and busted after a few years like modern jeans often are.

Secondly, clothing was stupendously expensive and time consuming in the past, so it's very difficult to reasonably compare a $10 T-shirt to a summer dress that required a hundred person hours of spinning and weaving just to make the raw material for. A comparable modern article would be like. A bespoke dress shirt or tailored gown.

Thirdly, we wear much more wear-susceptible clothing as a result of these changes, the most obvious example being stretch. Stretch fabrics eventually lose their stretch, go slack, and become shitty to wear. People who wear raw denim and solid chino trousers and stiff linen shirts and pure cotton dresses exist but they're considered special interest niche fashion nerds, most people seem to find stretch clothing more comfortable and appreciate the way that it cheaply fits a wide array of body types. Wool knits stretch and go way back but most people don't choose to wear wool if they have a choice these days.

Fourthly, clothes are so cheap that we don't look after them in the same ways. A hole in some trousers for most people means "throw those away and get new ones" because trousers are a $20 line item, not several weeks of continuous spinning and weaving. We wash clothes way, way more often which increases wear in exchange for better hygiene. It's also less labour intensive to wash frequently than if you had to plan your whole day around heating water for laundry.

It seems more likely to me that patterns in clothing wear have moved from "small quantities of expensive clothing that is carefully looked after" to "larger quantities of cheaper clothing that is treated more disposably" than that actual wear resistance at equivalent points on the price curve has changed. If you spend hours of your income equivalent to whatever a peasant had to spend on a linen or wool square they spun and wove you could probably get a really nice high end piece of tailored clothing.

[warpweighted]

[ID: # is there a better textile to use? # trying to be more sustainable with my knitting]

@kind-words-like-honey hi! hope you dont mind the long reply ^_^

so like ultimately the amount the individual consumer can do is negligible etc etc grain of salt better is relative no perfect options several complicated and specific factors etc

HOWEVER theres three basic paths to take: Dupes, Secondhand, and Sustainably Made

Dupes: if you're just looking for bamboo without the carbon disulfide, tencel/lyocell is the viscose for you, and it's actually sold commercially! Lion Brand has some and so does Valley Yarns. Viscose is just pure cellulose so once it's been produced itll biodegrade just fine

Secondhand: Colourmart colourmart colourmart! they sell yarn mill ends that would otherwise be disposed of. tbh it's a lot of lace weight but u can get really nice yarn for a fair bit cheaper. also Swansons Fabrics, Paper City Fabrics, & Lucky Deluxe Fabrics! also anyone in your community (sca chapter, quilting guild, knitting group etc) looking to destash

Sustainably Made: really depends on what you're going for cuz like, cotton is theoretically more sustainable to produce but oh my GOD the water use and pesticides and worker exploitation. I dont know if I can make that calculation and give a definite answer. I havent really looked into the specifics of other natural fibers modern day production but I fully expect there to be Issues in all of them even if not quite to cotton's scale. Getting sustainably & ethically produced firsthand textile anything is time consuming and probably expensive, but your best bet is probably craft fair wool handspun, and similar small local endeavors. for a natural fiber rayon dupe, to me it feels kinda like cotton and drapes kinda like silk so maybe a blend?

tbh this is the path I'm shakiest on, but like... in terms of natural fibers cotton is Known to be uniquely water-heavy and it also uses a Lot of pesticides and theres a Lot of labor exploitation. The other main ones (wool, silk, linen) are smaller-scale industries that dont necessarily have as much impact as cotton. or maybe the environmental impacts havent been as thoroughly researched I'm not sure.

the most minimal-impact commonly available commercial production is, according to my brief look into things, probably linen. It's sensitive to herbicides and fertilizers so they tend not to be used as much* (no word on pesticides so idk there), and theres not the two-step plant->animal production process that comes with animal fibers** so it is, probably, on balance, with caveats, more sustainable than most other fibers

*according to the FCOC growers guide

**this input model presumes that the animals are fed on monoculture commercial feed or similar and that the feed itself is not sustainably grown, and also that the animals in question were not already being raised for meat or milk or as pets. this is of course not necessarily the case for all animal fibers! its complicated its nuanced

what grinds my gears like nothing else is textiles manufacturers greenwashing bamboo/rayon yarn or fabric as though the fact that it's derived from plant material erases the enormously toxic manufacturing process. like the first thing you think of when you think of bamboo yarn/fabric is 'oh it must be made like any other plant fiber' but no!!! that's a semisynthetic fiber that's usually made with carbon disulfide which is extremely toxic to workers and environment both!

and there ARE less destructive bamboo processing techniques you CAN make bamboo fiber the same way you do any other bast fiber theres EVEN a less common chemical process that doesnt do the same harm that viscose rayon does but NO instead we get ~natural fiber~ greenwashing that hides behind the extremely reasonable assumptions people make about plant fibers

I will never ever in my life begrudge people who buy bamboo yarn or for that matter acrylic because (a) goddamn its fucking rough out here (b) I'd be a massive hypocrite (c) the problem is the manufacturers not the individual and (d) sometimes it IS the yarn for the job but I will never stop beating my drum about this bc we! deserve! to know!

[sunfl0werfield]

Fast Fashion

i did this for school but I think it's good enough to maybe post here. It is hopefully enough to spread more awareness.

Hello Ladies and Gentleman,

I am here to present why we should regulate the fast fashion production.What do you think it took for a shirt to land in the store and later on in your closet?

We always run after those sales (20%, 50%, or even 60% off) it sounds good, doesn't it? You would probably rather buy shoes or shirts that are on sale. But often, those are from stores selling fast fashion,We always buy more and more clothes that way, and often we don't even realize it. A lot of stores actually sell fast fashion; of course, we all know about Shein and Temu. But there are stores we might simply not expect or know that they sell fast fashion, I will name some of the stores, ones known not only in the US but also here in Germany, One of these stores is H&M, but also New Yorker, Zara, and even C&A.At this point. I think I could ask anyone in this room, and they most likely have something from one of these stores in their closet. But to get those clothes in your closet takes a lot of things, many of which are harmful to the environment and against human rights.According to an analysis by Business Insider, the fashion industry is responsible for at least 10% of carbon emissions, the same amount that the EU produces. Additionally, the production often dries up rivers and streams, just so that 85% of clothes end up in the dumps each year. This is extremely harmful to the environment. and people depend on those rivers. Without these rivers and streams, people have no access to any water they could drink or use to clean themselves. Even if they have access to these water sources, the water is full of chemicals because of those factories, but they have no other choice but to use that water since they often can't afford a drainage system.This also shows how much waste we generate simply from clothes, all because we consume too much these days. Most of the clothes that end up in the dumps are probably cheaply bought items from Shein or Temu that we wear for at most a year or two before they get ripped or washed out, which is why we then throw them away.At this point, we consume really more than enough. The UN Framework Convention on Climate Change states that manufacturing will skyrocket by 60% by 2030. This is alarming, as the waste created by clothes will increase beyond its current levels. which will absolutely destroy our environment.Let's give you an example: In 2012, Zara was able to design, produce, and deliver a clothing item in two weeks, and H&M in eight weeks. That was already 12 years ago, and today that process is even faster.This creates an obscene amount of waste: it not only hurts the environment but also harms animals that chew on the waste and later get sick or strangle themselves with the fabric. Did you know that the fashion industry is actually the second largest water consumer? We talked about how they dry up rivers and streams, but I never mentioned how much material they waste for just one piece you wear. They require about 700 gallons of water for just one cotton shirt and 2,000 gallons for a single pair of jeans.According to Business Insider, the dyeing of clothes is also the second largest cause of water pollution. This is responsible for many diseases, not only for humans who drink the contaminated water but also for innocent animals that can poison themselves that way.At the same time, the production of clothes has more than doubled. Today, around 400% more clothes are produced than 20 years ago. That is a huge amount of water, fabric, and labor used for a massive number of clothing items, where more than half will end up in the trash.

However not all labor in the industry is legal. A significant amount of clothing, especially in fast fashion, is made by children. In 2028, the US Department of Labor reported evidence of forced and child labor in the fashion industry in Argentina, Bangladesh, Brazil, China, and many other countries, including the European country Turkey.For example, it is estimated that around 1.5 million children in Bangladesh work in horrible conditions in garment factories, often enduring long hours of hard labor for minimal to almost no pay. In Turkey, children as young as 14 have been found working in these types of shops, exposed to dangerous machinery and chemicals without proper training or safety equipment. *1

All of this labor is, of course, illegal. Many human rights are violated by such practices. One violation is the right to education, as child labor prevents children from attending school and acquiring the skills necessary for their future. Additionally, the right to fair wages is often ignored, with most workers receiving poor pay, often below minimum wage. Workers also have the right to safe working conditions, which are frequently disregarded. Many accidents occur in factories due to the lack of training and equipment provided to workers. Finally, their right to freedom from exploitation is compromised by forced labor, whether it involves adults or children, *2

It is clearly illegal what the industry does to these people, but no one seems to take action. I am completely against fast fashion, not just because of its environmental simpact, but also due to its effects on people and animals. It is horrifying that such practices can exist.I do not judge anyone who buys fast fashion, as many people do so because of financial struggles, which is completely understandable. However, workers need to know their rights, and we who are aware should help them. They are working grueling hours in factories full of dangers, which is unacceptable. Children need their education, and if their parents and countries cannot provide that, we must step in to help. For a better environment and education!

*1 U.S Department of Labor (www.dol.gov/ilab)

*2 Human Rights Watch (www.hrw.org)

[dermatologist-vaishali-ghaziabad]

Hair Care Tips for Winter by the Best Dermatologist in Vaishali Ghaziabad

Protect Your Hair This Winter: Tips by the Best Dermatologist in Vaishali Ghaziabad

Discover expert winter hair care tips from Dr. Megha Modi, the best dermatologist in Vaishali Ghaziabad, and keep your hair healthy and vibrant all season long.

Dermatologist-Recommended Hair Care Tips For Keeping Your Hair Protected These Winters

There is nothing better than winter, when you can sit by the fire with a hot cup of coffee and a cozy woolen blanket. But while you may be enjoying the winters, your hair might not!

The cold weather makes your scalp dry and flaky, and your hair rough and brittle. During the winter, our hair too requires protection, just as we do for our bodies. Keep your hair healthy, strong, and shiny despite the chilly weather. You can prevent your hair from becoming brittle and prone to breaking by following the appropriate winter hair care advice provided by Dr. Megha Modi, a renowned dermatologist from Ghaziabad.

While bathing, use lukewarm water

During the winter, hot showers could be tempting. However, hot water can damage your hair by removing its moisture, which makes it weaker and more brittle. Use lukewarm water in place of hot water, then rinse with cold water.

Remember to condition your hair

If you lead a hectic life, it's likely that you simply rush out of the shower after shampooing your hair, skipping the crucial step of following up with conditioner.

However, you must set aside an additional five minutes to condition your hair because doing so will moisturize and shield the hair's exterior layer, make it smooth and lustrous, and prevent breakage and frizz.

Use hair oil to moisturize your scalp

Your scalp becomes dry and itchy throughout the winter because there isn't enough moisture in the air. Dandruff, flakiness, and scalp irritability could result from this, which would cause hair loss. Massage your scalp with warm oils that are nutritious for your hair, such as coconut or olive oils. These oils reach the hair shaft and maintain the moisture in the hair. The scalp's blood flow is enhanced by massage, which also nourishes hair follicles and promotes hair growth.

Keep yourself hydrated

We don't consume as much water during the winter as we do in other seasons, probably because of the cold weather. But drinking less water leads to dehydration, and dehydration is the main reason for dandruff in winter. So, stay hydrated this winter for good hair health.

Heat styling should be avoided

Winter makes the hair more sensitive. It may become fragile and break if heat styling tools are used. Instead of blow-drying your hair, let it air dry. It can completely dry hair by removing all of its moisture. Additionally, you must avoid straightening or curling your hair when it's cold outside.

Avoid washing your hair every day

Daily hair washing can easily cause the hair to become dry. Regularly using shampoos can remove the natural oil from the scalp. Keep enough time in between hair washings to prevent drying out the scalp and removing its natural oils.

Use an anti-dandruff shampoo

The most frequent and bothersome problem that people experience is dandruff, which frequently comes with an itchy scalp. It's time to get an anti-dandruff shampoo if you see flakes in your hair or on your shoulders. When choosing a powerful anti-dandruff shampoo, look for chemicals like salicylic acid, zinc pyrithione, ketoconazole, selenium sulphide, or coal tar.

Apply a hair mask regularly

Hair masks can also be beneficial. Dry, damaged hair can be transformed into smooth, shiny, healthy locks with the help of a moisturizing hair mask. They only need to be applied once a week for 20 minutes and are readily available.

Cover the hair

When your hair is exposed to the chilly, dry wind and snow, it becomes stressed. Cover it with a scarf or hat to keep it hidden. To reduce friction from the cotton and woolen components, line your hat with silk or satin fabric.

Eat well to maintain healthy hair

Protein-rich foods are good for the health of your hair. Increase the consumption of foods that are high in vitamins, such as berries, eggs, carrots, and pumpkins. To maintain the health of your body and hair, consume a balanced diet that includes fruits, leafy greens, dairy products, meat, and omega-3 fatty acids.

Start using a humidifier

During the winter, the abrupt change in temperature can dry out your hair. When the temperature drops, a room heater can keep you warm, but it also dries out the air in your room, which harms your hair. In order to avoid dryness, humidifiers balance the moisture levels in the space.

Conclusion:

Dr. Megha Modi, the best dermatologist in Vaishali Ghaziabad, is renowned for her expertise in dermatology, providing valuable advice to maintain healthy hair, especially during harsh winter months. Her knowledge and personalized care make her a trusted professional in Ghaziabad, helping patients with effective skin and hair care solutions.

Are you losing your hair? To learn more about your hair condition, care tips, and treatments, contact Dr. Megha Modi from Ghaziabad. Call +91-9910659776 to schedule an appointment with the finest dermatologists at Twachaa—The Skin & Laser Clinic.

Categories: Hair

[flooringhut]

Carpet Fibres: Natural, Synthetic or Blend?

Introduction: Carpet Fibres: Natural, Synthetic or Blend? When choosing the perfect carpet for your home or office, you need to carefully consider what the carpet’s fibres are made from. This will affect the appearance, texture, durability and ease of maintenance of the carpet. Also, for more environmentally conscious consumers, different fibres have different degrees of environmental impact. In this guide, we aim to take you through the most common carpet fibres available splitting them into three categories (Natural / Synthetic / Blend) to help you select the perfect carpet for your space! Natural As the name suggests, natural carpet fibres are made from organic products. • Wool: Widely-considered the premium carpet fibre of choice, wool creates a soft and luxurious feeling underfoot. Wool is also naturally stain-resistant improving the carpet’s resilience and making maintenance easier. However, these premium features come with a matching price tag, as wool is one of the most expensive carpet fibres. It is also one of the most environmentally friendly, both in terms of creating the carpet and destroying it when its life is over. • Sisal: Made from plant fibres, this carpet is much rougher than wool making it suitable for commercial spaces with heavy footfall. This carpet fibre would suit a company wanting to promote their environmentally friendly policy. • Cotton: A natural fibre that offers a soft feel underfoot, but is prone to staining and crushing, so not suitable for high spill or high traffic areas. • Silk: Probably the ultimate luxury carpet, silk is incredibly soft underfoot and not suited for high traffic areas. • Jute: A tougher natural fibre meaning jute can handle heavier traffic but does not feel as soft underfoot. It does however provide a wonderful natural-looking finish. • Seagrass: Like jute, seagrass is tougher but rougher underfoot. It offers a natural finish, but often requires specialist care (like jute). Synthetic Synthetic fibres are man-made, artificial fibres made from inorganic materials. • Nylon: Probably the most common synthetic carpet material, nylon is incredibly durable and resistant making it an excellent choice for high traffic or high spill areas. Nylon also benefits from a wide range of colour and pattern choices available, so there will surely be a nylon carpet that suits your style. With lots of styles comes lots of prices, lower quality nylon carpet is very affordable but may fade and compress over time. Whereas higher quality nylon carpet is more expensive but is well worth the investment for its superior wear resistance. • Polyester: Polyester carpets look luxurious and feel soft underfoot. They are also stain-resistant thanks to their synthetic nature and repels water well. Like nylon, polyester carpets have a wide range of colours and patterns available. However, when compared to nylon, polyester is less resilient and durable. It is usually more affordable than nylon. • Polypropylene (Olefin): This synthetic carpet fibre is affordable and resistant to moisture making it the best carpet choice for bathrooms and conservatories. Whilst it is easy to maintain, it is not as soft underfoot and is prone to matting over time. • Triexta (PPT): Relatively new to the market, Triexta has the benefits of stain resistance and durability whilst also maintaining a softness underfoot. This carpet fibre has proven popular in houses with pets, as the synthetic fibres can resist paws, stains and the constant vacuuming of fur whilst also maintain a warm, homely feel. Also, as far as synthetic fibres go, Triexta is environmentally friendly as the fibre is partially made from renewable resources. Blends Some carpet manufacturers mix the materials they use to make fibres, and these are called blends. A common blend is a nylon-wool fibre. This combines the strengths of natural fibres with the strengths of synthetic fibres. For example, a nylon-wool blend carpet has the durability of nylon and the softness of wool combined. There are other blends too, so shop around for the combination that suits your needs. Natural vs Synthetic Let’s pit natural fibres against synthetic fibres over a series of carpet considerations to see which fibre comes out on top. • Cost: Natural fibres tend to be more expensive than synthetic fibres. • Traffic: Synthetic fibres tend to be more durable than natural fibres making them better suited for high traffic areas. • Pets: Synthetic fibres are better suited to homes with pets than natural fibres, as synthetic fibres have some moisture resistance. • Maintenance: Synthetic fibres tend to be easier to maintain than natural fibres. Synthetic fibres win this head-to-head dual. However, at Flooring Hut, we would encourage you to consider a blend carpet as it offers the best of both natural and synthetic fibres. Conclusion When it comes to choosing the perfect carpet for your home or office space, the main thing to consider is which fibre you want. Natural fibres offer softness underfoot, a touch of luxury and are environmentally conscious. On the other hand, synthetic fibres are more affordable, more durable and easier to maintain. Alternatively, you can go for the best of worlds and get a blended carpet. We hope this guide has helped you to choose the best carpet fibre for your needs. Read the full article

[photosyntheticfox]

It’s possible that the pre-war magazines were printed on synthetic paper. Which is basically plastic paper, it is water resistant, very hard to rip compared to the pulp/cellulose paper. Our own magazines are a coated fine (usually cellulose) paper. It’s pretty but not as durable as synthetic paper which is used in our packaging I believe it’s used in pharmacy stickers too. Synthetic paper seems to seldom be used without a printer from what I’ve seen. And unlike wood pulp papers, cotton papers or vellum it’s less likely to biodegrade if exposed to the elements. Most likely post war printing is done with anything they can scavenge or use to make the paper.

Woodpulp paper or really any cellulose paper is going to be the closest thing to what we currently use everyday. Easy to rip fold and readily absorbs ink more that coated paper. The downside is it takes plant life to make. The Capital Wasteland plant life isn’t abundant (that doesn’t have Harold involved) it is highly possible that Moira printed on scavenged synthetic paper as it might have been easier to find. Which is why the first ones look so different than the later re-prints which might be uncoated cellulose based given the staining and dog eared pages. It could also be an acidic paper as acid free paper tends to yellow at a much much slower rate and has better stability through the years.

Vellum is expensive, time consuming to make but it’s so durable in the right conditions it can last hundreds of years or more as long as it avoids moisture. A few leatherworker would most likely have figured out how to make it somewhere in the wasteland. It might be used by religious groups in Utah given the arid environment.

Canvas is durable enough for clothes and transporting, if it’s not stretched on a frame, it rolls wonderfully for easy storage. Because it’s technically cloth that you paint it’s an unlikely option to consider for most a forms of written communication. But I consider about those medieval paintings that tell a story with limited wording to be capable of passing on info close enough to include, because not everyone is going to be literate in the post apocalypse.

As for inks, which is a wonder question posed by @huntinthedwellin98 . Carbon based ink like lampblack has been used by so many different civilizations and isn’t terribly hard to recreate. You need some soot, water and something to fix the texture together to the preferred consistency. What that was differed, based on what was readily available in those periods of time and location. The fixative itself is what I struggle the most trying to figure out what post apocalyptic people would use.

Black walnut ink came about later, is does require some oxides to get the tannins out but it’s really remarkably deep brown. I think any plant that produces enough tannins like tealeaves or something mutated like muttfruit might give enough tannins to produce a natural ink. The biggest problem with these inks is they seem to degrade vellum overtime I believe. (Maybe paper too I can’t remember lol)

Petrol based inks aren’t terribly uncommon in our world but with the complete absence of oil in fallout it was probably a soy based oil ink or given that it’s fallout it could more terrible and toxic like lead or some industrial bi-product or radioactive material.

Alcohol inks are not good for printing, they love to spread and would work better for coloring children’s books about dangerous animals like water colors. It’s also more prone to washing out. (In my opinion I just find it temperamental and annoying.)

Acrylic ink is wonderful for art or hand written things but outside of places with labs I don’t know how easily it would be to recreate. But it’s there on whatever you put it on for life it bonds down.

that reminds me, i've been wanting to get into postwar printing methods and what sort of print materials are being widely distributed

canonically, you've got the wasteland survival guide, farming the wastes, and water aerobics for ghouls in circulation, just to name a few, but i haven't seen a ton of discussion on this and i think it's fascinating

i imagine some folks can use terminals or printing presses to mass produce texts, but not everyone would have access to that

there's got to be a popular cartoonist working out of a casino on the strip and some famous penny dreadful author churning out serials

[fuckit-hero-of-trains]

Sit by the fire until... Chapter 2

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25870150/chapters/81650737

Here’s the thing they don’t tell you when you get magically transformed into a bunny rabbit against your will by the corrupted darkness of the Sacred Realm: somethings, unfortunately, tend to stick.  

Now, Legend isn’t saying that he’s hiding a cotton tail under his tunic or that his soul secretly aches to frolic in meadows or spend his time sleeping in holes or whatever else it is that rabbits do when they're not busy being very confused and scared twelve year old Hylians.

No.

But that doesn't mean he was left unscathed by having his entire anatomy re-written in less than an instant.

Because of course he wouldn’t. Goddess forbid he ever catch a break for once in his life.

He was still pretty young when it happened, so Legend can’t remember if his teeth had been quite so bucked before the incident. Regardless if they were or not, they sure as Hylia are prominent now. Then there's also the fact that he never really grew into his ears, the damn things always just a shade longer than they should be for a regular Hylian.

Before he joined this wild cucco chase masquerading as an adventure, Legend would sometimes catch himself looking at Ravio wondering, Is that how I would have looked? Besides the hair and eyes, the merchant was supposed to be his mirror image after all. Zelda and Hilda were, so it stood to reason that he and Ravio should be the same.

In which case, the bucktooth thing was going to be a problem regardless.

The ears, on the other hand, are a completely different story. From the quick glances Legend has managed to steal of Ravio’s side profile, the merchant has relatively short ears himself, which just make the Veteran’s own look comically long when the two stand side by side.

And ugh, and that wasn't even touching on his… less physical changes.

 Namely, his cravings.

Noshing on some leafy greens while home alone doing some chores? A-Okay.

Getting caught by Warriors and Twilight absentmindedly chewing on the hay he was supposed to be feeding the horses? Ehhh, not so much.  

Goddesses, his ego still hasn’t recovered from the amount of jokes the Pretty Boy had made at his expense. And that’s not even mentioning the veritable mountain of carrots he found in his bedroll, no doubt courtesy of that flea bitten farmhand.

Regardless of the less than natural way he got these… attributes, Legend couldn’t say they were all bad. ‘Cuz sure, his ears were a bit longer than average, but he could also hear better than most of his companions, able to catch the sound of crunching leaves above even their loud bickering. Like wise, his eyes were sharper than others in the low light of dawn and dusk, allowing him to see things others would miss.

Frankly, both skills had helped keep him alive during his quests. He was thankful for them in a weird huh, guess that works kinda way, but thankful all the same.

But sometimes Legend wanted to wring the goddesses necks because really? Being turned into a rabbit couldn’t have fixed this particular problem?

This particular problem being his absolutely horrible pollen allergies.

“ A-A-A!”

Each rapid, involuntary inhale feels like a simultaneous punch to the gut and a gasp for breath, the air yanked into his body and then stoppered up. It leaves the veteran in a state of limbo as a paralyzing calm falls over him; lungs full of air, shoulders hiked up, muscles tensed.

For a second, everything feels lodged in place, frozen, like the Champion had used his stasis rune on him.

And–

Legend clamps his mouth shut and tucks his face into his elbow just as tension snaps and–

“- acheew! ”

Nothing but a soft, cut off sneeze slips past his lips, yet, the force of holding it back  still sends Legend bowing over. He stays there, hunched over for a breath as his body recovers, before he straightens back up, sniffing irritably as he tries to ignore the itch prickling at his eyes and the congested pressure throbbing behind his sinuses.

A chortling huff sounds next to him and when Legend glances down he can see Wolfie– or should he say, Twilight– peering up at him, mouth open and tongue lolling in a doggy grin, but icy blue eyes too pointed, too teasing, to be anything but human.

Legend's nose twitches tellingly as it begins to tickle again and the wolf gives another stuttering huff. A laugh. Legend can practically hear Twilight’s twangy, Awww. You sneeze like a bunny.

The bastard.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, dog boy,” Legend grumbles, wiping harshly at his face in an attempt to stave off another sneezing fit. “Don't you have trees to piss on or something?”

That earns him peeled back lips and a growl, but Legend just sends the other a responding sneer as strides past the grumpy wolf and out into the rolling field of tulips that stands in front of them.

Another huff, this one more annoyed than amused, sounds behind the veteran before the wolf streaks past him, loping through the flowers with his nose down and tail high.

Legend rolls his eyes.

Twilight loves to show his teeth, but the farmhand is quite literally all bark and no bite.

And besides, they both have better things to do than needle one another. If Legend is going to be miserable, he may as well take steps to make that misery as short as possible.

Afterall, they aren't out here swanning through a meadow of flowers for pleasure.

The last Dark Portal they had all walked through had, once again, separated them. Legend and Twilight were lucky enough to find one another quickly, though, now that Legend thinks about it, it probably had less to do with luck and more to do with Twilight’s nose.

After regrouping, they had tried to search for the others more that day, but a storm had them holed up in a cave overnight to wait out the deluge. They had gotten up early to start their search again today, but so far they had no such luck in finding any of the others in the forest.

Which just left the inexplicable meadow of tulips surrounding the wood.

Legend had been hoping that the rain would keep some of the pollen at bay, but nooo that would be too merciful, wouldn’t it?

If anything, the rain just made this whole experience more aggravating. Now, along with stinging eyes, a running nose, and a throbbing head, Legend also had the delightful honor of feeling the tulip stalks and leaves and petals sliding wetly across his skin, the annoying slap of his tunic smacking his thighs as it got more sodden by the second, and the disgusting squish of water between his toes with every step he took through this Wind Fish damned field.

And sure, maybe it was worth it to reunite with the other heroes, but really, would it kill the goddesses to make his life just a little bit easier.

A bark pulls Legend from his miserable musings. Twilight's dark tail stands out among the ocean of pastel pinks and yellows and oranges, wagging frantically twenty meters away. It disappears after a second, replaced by a muzzle and expectant eyes.

Twilight barks at him again.

He must have found something.

Finally, Legend thinks as he begins to make his way over toward the other, hopefully a reason to get out of this floral hell hole.

“What is it, boy?” Legend asks, voice going high and mocking as he takes delicate care stepping on as many flowers as possible, “Little Time-y fall down the well again?”

Instead of a growl for his effort, Legend gets a flurry of black flecks falling upward, like pieces of reverse snow, in his peripheral vision.

“You know,” Twilight says as he straightens to his full height, eyes half-lidded. Unamused, “You’re really not as funny as you seem to think you are.”

And before Legend can interrupt that– No, actually, you just have a dog shit sense of humor. Literally– Twilight continues, “I can smell the smithy all over this thing.” He nods down at a small tree stump breaking through the tide of flowers. “The scent is a bit old, probably from sometime before last evening, but still traceable. I should be able to find him from here.”

Legend eyes the stump for a moment, peering into the cracked hole in the top of the wood. Inside, he can see the round, red caps of several toadstools sprouting.

He can also sense magic. Close to that of the fairies– natural and glittering and smelling of moss– but not quite the same.

The Smithy’s doing?

Or a natural occurrence?

Regardless…

“Welp,” Legend says, straightening up, “Let's go find him. Couldn’t have gotten far on those little legs of his.”

“Again,” Twilight huffs, the black fractals already consuming him once more as he transforms, “You’re not as funny as you think...”

His voice distorts and fades into nothing as the magic swallows him whole, leaving Legend once again having a conversation with a very unimpressed looking wolf.

“I like you better when you can’t talk,” Legend tells Twilight as the other sets off, snuffling at the ground.

The other pauses to give Legend a look that would be more at home on a disapproving mother’s face, before continuing his tracking.

He also whaps Legend in the leg with his tail.

Hard.

The prick.

They continue on their trek together like that for a while, Twilight occasionally pausing to shove his nose into the dirt some more as he decides which direction to follow as Legend trails behind, keeping his eyes peeled for a quadripartite tunic and a head of straight, gold hair.

It isn't long before the farmhand turned canine breaks off into a light trot and then a jog, and then a full on sprint.

And stops just as suddenly.

Legend is out of breath by the time he slides to a stop behind the farmhand, but from a cursory glance around, there doesn’t seem to be a short, mouthy smithy anywhere in the vicinity.

“What happened?” Legend asks, still searching, turning circles as he cranes his neck, “Did you lose the trail?”

Twilight gives a light whine, grabbing Legend’s attention.

Then he does two full spins and sits primly, looking up at Legend.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Legend crinkles his nose at the canine. “Use your words.”

Wolfie rolls his eyes in a way that Legend didn’t think was possible for dogs and then stands.

The canine stares at him intently, as though making sure Legend’s eyes are locked with his own. And then he flicks his eyes over the yellow tulip he is sitting next to meaningfully. Then back to Legend. Back and forth back and forth, his eyes go for a full minute before he stops and stares at Legend once more.

Legend feels as his face wrinkles in confusion.

It's just a regular tulip, just like the thousands currently around them. Pretty enough, he supposes. The bulb seems to be a little wilted, like it's been weighed down by rain water perhaps, but other than that, nothing to sneeze at.

Or everything to sneeze at, if you’re Legend.

Legend gives the flower one more skeptical glance before turning to look at Twilight once more, brow raised.

“Pretty,” he assures the other. “Not sure how it helps us find Four.”

Twilight heaves another too human sigh.

And then he reaches up,  takes the sleeve of Legend’s tunic between his teeth, and yanks.

“Hey!” Legend yelps as he’s dragged down into the dirt, “Watch the teeth! The embroidery on this thing took forever to do and even longer to enchant!”

Twilight pays him no mind, pulling him down and forward, closer to his chosen tulip.

Legend tries his best to keep his face away from the damn thing.

“I swear on The Three, if your slobber stains–”

Legend’s words crumple up and die in his throat.

There’s something in the tulip.

At first glance, Legend would identify it as the Smithy's earring. The small feathered one that he takes special care of. The one that Four refuses to tell Legend the origin of, besides his cryptic, “From a friend.”

Legend would say that it was just the earring, but… but it isn’t.

Rather than being completely red with a white tip, Legend can see that this little feather is only mostly red. Right before the tip, a darker red plumage takes over, followed by purple and blue and green.

Also, rather than being attached to the small, golden chain and stud Four uses to fasten the jewelry to his earlobe, it’s attached to a body.

A very, very small body.

By now, Twilight has let go of his sleeve, but Legend both doesn’t notice and doesnt care, all of his attention fixed on the little creature before his eyes.

From what he can tell, the little creature is asleep, curled up in the bulb of the flower, his feather tail tucked up near his nose for warmth. Looking past the plumage, Legend can see that the little guy has a very rat-like face, complete with a small, twitching pink nose, long whiskers and–because the creature is shivering– long, chattering rodent incisors. Oval shaped ears stick out from the creature's head, a mix between mouse-like and Hylian.

And framing those ears is shoulder length, soaking wet blonde hair.

Blonde hair held out of the little guy's face by a green headband.

And…

And he’s wearing the smithy’s tunic?

“... Four?” Legend whispers in amazement.

And just saying the other’s name out loud is like a spell because suddenly Legend can see all signs. The little guy has Four’s bag over his shoulder and the Four Sword at his hip. That same magic that was by the stump– the not-fairy, fairy magic– completely surrounds him, dusting him in the same way he is currently dusted in yellow pollen.

“Is that you, Smithy?” Legend asks a little louder.

But rather than startle awake, the small creature– Four, Legend reminds himself– simply hunkers down more fully into the flower, curling up more fully as his shivers increase.

“He must have transformed in order to speak with the Minish around here.”

Twilight’s voice, even though it is a whisper, gives Legend a start. He hadn’t realized the other had transformed, nor had he seen the farmhand crouch down by his side.

The other isn’t looking at him as he speaks, cool blue eyes instead locked on the fitfully sleeping smithy, face concerned.

“He once told me that the Minish are insatiable gossips. He must have transformed to try and find us.”

The concern on the farhand’s face darkens the longer he stares.

“He must have been caught out in the storm,” Twilight says grimly.

Legend tries to imagine what that would be like. To be the size of a mouse and out in a storm. Tries to imagine what it would feel like for gale force winds to pull at drag at him, crushing him into the dirt one moment and yanking off his feet the next. Tries to imagine dodging back and forth between tulips, avoiding the head sized, stone cold rain drops pelting down from the sky

It's not a pretty pictograph, he’ll admit.

And ugh, Legend really isn't a fan of what it's making him consider.

He spares another glance at Four.

And fuck, the little guy shivers and shivers and shivers until the fower he is sleeping in is shaking with it.

And then, he sneezes, the sound coming out tiny and squeaky and weak.

Son of a bitch.

With a sigh that is as weary and reluctant and annoyed as he can possibly force it to be even though the vetran is feeling none of those things, Legend takes hold of the flower near its stem. As gently as possible, he digs his nails into the soft green there, cutting the flower from the ground while keeping it intact.

He hands it to Twilight, who takes it from him with gentle, if slightly confused hands.

With one hand, Legend flips open his shoulder bag. With the other, he rips his hat from his head with a motion probably a tad more violent than is really called for. He arranges the hat inside the bag, making sure to cover his items with the soft fabric while also shaping a soft bed.

Without looking up from his work, Legend extends a hand out to Twilight.

Makes a grabbing motion when what he wants isn't immediately in his hand.

After a second, Twilight slowly places the stem of the flower back in Legend’s hand and the Veteran gently lowers it in the small nest he had created, making sure the bulb sits in a place both shielded from the sun and extra comfortable thanks to the extra fabric padding beneath it.

In one smooth motion, Legend takes a hold of the strap of his bag, pulls it carefully off of his shoulder, and places it on the other side of Twilight’s neck.

And then, he reaches down and touches the dark stone hanging from the necklace around the farmhand’s throat, letting the darkness flock around and consume him.  

When Legend blinks open his eyes, Twilight is looking down at him smugly.

He is looking down farther than usual.

Also looking smugger than usual.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, shaking out his fur before hopping on all fours to get closer to the bag.

“I didn’t say anything,” Twilight replies, not bothing to wipe the smug look off his stupid face even as he lowers the bag to the ground for easier access.

“Yeah you did,” Legend hisses quietly as he clambers carefully into the satchel, settling down the nest of leather and items and hat.

He pulls the flower closer to his side where it is warm.

Inside, he can feel as Four’s shivers begin to lessen.

"Cute," Twilight laughs from above them.

"Fuck you," Legend whisper spits, though he makes no move to push Four's flower away. If anything, he pulls it closer when he hears the smaller hero start to make small, chittering snores, surprised the smithy could sleep through such a racket.

Twilight, thankfully, doesn't comment, instead pulling the top of the bag loosely closed to give them some shade. Then, Legend feels as he gently lifts the satchel back up, slings it slowly over his shoulder as to not disturb the contents inside, and begins walking, hopefully back in the direction of the forest.

Legend can still hear the farmhand laughing to himself from within the bag, but without the others' eyes on him, he finds he doesn't care.

The pollen still itches at his eyes and nose and Legend can still feel the pound of his sinuses even now.  But something about the shade and warmth and soft rocking of the bag makes it hard for him to mind.

Four gives a harty twitch, kicking a petal directly into Legend’s face.

And even that doesn't dissuade the veteran from his task.

Instead, Legend sighs and pulls Four even closer, relaxing despite the discomfort.

He’s got dirt on both Twilight and now Four, the two heroes with sticks most firmly inserted into their asses. He can get out of whatever chores and lectures they try to pin him with.

Yep, he thinks , distantly. That's why he did this.

For the blackmail.

And no other reason.

[goldentournesol]

Here For You

(Spencer Reid x Reader)

The one where Spencer and Reader make up after her not visiting him in prison.

Read Part 1 

Length: 2.3k

masterlist

Only one week into the six week mandatory leave and Y/N could feel her brain expanding in her skull at the rate at which her mind raced about Spencer. She’d been spending her days in the most boring of ways. She’d drag herself out of bed at whatever time she felt sick of being in bed, the placement of the sun in the sky had done little to give her the rest she deserved. When she wasn’t in bed, she was on her couch doing absolutely anything to try and get her mind off of Spencer. They hadn’t spoken to each other since Stephen’s funeral and it was hard not worrying about him. But at the same time she knew he needed space to process all he’s been through. How much space was too much space? She didn’t want him to think she was avoiding him again, on the contrary, she’d found herself wanting to call him every night. She wondered how many steps she’d been getting in in a single day from how much she paced around her apartment. 

On the first day of the second week, she’d had enough. She jumped out of bed and just barely had the notion to wash her face before grabbing her keys and driving in the direction of Spencer’s apartment. Before she could second guess herself, she was knocking on the hard wood of his front door. Her heart jumped up to her throat as she waited on the other side. What if he doesn’t want to see her? What if he’s busy with his mother? Oh God, what if he’s-

A breeze rushed past her as he opened the door, “Y/N? What are you doing here?” 

She looked up to take him all in and fought to not let a gasp slip past her lips. He was in a white cotton t-shirt and plaid pajama pants. His honey colored locks were even more untamed than they usually were. The dark circles under his eyes had begun to encapsulate and swallow the rest of his exhausted eyes--which she noticed he couldn’t open the whole way, probably due to a migraine. She wondered if he’d been getting any sleep. The scruff he’d had the last time she saw him had evolved into a full grown beard. He looked even worse than she felt. 

“I-” she began but she stopped, what was she doing there? 

“I came to check on you. Can I come in?”

She noticed him stiffen slightly, his shoulders tensing and his eyes scanned over her figure as if trying to assess whether or not she posed a threat. He released the tension from his shoulders and stepped aside, a sigh leaving his lips. 

She immediately noticed the mess. There were books everywhere, things were out of place, it was so unlike Spencer to live among clutter. He didn’t even bother to apologize for the mess, he just shut the door and turned towards her as she stood in his living room. She stopped looking around and faced him. There was so much she wished she could do for him. She wanted to cradle him in her arms and kiss his face and let him know that everything would be alright. But all she could do was fight to suppress the tears that surfaced.

He stood far away from her, too far, hands in the pockets of his pajama pants defensively. He stared at her with an expression that seemed unfamiliar, almost like his face had been drained of any intelligible expressions, giving off an almost uninterested look. His living room looked strange with her in it, although he couldn’t say he hadn’t missed it.

“Uh,” she started, her hands wringing themselves at her stomach, “I want to ask you how you are and I know it’d be stupid to ask--but, I need to know how you are, Spencer.” She was nervous, her voice was shaking and she didn’t bother to hide it. Spencer felt guilty about being the source of her anxiety but he was too overwhelmed with emotion that he didn’t do anything about it.

He shrugged, “I don’t know how I am.” 

That was the most honest answer he could think of, but it was also the shortest. He saw the corners of her mouth raise slightly and it reminded him of a simpler time where he was the source of her happiness. She was glad he was at least being honest and not hiding behind walls...for now. 

She nodded, “That’s okay. I won’t pretend to know what you’re feeling, but I do know that I want to be with you right now. I want to help you heal. No matter how long it takes. Even if we aren’t together...you know, romantically. I’ll wait for you. I just want to be here for you, Spencer, if you’ll let me.” She swallowed her incoming tears as she spoke. 

He was visibly apprehensive at first, he didn’t know what to say but he knew that he loved her with his whole heart. He missed her so much, but it was too painful to feel at the moment. So he kept her at arm’s length in fear of hurting her or hurting himself. She took a step closer, but it was still tentative.

“So will you let me be here for you?” She asked again at his lack of an answer. 

Spencer pursed his lips and nodded, tearing his gaze from her, although he wished he hadn’t because the next time he glanced at her, she smiled. A real smile and Spencer’s chest felt warm at the sight of it.

“Okay, so have you had any breakfast yet?” She beamed up at him and he shook his head, deciding not to tell her about how poorly he’s been eating. But then again, she probably already knew.

“Alright, how about this? You go take a shower and I’ll make us something to eat.” She offered, already making her way to the kitchen. 

Spencer took a deep breath and walked into his room. A few short moments later he walked back out and stood at the kitchen door, staring at her. She noticed him standing there and smiled sweetly, making Spencer uncomfortably shuffle his feet.

“What’s wrong, love?” She moved closer, although not close enough for him to touch her.

“I-,” he started, his voice hoarse and small, so he cleared his throat, “I don’t want to be...alone.” Her heart wrenched in her chest at the sight of this strong, yet temporarily broken man whom she loved more than life itself. She couldn’t help but tear up at his confession, touched at the fact that he thought her presence could bring him comfort. He watched as her expression softened and she nodded up at him.

“Okay, breakfast can wait. Let’s get you cleaned up.” She gently took his hand and led him to the bathroom. The simple gesture ignited something in Spencer’s chest. Her touch was so familiar, yet so strange. It felt strange to be touched so gently and with so much compassion. She sat him down on the closed toilet as she ran the water. She noticed him itching at his beard uncomfortably. It made her giggle. The sound nearly sent a shiver down his spine.

“Do you wanna get rid of it? The beard?” She turned off the water and he shrugged.

“It’s really itchy.” He said simply. He didn’t want to tell her that the razors reminded him too much of the razors in prison. She picked up on his hesitation.

“I could help...if you want.” She smiled softly and picked up his shaving cream. And now it was Spencer’s turn to be touched at the fact that she would do something so...domestic for him. His eyebrows raised slightly at the offer, but he nodded nonetheless. 

She stood between his knees and began to lather up the shaving cream on his face. Her close presence put him at ease. She tentatively brought a hand to the side of his neck to get a better grip and watched as he closed his eyes and relaxed at her warm touch. She filled up the sink with water and brought the clean razor to his face.

“I need you to be still for me, okay?” She spoke with her voice slightly above a whisper, as if it were any louder, it would startle him. He nodded and slowly brought his hands to the back of her thighs, gripping almost as if he was checking to see if she was still there. 

She leaned so close that he could feel her breath fan over his face as she began to gently shave his beard. Spencer was usually much more aggressive while shaving but he had to admit this was nice too. He knew he’d trust her with his life anyway, it didn’t matter that she was holding a potentially deadly weapon near his neck. She couldn’t help but smile as things began to feel normal again. They remained there in a comfortable silence as she focused on not hurting him. 

The tenderness she treated him with seemed so strange yet so welcome. How could he have ever forgotten about what it felt like when she touched him? The ghosts of her fingertips were ever present in his mind but they were nothing compared to the real thing. He felt everything and nothing all at once.

His eyes were screwed shut tight as he tried to contain the tears that welled up under his closed lids. A single tear managed to escape. She caught it before it reached the remaining shaving cream, brushing it away with her signature tenderness, the kind he never wanted to be unfamiliar with again. His grip around her thighs tightened as he struggled to contain any more of his tears. She quickly finished shaving the rest of his face and placed either hand gently on his neck, beckoning him to meet her gaze. In doing so, Spencer’s eyes gave up the feat of keeping the tears contained, and soon his freshly shaven skin was burning from the salty water, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered to him at that moment except for the woman who stood with him in his tiny bathroom.

She stared at him with empathy and placed a soft kiss to the center of his forehead. A simple gesture to remind him that she was there for him to lean on. He replied with a heart wrenching sob and shoved his face into her shoulder while wrapping his long arms around her body like she was his only lifeline. She cradled his head and ran her fingers through his hair as he continued to rid himself of the sadness that consumed him.

“I missed you so much.” Spencer uttered between sobs into the fabric of her sweater that smelled like home. She smelled like home. She was home. And now coming home never felt so right. She sniffled as she kissed the top of his head, a few tears of her own making their way down her face.

“I missed you too. So much, Spencer, so much.” She released a sob and held him tighter.

They held each other for a while until the sobbing ceased from both ends. When Spencer grew quiet, she let go of him and got on her knees to be at eye-level with him. She sent him a tearful smile and held his face.

“We can do this, we can get through this together, Spence. You’ve been through a lifetime of trauma in these last few months but you are the strongest man I have ever known. It’ll take time but we’ll get through this. I’m here now. Do you hear me?” She spoke with such sincerity that Spencer had no option but to believe her.

“Come on, now. Let’s get you clean.” She tugged on his hand for him to get up with her and turned the water back on, “I’ll be here the whole time.” She took his seat on the toilet and he got in the shower. 

---

Y/N stood in the kitchen over the stove as Spencer sat at the kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee. She glanced back at him to find him lost in the dark liquid in front of him.

“When was the last time you ate something Spence?” She asked, pulling him out of his daze. 

“I don’t know, to be honest.” He replied with a shrug and rubbed his eyes vigorously, “I’m starving though. What are you making?”

“Well, your fridge is pretty much empty so we’ll have to do some grocery shopping but I found a few eggs and some bread.” She smiled as she took the eggs off the heat and put them in front of Spencer. She began eating and watched him as he began to shovel the food into his mouth.

“Woah, slow down there. I don’t want you to choke.” She laughed and he looked at her sheepishly.

“Sorry, it’s just so much better than anything I’ve had in the last three months.” He smiled back at her and she felt her chest swell at the sight of him smiling. She grabbed his hand over the table and squeezed it.

“Then I promise to try and make you the best dishes I can.” She giggled and he rolled his eyes playfully.

“Not this again.” He grinned, remembering the last time she tried to cook a complicated dish, they ended up ordering a pizza.

 “Okay! That was once! Let it go already, sheesh.” She laughed, shaking her head.

It felt right being together again. Spencer wasn’t really sure of anything yet, he wasn’t sure if his mother would be fine without him, he wasn’t sure if he’d be reinstated, he wasn’t even sure if he’d ever heal from the trauma he’d been through. The one thing he was sure of though, was that they belonged together and he’d rather spend the rest of his days listening to her laugh and making her smile than mourn the losses he’s had.

Part 1

[dizzydancingdreamer]

The Servant and The Prince | Five

Wow wow wow this is late but I hope with it being late that I have had the extra time needed to make it good. Please do enjoy lovelies-- and expect big things for the next chapter!

Description: This is very much a Cinderella trope because I cannot help myself and I am in love with Loki, chapter five

Pairing: Loki x Female!Reader, third person as I may adapt eventually with an OC

Warnings: anger, mention of bruises / abuse

Tags: angst, fluff

Word count: 6.6k (consider this my apology for the late chapter)

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Master List

“On the balcony,” Frigga calls back, brushing her blonde hair over her shoulders. “We have company!” She adds, seemingly as an after thought— she is too busy pouring wine from a glass feeder into a beautifully ornate cup.

At least, Y/n thinks it is wine. She can smell the fermented berries— sweet and tangy and warming her nose as all wines she has encountered before have— only this wine is a pale violet shade. It is not an opaque rouge, not a barely there chartreuse. Nothing like what she has ever been able to get her hands on by way of bartering or shared celebration. Weddings and births. She takes a seat in one of the golden chairs, trying not to think about how out of her element she truly is. The little details are starting to show though. Not just extravagant pools and marble hallways. Even the food here is luxurious.

The Queen presses the cup into her fingers. She is not expecting the weight of it— the way her hand drops a fraction before she thinks to tense her wrist— she has never held pure gold before, not this much of it all at once. “Drink, dear. It will return some of the color to your face.”

She nods at Frigga, hoping her small smile will convey her thanks in lieu of her absent tongue. Speechless does not even begin to cover the way she feels.

“She is right—” the smooth, deep voice interrupts, his words coated with mirth— “it is what I do.”

Heavy footsteps fall behind her, thundering through the quiet chamber. She hears the water in the pool slosh lightly, the rose oil swirling out to the balcony. It makes her feel woozy— like she is already intoxicated despite not having touched her wine.

“No what you do is something else entirely,” Frigga giggles, raising her own chalice to her lips.

That is what these are called, right? Cup seems like too plain a word for something as extravagant. Chalice is luxurious— foreign to her daily life which makes it perfect. She raises her chalice too, taking the first sip of her violet liquid. Her eyes blow wide as she does so, a tarte berry sweetness bursting across her tongue. She almost chokes from how rapidly it takes over her senses, almost painting her vision in a matching purple hue. The liquid is warm as it trickles down her throat and blossoms that same warmth through her chest. It is magnificent— it is new— it makes the racing thoughts in her head slow to a honey crawl. She has to force herself not to down the whole cup immediately, wanting nothing more than to make them stop completely.

“If you say so, mother.” His laugh is almost as booming as his footsteps— it is how she pictures a giant’s laugh would sound, all heavy and dense, weighing across her shoulders like a wet blanket. It is less uncomfortable than that though. It makes her smile. That could just be the wine though.

She takes another sip, as the man finally emerges from behind her, his large body stepping into the sunlight like he is stepping into a second skin. In that moment she is grateful for the warmth in her chest and the way the wine adds a layer of lead to her bones for without it she would surely topple out of her chair in fright. The wine is like a barrier, though, stopping her common sense from leaking through. It makes sense, now, why she had pictured a giant— he is one.

She has to crane her neck to meet his blue eyes. When she finally does she decides that they match his mother’s. So does his blonde hair but it is a little more honey, a little less golden. Just as soft looking. His skin is golden though. It looks like he spends every waking hour in sunlight— no, it looks like he is sunlight. If sunlight was a person it would be this man. His mouth cracks open in a wide grin, his ivory teeth sparkling, as though he can hear her thoughts and agrees.

Frigga rolls her crystal eyes, an action so out of place alongside her more gentle movements. “Do introduce yourself before our guest starts to believe that I have not taught you manners.”

“I was getting there,” the giant insists to his mother. He bends at the waist, reaching for her hand which he engulfs in his surprisingly soft hands. He brings her knuckles to his lips— which are also soft but less surprisingly so— kissing them gently. “I am Thor, Odin’s Son, welcome to my home.”

Again, if it were not for the wine she would surely topple out of her chair. “Thank you. I am Y/n.”

Her voice sounds so small compared to his. Meek. She feels like a mouse sitting next to a lion. Perhaps it does not help that he is standing but she doubts that him sitting down will do much to remedy the difference. Spare a growth potion there is nothing she can do to match his build.

“How fitting—” he takes a seat in the chair across from her, squeezing his mother’s shoulder as he does so. Frigga smiles at him, a glint in her eyes— “a beautiful name for a beautiful lady.”

Y/n’s cheeks fill with heat. Beautiful? Her? No certainly not. He must say that to all the women he meets. She steals another tiny glance at him while he speaks quietly with his mother. His skin looks even more golden in the light. His honey hair looks sweet enough to catch flies. Or women. Probably more so women. She drops her gaze back to the table, her fingers teasing the cool metal of her chalice. He definitely knows his way around the ladies. Still, she tucks the comment into the back of her mind for a later time. It is nice to be complimented, even if it is perhaps less than authentic.

Frigga turns away from her son, her eyes softening once more. “Tell me about yourself, my dear. Have you come all this way for the ball? That was quite a few bags you brought with you earlier.”

Much like her cheeks, her ears flood with heat as well. Unlike a moment ago, however, it is not the soft kind of embarrassment. Her blush is not a kind one. She would rather dig herself into the ground then explain that she is a servant. Her stomach fills with butterflies. Their wings beat with a vengeance, absorbing the heat of the berry wine like nectar— like fuel.

“Well, no, not exactly, your High—” She stops herself this time, taking a sip of the traitorous wine in an attempt to cull the fluttering in her chest. “Frigga. Those were not all mine. I do not think I will be attending the ball actually.”

She tries to say it casually— perhaps if she feigns indifference then it will sound as though it is her choice. Frigga narrows her brows, lifting a dark violet berry to her lips. Like a candle sparking into flame, it dawns on her what she has been consuming. Blackberries. Her eyes dart back down to the table. She tries not to let her jaw drop when she sees the magnificent spread of food that was not there only moments ago. Sliced meats and cheeses, fluffy white bread— all she has back home is the tough, grainy kind— and so many fruits she cannot even name them all. Most of all, though, there are heaps upon heaps of blackberries.

Frigga drags one of her delicate fingers across the corner of her lips where some of the dark juice has stained her otherwise immaculate skin. “Well certainly you must attend.”

Her ears burn hotter, her mouth filling once more with cotton. How is she supposed to explain to the Queen that she agrees but that she also cannot go.

“I agree,” Thor’s deep voice joins the conversation as he swallows a bite of that fluffy bread. “You must come! There will be dancing and food.” He throws a hand up when he mentions the food and she lets a small smile free wondering how much it takes to feed someone as massive as him. “I hear there will even be some suitable bachelors. I assure you— it will be a splendid evening, Milady.”

Her ears skip over the jest about the bachelors, hightailing right to his very last word. Milady. The butterflies consume the word faster than they do the wine. They are addicted to it. She thinks that she might be as well. It repeats in her head, bounding around in her mind, crashing into her skull. Milady, Milady, milady. She has never been called milady before. The more it echoes around her brain, the more disorientated it sounds. It blurs together, the vowels folding in on themselves. The butterflies do not seem to care though— they consume the fuel just the same. And the more they consume, the more she wants to throw them all up.

The line between Frigga’s brows deepens, her crystal eyes attentive. They seem to catch her every movement, down to the little shakes in her fingers as she closes them around her cup again. She does not take another sip— she is more than warm enough now— she just needs something to still her hands.

“Thor is right, dear. You would have a wonderful time.” She tilts her head, some of the crinkle returning to her eyes. “Besides, even if it is not for my sons you must go for me.”

Y/n nods— perhaps lying is the best course of action here. “For you, then.”

She pops a blackberry into her mouth for good measure.

Good measure or to keep from spilling the truth. Either way the berry is not as sweet as she would have thought it would be.

* * * * * * * * * *

The rest of the conversation passes easily after that, filled with Thor’s booming laughter and Frigga’s loving eye rolls. She does not speak that much, offering her input when asked directly or when goaded, but the royals do not seem to mind. It is a welcome reprieve from her usual days— the ones where she is yelled at for speaking and slapped for not speaking and insulted for everything else. Here she can laugh when she pleases, eat when she pleases, and exist how she pleases. She does quite a lot of the first two. The tangy berries grow on her. So does the wine. Honestly, the wine is probably the cause of her new fondness for the berries. It sweetens everything that touches her tongue. Before long her belly is full, her eyelids are heavy, and her tangy lips hurt from how much she has been smiling.

Thor takes his leave soon after the three of them finish eating, laying another of the knee weakening kisses to her knuckles and reminding her that he will be expecting to see her at the ball two nights hence. He also calls her Milady again, as though trying his hardest to slip it in there are many times as possible. Maybe he is trying to give her a heart attack. She would not mind that much if he was— she would not have to return to her tiresome, damaging life if she had a heart attack.

After Thor leaves, Y/n stands, her hands lingering on the solid golden chair, her chest getting increasingly heavier as the moments pass. “Thank you so much for your kindness, Frigga. This afternoon was wonderful.”

The blonde woman smiles, standing as well and stretching her arms gracefully over her head. “Oh, it was nothing. Are you leaving so soon, my dear?”

“I must,” Y/n tries to replicate the Queen’s smile despite the weight on her shoulders. “I have already taken too much of your time. You must be a very busy woman.”

Frigga laughs. “I am only busy when I want the Kingdom to run smoothly.” Her eyes flit to the waning sun, shaking her head slightly. Y/n wonders if she is supposed to see the small action. It seems personal. “I fear that unfortunately means you are correct.”

She nods, pulling away from the chair. “Then I will leave you to the Kingdom— it is certainly more important than I.”

Her words are airy, the smile on her face glued in place by sheer will. She likes the Queen so she will hold her carefree exterior to keep her from worrying. She does not need to ask to know that the Queen would worry— she is a mother. Her own mother would worry as well and she would feign the same calm to keep her from worrying the same way she is now. No matter how calm she looks on the outside, though, her stomach topples, like the churning waves she had passed earlier. The bile that she swallows is foamy. Salty.

She could cry.

Before she can, though, the Queen’s warm fingers curl around her icy wrist, the contrast making a shiver crest down her spine. How long has she been cold for?

“Dear you mustn’t leave until you try the pool. Really, I implore you, you will love it. I really must go but I will tell my maids to ensure that no one comes in here to disturb you. Only if you would like, of course?”

It feels like a dream, or maybe an extension of the dream she is currently in, but for a moment her leaden lungs expand enough to drag in a healthy amount of air. It is like a light in the darkness— another log to ensure the fire keeps burning for a little bit longer— and she is not about to let it pass her by. What is a few more hours anyway— she is already going to be crawling away from the next meeting with her step mother.

She hopes the relief is not too distinguishable in her voice and eyes when she answers. “Are you sure, Frigga? I would not want to impose on your hospitality.”

Frigga does not answer— not at first. Not before her slender arms wrap around Y/n and she pulls her into her flowery chest. For a moment she is frozen, her arms hanging limp at her sides. She does not even breath— she does not know if she can. The warmth that seeps into her skin is both painfully familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. It makes her ten again. She is no longer standing in the Queen of Asgard’s chambers but in her little wooden house.

And she is not alone.

“My little dove come here will you?” Her mother calls to her from the kitchen. Perhaps she needs help icing the little cakes. Y/n hopes so— licking the icing spoon afterwards is her favourite thing.

She hurries into the warm room, the smell of cooked strawberries and sweet icing sugar wrapping around her bare arms. She had been fishing with her father earlier in the day and her cardigan had become dirty so she had stripped and left it to hang on the line outside before coming in for the evening.

“Would you like to help me?” Her mother’s eyes sparkle like two diamonds, crinking at the corners as she holds a spoon out.

She takes the spoon eagerly, stepping up to the table where a dozen of her favourite little cakes are layed out. She closes her eyes, breathing in the sugar. It is perhaps her favourite smell in the world. Her favourite smell doing her favourite thing with her favourite person. Well, spare her father of course, but he does not much care for baking.

“Little dove you know how much I love you right?”

She sneaks a lick of the icing spoon, giggling when her mother tickles under her chin. “I know, mama.”

Her mother grabs another spoon and one of the little cakes, setting to work as well. “How much do I love you?”

“To Midgard and back!” Y/n giggles. She does not quite know what it means but her mother has been telling her that for as long as she can remember.

Her mother nods, some of the hair spilling out of the braids along the side of her head and curling across her brows. Her smile is so bright that Y/n wonders if they even need the gas lamp. Surely her mother could light up the room fine on her own.

“That’s right, to Midgard and back.” Her mother presses a kiss to her forehead. “And back and back and back!”

She lifts her head, blinking the fog from her vision and clearing away the memory. When her senses return to her she finds her arms wrapped around the Queen’s waist so tight it feels as though she might break the tiny woman. She lets go immediately, taking a few steps back, her eyes shooting wide. She can still feel the heavy warmth of her mother’s kitchen on her skin— still smell the cooked strawberries— and her chest jolts painfully. If only her ten year old self had known that would be one of the last moments her mother would truly be herself again then maybe she would have kissed her forehead too.

“I am sorry, Frigga. I think I am just tired from the journey here.” She sputters out. The words sound mushy and garbled, her throat closing around each syllable, trying to swallow them before they can push past her lips.

The tears she had wanted to let out before rise so quickly to her eyes that she does not know what to do but look at the stone under her feet and hope Frigga does not notice. It must be her lucky day because all the Queen does is place her hand on her shoulder. She does not try to seek out her eyes.

“There is nothing to be sorry for. My sons do not hug me nearly as much as they used to—” Y/n tries to keep her shoulders from shaking as Frigga’s voice washes over her, soft and gentle like her mother’s used to, watching as the stone becomes wet and darkens. “I think a bath would help you greatly— warm water always helps clear my mind. Maybe you will find something you are looking for in the process.”

Y/n nods, her chin dipping against her throat. The Queen squeezes her shoulder once, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of her head. She has to hold her breath to keep from sobbing. It fights against her lungs though and she is sure Frigga can feel the way her chest jerks, fighting her from the inside. Frigga sighs and she watches as her feet leave her line of sight, her heels clicking on the marble as she goes to leave. It is only when she hears the heavy wooden door thunk closed does she move, the scream ripping from her throat so loudly she does not doubt that the Queen— no, the whole castle— hears it.

* * * * * * * * * *

Loki looks everywhere. Everywhere. Every corridor, every entrance, every dining room. He knocks on every damn chamber door. He never knocks— he never has to— but this time he does. The amount of faces he encounters is endless, most of them women, all of them speechless. He is not surprised to see so many women— nor is he surprised when they scramble to put sentences together in his presence, stuttering through their answers. To be fair, he does not really ask them anything. He knocks on the doors, looks at the stunned faces, and then, after feeling none of the warmth he is looking for— none of the sparks— he nods at them and continues his search.

As his search deepens, the minutes dissolving quickly into hours, his chest begins to feel like it is caving in on itself. The cavern walls of his lungs shift closer and closer together, beared on by a sourceless weight. It is invisible and it is heavy and it makes his head sting. By the time he gets to the last door he is pretty sure his lungs are incapable of filling completely. He fights to draw in a breath but the pressure is so intense that he has to throw a hand against the stone wall to keep from sinking to his knees. He is drowning in oxygen and yet cannot seem to suck in a single drop.

By the time he reaches the final door his head is foggy and his chest is burning. The remaining air that he has managed to hold onto turns on him more with every step, forming a mutiny and staging a siege in his body. The air fights against his lungs, banging on his windpipe, demanding to be let free. In what manner it wants to escape, he does not know. Probably loudly. He has never wanted to scream more than he does in this very moment— to let every building tension in his body free until his throat is raw. He can practically taste the metal on his tongue. The anger.

The blood.

Loki swallows hard, the action more painful than he would have ever thought, and blinks a few times before raising a fist of steel to the final door and knocking twice. He steps back after he does, giving whoever is inside room to speak to him. He hears a commotion, the hushed and quick murmurs of people, and scurried footsteps. Barely a second passes before the heavy wood slides open and reveals two women.

One of them is a scrawny blonde. Her limbs and face are boney, her fingers long and slender. Her hair drapes down her back, tangling with the ribbons that are keeping her corset tied so tight he wonders if she— like he— is finding it hard to breathe. Obviously it would be for opposite reasons. She is clearly choosing to be breathless— not being crushed under the weight of being so close and yet so far from her soulmate. He narrows his eyes at the girl, lingering on the sharpness to her. There is not a single soft feature about her— he strongly doubts she is hiding a pair of magic thighs underneath her dress. Definitely not her.

The blonde cowers slightly, her eyes flashing with recognition as her thin shoulders drawing into a tight point as she bows her head. He sighs— he does not have time for this. He almost forgot about the ridiculous ball and the actual reason why there were so many young women in his castle right now. Some of them had not recognized him— he is not his brother, after all. Thor would have been recognized in a heartbeat. Him, though, not so much. As much as it would make his blood boil any other time, right now he dreads the thought of enduring the conversation to come. He does not care to speak to hundreds of women; he is too busy trying to locate one.

He cringes when another woman joins, this one older than the blonde, her hair a dulling shade of red and her eyes are lined with wrinkles. Her mother, he assumes. She, too, sinks into a curtsey, the heavy jewels on her throat clinking as she does so. He can hear the gears turning in her head— see the same recognition as her daughter mingled with something else— something vaguely sinister— and the weight on his chest presses harder into him. So does the anger.

Odin, he does not have time for this!

The older woman rises first, her smile slick with the same slyness that clouds her eyes. “Your highness! How gracious of you to greet us before the ball.”

The anger grows— hot, heavy, and blinding— and he has to squeeze his fists to keep from baring his teeth at the woman. It surprises him, his instant hatred for her. He is not someone who makes friends easily— a choice he makes happily— but he is also not someone who wishes to kill people within seconds of encountering them— especially not women. There is something about this woman though that makes his vision tint black at the edges.

“It is nothing, madame.” He nods, his tone an icy, flat bite.

Much to his disappointment, the woman does not flinch. Her daughter does, the blonde’s shoulders catching like they have been snagged from behind, her neck remaining dropped in a bow. At least one of them is smart. Her mother does not seem to agree, her red heel sliding across the marble to jolt into her ankle. Loki squeezes his fists. How much longer must this go on?

“Anna—” the dull redhead’s voice is pinched as though she is trying to conceal her frustration— “do you have anything to say to the Prince.”

The blonde flinches at the contact, her head drawing up, her eyes clouded over with panic. He does not know who she is more afraid of in that moment— him or her mother. His chest still does not warm for her though, fear or no fear.

“Thank you.” She chokes out and he nods again— he does not want to kill her the same way he does her mother but the lines are getting hazy from the lack of oxygen he is breathing.

“Thank you is right.” The redhead’s wicked smile widens and his vision flashes.

He takes another step back, biting his tongue. The mutiny continues to rage in his chest, climbing up his sternum, stabbing holes in his jaw. He cannot hold it back for much longer— he does not really want to. But he is a Prince and he must, if not for him than for his mother. An image of Frigga flashes through his mind and, moments later, a plan. With both in his mind he is able to suck in half a breath. It stuns the insurrection inside him for a moment and hardens his resolve— he has to get to her.

He straightens his shoulders, lifting his chin higher, revelling in the way the redhead finally shrinks away from him. “If you will kindly excuse me.”

Loki does not waste time waiting for their responses, he only spins on his heel and struts away. The walk to his mother’s chambers is quick. Usually he would linger, skimming his fingers over the marble banister and peering out towards the sea. He has spent many days locked in a staring contest with the waves. Usually he wins— they are always blinking their foamy eyes at him. Today he does not spare them a glance. They will be there tomorrow. She might not be.

He turns the corner quickly. Too quickly. He honestly is not aware of how fast he is moving until his body slams into something small but strong. He grunts, shuffling backwards until he glimpses at blonde hair and two familiar crystal eyes. He chooses to ignore the half-hearted fury in them, opting instead to grab his mother’s shoulders.

Frigga curls her hands over her son's arms, the fury melting to something more concerned. “Loki what on Asgard are you doing—”

“Mother, I need you to tell me where she is.” He pleads— breathes— not waiting for the end of her sentence to tilt into a question like he knows it will.

Her shoulders drop under her palms in a sigh that he senses coming. “I have already told you all that I can— all that I know. Even if I did know more you know that I could not tell you without putting you and her—” she pauses, raising a golden brow in what he assumes is an attempt to make him listen. It only serves to make his chest squeeze— “in danger.”

He squeezes his eyes closed, his eyelids crushing together the same way his teeth do as he grits his answer out. “I can protect us both, mother, I just need—”

The rest of his sentence is drowned by a scream that rips through every fibre in his being. For a moment it even feels as though it is coming from him, burning like bile up his throat and tearing like knives through his eardrums. It stings so much— how could it not be his scream? But then he closes his mouth, slamming his hands against his ears, and he can still hear the feral wails slicing at him through the barrier of his skin. He peels his eyes open, searching for the source of the noise but coming up empty— the only other person around remains his mother whose mouth— while drawn into a deep frown— is also closed.

“Faen!” He curses, not sure if it is as quiet as it seems to his own ears or if he just cannot hear his own voice over the violent screams. “Mother I— It hurts I—”

“Loki?” Frigga’s voice barely cuts through the howling but he can still decipher the worry in her tone.

For the second time in less than a week’s cycle, his knees touch the ground. It is a sight that has even his mother lost for words, her mouth falling open at her usually proud son forced into a bow. Loki never kneels. Now he has kneeled twice for a woman he has yet to even properly meet. Something familiar prickles against the back of his neck, right where the top of his spine meets his skull— right where the wails zero on him. Somewhere in the fever pitch he finds the very thing that has been haunting him for an entire sun cycle. Please Surtr. With the realization his own screams claw at his chest, begging to join in with their match.

It is her.

Loki rises, pushing off the marble floor and staggering forward. It is not an easy task, he feels like everything around him is fighting against his movements, pushing on his limbs until each step feels like he is fighting through waves. He is drowning but not in oxygen this time. He is a child again and the sea is crashing over him so violently that he is not sure if this time he will survive. He has never actually stopped to ask himself whether or not he can die this way— by drowning. He had always assumed the answer was no, he could not. But now he is not so sure. Now he feels like he might die on the precipice of everything important to him— quite literally on the threshold of the rest of his damn life.

The hell he will.

His hand curls around the iron handle, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he uses the last of his power to shove the heavy wood open. He can barely hear his mother’s protests— they are more a feeling if anything. Loki, that is not proper you cannot go in there. Does it look like he cares right now? He ignores her— there is nothing else he can do. The light from the room trickles over him, mingled with a heady, flowery aroma. He lets the door fall closed behind him. It is thick and warm, mingling with the heat rolling off his mother’s bathing pool and creating a fog that should make it hard to breathe.

Should.

The opposite is true though. The thick air is anything but hard to breathe. Rather he feels as though he is breathing for the first time all day. Like magic it works against the pressure on his chest, lulling the storm inside him. For a moment he cannot hear the wailing, the peace soaking into his skin enough to silence the agony. As soon as the calm comes, however, it is gone, torn away by the hiccups of a small form that is huddled against the jeweled tub. Loki’s heart stops— at least it feels like it does.

She lifts her eyes and— while half hidden by the fallen strands of her hair— he can still see the way they are banded in strands of silver that seem to go on forever. They draw him in, pulling him under the surf of her eyes but this time he is not drowning— he is floating. It is her. He is pretty sure he takes a step forward because she is now a few feet closer to him but if he does then he does not feel it. Floating. She freezes, her chest stilling, her rose petal lips peeling apart. No sound comes out. Gods how he wishes she would say something.

But then she sucks in a breath, her chest rising, and the veins under what he knows to be the softest skin in all of Asgard glow, illuminating a pattern of lightning strikes across her flesh. Just like that, he is officially a goner. Officially hers. He would do anything she asked of him. Anything to keep her. How the hell did he get so damn lucky? He cannot tear his eyes away from her, drinking in as much of her skin as possible. The sleeves of her dress hang off her shoulders, baring her flesh to him, and he can see from her hunched form that the first few buttons of her dress are open. She was undressing? Now he cannot breathe again.

He follows the pattern under her flesh intricately, taking another step, his whole body shuddering when she breathes in again and makes the scattered glow of her veins shift. The lighting strikes continue over her shoulders, mingling with the silky strands of her hair. He is suddenly envious of the strands— why does it get the privilege of touching this Valhalla made woman?

He traces her sparking veins over the crest of her shoulders and down her spine. He can feel her silver eyes on him, watching as his own eyes flick over her skin. It is exhilarating— it makes him feel alive. Was he even living before this moment? Walking and speaking and experiencing? Or is it only now that he realizes that was all a dream? Is this what it feels like to actually be alive? Odin, he was missing out.

His eyes crease over the arch of her back, drawn to the mountains and valleys of her spine. Her skin is like another world, one he would give anything to forage through— to explore for hours on end. For the rest of his life. There is not a doubt in his mind that he could be happy getting lost in her for the rest of eternity. His eyes skim the ridges of her shoulder blades, trying to decide where to even begin, and it is only then when he sees it— when his heart actually stops.

At first he does not know what he is seeing. Of course he has seen bruises before— he has fought alongside his brother as a warrior countless times. He has seen both his own skin and Thor’s turn violet and blue. This, though, is different. He has never seen anything close to the deep black bruises on her back. Her lightning veins are more muted underneath them, still crackling but instead of silver light they glow a sickening shade of scarlet. Where the lighting webs he can see her blood shifting, clinging to her injuries and flowing like lava— molten.

He can feel the heat from where her body is trying to mend itself back together. Any other time he would want to sink into it— feel her warmth against him and try to steal some of it for himself. Usually he feels so cold. Not right now. Right now all he feels is fire— fire from her lava, lightning skin, fire from the embers heating the pool next to him, fire from his own, burning anger— and he can feel the flames leaking into his eyes as he kneels for the third time.

Once he is on the floor as well her scent strengthens, wrapping around him and clinging to him. He does not know much about flowers but he can smell the Dhalia’s now, clear and sharp, just like in the castle gardens. He does not remember the castle gardens being this intoxicating though.

And nobody stomps on the Dhalia’s in the castle gardens the way someone clearly has with this one.

His chest squeezes, the flames flaring out again. Like the bruises, Loki has longed for vengeance before— many times, actually— but never like this. It has never consumed him so completely. He has never had to teeter between two impossible choices like this— impossible not because they are undoable but because he has to do both and he does not know which to do first. Engulf the shaking girl or seek out whoever thought it wise to mar her soft skin?

He meets her silver eyes, watching them crackle and flood with more tears. He has to swallow hard to stop his own, his throat burning too now. Being this close to her he can make out her features— the special curve to her nose and the dip of her cupid's bow and the little marks on her skin— everything that makes her special. He wishes more than anything in this moment that the circumstances were not as they are so that he could spend an hour memorizing every little detail.

Her hands twitch and his gaze darts to where they curl around her elbows. He wonders for a moment if they shake because of him. Gods, he hopes not. Being who he is— a prince and a feared warrior— he is used to people cowering away from him. He has grown to crave it— if they are going to keep doing it then why not embrace it? He likes when they fear him. With her, though, he wants anything but. It becomes clear which choice he has to make in that moment— and that there was never really a choice at all.

He flicks his eyes back to her, hunching his shoulders in an attempt to sink closer to her height, trying to make himself appear smaller. Before this moment he never thought himself large. He is taller than his mother, yes, but not by too much. He is nowhere near as big as Thor. Hell, even Heimdall is bigger than him. He has always been the sleek one— agile, fast, lean. He is made for stealth— not at all used to towering over another person. But here he is, all of a sudden feeling like he did when he was a kid hitting a growth spurt again, all awkward and lanky. He tucks his elbows into his sides, his chin to his chest, his vision filtered through his lashes due to the tricky bow he squishes himself into. It is not enough but it is a start.

For a moment they just stare at each other. Loki has no idea what to say to her. It is not like he has been thinking about it for an entire sun cycle or anything, mulling over everything he could possibly tell her. Anything he could say he has surely thought of— he has played through every rendition of every conversation. Thousands of words and thoughts and feelings, all of which have evaporated into the vacuum of his mind the moment he needs to use them. Again, some silver tongue he is.

Thankfully, though, he does not need to figure out what to say to his soulmate— she figures it out first.

“Are you real?”

___________

Tag List: @crystal-siren @cari1bunny @breethememe @tapismyforte @atashi-no-yuuki

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

Trust Fall

As bizarre as they seem, I really like the video inserts that Darby does from time to time. So I used one of them as kind of an inspiration for this.

Pairing: Darby Allin x OFC (reader)

Word count: 2,968

Content advisory: Nothing. Maybe not for people with a fear of heights.

Looking down at the rippling green waters from the edge of the railway bridge, you’re consumed with one thought: you do not want to jump.

“I don’t think I can do this,” you gasp, nearly choking on your words.

“I’ve done it a dozen times. You’ll be fine, I promise. It doesn’t even hurt as long as you make sure you don’t belly flop.”

Darby rubs the base of your back and smiles with a sort of kindness you’ve never seen from him. He leans in and gently bumps his body against yours, taking the opportunity to wrap his arm around you.

“I’d never get you to do anything if I thought you might get hurt. And you said you wanted to try it.”

Yes, you think, it’s true. Of all the crazy stunts you’d seen him do, the one that had fascinated you the most was being dropped off this bridge in a bag. He’d outright refused to let you do that, of course, but he’d said you could try the jump without the cloth coffin and you’d been so excited you’d hardly been able to contain yourself.

What the hell had you been thinking?

What you’d been thinking was that Darby’s almost insane appetite for danger and adventure was intoxicating. He was intoxicating. The one thing he didn’t seem to rush into was any kind of relationship with a woman. He’d been married and it hadn’t worked out. They were on good terms but the specter of failure still hung over him. He’d always been able to make things work in his life. But that was because he’d spent most of his life keeping a distance from other people.

The two of you had been tiptoeing around each other for months. The first time you met him, it was all you could do to keep your jaw from dropping because it was like someone had created the man you’d been searching for your entire life. And despite his reticence, he’d quickly warmed to you. His initial shyness couldn’t hide the curious, hopeful looks he would cast at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

Still, if the two of you were interested in each other, you’d managed to take a pretty circuitous route to get there. From soft looks and smiles while you both tried to maintain your cool, you’d managed to become friends. Good friends. Everyone else at AEW might think that there was something going on because the two of you were thick as thieves, but the truth is that you’d just become very close. He’d told you about the angst that arrived in the aftermath of his divorce. You’d told him about how you’d just stepped away from dating and relationships when your wrestling career started to take off. You weren’t patient enough to coddle men and reassure them that they were masculine enough even though you could kick their ass. It was tiresome.

So you and Darby had become close friends, talking music and film and road stories and all the while, there’d been this flirtatious tension between you. You touched more than friends should. You were more wrapped up in each other than friends should be. Neither of you seemed in the least interested in meeting anyone else and on the couple of occasions when someone had insisted you give things a try by going on a date with their friend, the two of you had ended up in a cafe giggling about the pointlessness of dating by the end of the night.

By this point, your attraction to him had morphed into a kind of threat, something that could damage the wonderful relationship you already had, so you did what you could to ignore it, sublimating the desire to feel his naked body against yours into a desire to do all sorts of crazy things you’d never had the confidence to do before. Like jumping off a train bridge into a lazy river under the burning heat of the summer sun.

You wondered if he’d be disappointed in you if you backed out. No, you think, he’d never rushed you into anything. If you wanted to bail, he’d just make a face like you were a silly goose but then take your hand and the two of you would walk back to his place and watch movies until you fell asleep. He’d probably even let you pick the movies.

But as you watch the sparkling waters below, as terrifying as it seems, there is a part of you that very much wants to jump. It’s been ages since you’ve dived into water like this, although you used to do it often enough when you were a kid. Darby does shit like this all the time and every time you watch him, in person or on video, your chest burns with envy. Oh to be able to do something that wild.

Sure, you’ve taken him for rides on your motorcycle and he’s gushed about the adrenaline rush it gives him. But when you’re riding, even though it doesn’t always seem that way to a passenger, you know how to be safe. Maybe to other people it seems like you’re taking a risk but you know better. This, you remind yourself, taking in the scent of iron and oil that radiates from the tracks around you, is taking a risk. This is doing something outside your comfort zone.

“I promise,” he assures you, “it’s not as far as you think it is. Divers do this all the time.”

“Divers know what they’re doing.”

“You know what you’re doing. Jump off feet first and let yourself hit the water the same way. Seriously, you have a better chance of being run down by the train than hurting yourself in the water.”

“What?” you nearly shriek, staring wild-eyed at him. “I thought you said the train hardly ever came!”

“Only once a day,” he grins. “Once late in the afternoon.”

“It’s past three. How late in the afternoon are we talking?”

“I’ve never really timed it.”

You turn back to the river below and you swear it’s gotten further away than it was.

“Hey,” he says softly, taking your hand in his, “if you don’t want to do it, don’t worry. It’s not something that normal people would do.”

“You think I’m normal?” you respond, slightly hurt.

“No. I think you’re exceptional. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t normal things that you’re afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” you insist. You look down once again and feel your stomach lurch. “Ok, I’m afraid. But I still feel like I want to try it.”

“You sure? Because it’s not like you can start and then change your mind.”

You rest your hand on the hot railing, relishing its solidity. It’s not going to kill you. You’re in no danger here. You’re an excellent swimmer and have nothing to fear from the water. The space between is a few seconds, nothing more. A few adrenaline charged seconds, the sort of thing that you’re always chasing. And it’s something you feel might bring you closer to Darby. He won’t be disappointed in you if you back out. But if you go ahead, he’ll be able to see something in you that he hasn’t before, possibly something that you haven’t seen yourself. Somehow the jump will peel a layer off you like the skin of an onion.

“I’m gonna do it,” you assert.

You throw one leg over the railing ,grimacing at the heat of the metal against your thighs.

“No no.” He grasps your arm to make sure you don’t go any farther. “Wear as little as possible. Any clothes are going to weigh you down.”

You’re not wearing a lot but what he’s saying makes a lot of sense. And it’s not like you’re averse to the idea of getting undressed in front of him.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” he jokes. “I’ll bring everything with me.”

You climb back onto the bridge and self-consciously start to peel off your clothing: your loose cotton shirt and the tank top underneath, your shorts and your sandals. You pause before deciding to remove your bra. The metal of its underwiring might not weigh you down but you can picture the impact forcing it up around your neck, or at least making you more uncomfortable.

Darby takes each item of clothing, averting his eyes even before you reveal your breasts. When you do, you can see his breathing grow heavier and more rapid. You’ve known almost since the beginning that he wants you the same as you want him. The question has always been whether or not you want each other enough to set aside the disheartening experiences you’ve had. Under no circumstances do you want to sacrifice what you’ve built. You just don’t know if there’s a way to keep it if you introduce that other element.

Once again, you climb ungracefully over the railing. You cling to it and stare at him, biting your lip as you feel the cool breeze wafting up from the river below. He sees the expression on your face and immediately grips your neck with one hand, his impossibly blue eyes locked on yours.

“You ok?”

“I don’t know,” you whimper.

“Still enough time for you to back out.”

“I don’t want to.”

And it’s true, you don’t. Whatever’s waiting for you at the end of your drop, you’re more eager to meet it than to cling to your own notions of safety.

“I’ll be down there. I can make it really fast so just swim until you see me. Everything will be ok, I promise.”

With that, he releases his grip and you turn to face your fate. Looking down makes you dizzy and so you stare up at the cloudless sky, right into the sun so that your vision is disrupted by colorless splotches. You close your eyes but the spots are still there. dancing inside your brain as you lean forward, sweaty hands sliding over the beam, flecks of paint and rust digging into your skin.

“You’ll be ok,” Darby murmurs from behind you. “Give me a head start?”

You nod without opening your eyes. This will be much easier if you can just convince yourself that the drop isn’t there, that you’re just going to let yourself go and you’ll be in the water immediately. But somehow, you can still tell. You can hear the distance. You can feel it in how the wind surrounds you. You are not near firm ground.

You turn and glance over your shoulder in time to see Darby retreating from the bridge and starting to scamper down the embankment like he’s being pursued by the devil. You know he won’t think poorly if you chicken out and just follow him but at the same time, you want this to happen. You feel like it’s going to change you, as silly as it seems.

The sun beats down on your face and you give yourself a few second to absorb the heat, to the point where all you want is to feel cool and clean. You surprise yourself by opening your eyes and although you can’t look down, you’re very aware of your position as you let go of the railing and hop forward just enough to allow yourself to clear the structure.

As soon as you’re falling, it’s like everything inside your body gets sucked up an out of you, like your soul is drifting away and you’re nothing but a petrified brain in a sack of skin plummeting. It’s only seconds but it feels like you’re dropping forever, the parts of yourself being pulled further apart at every inch.

When you hit the water, it’s like there’s an explosion around you and for a fraction of a second you think you’ve clipped a land mine. It’s just a huge roar and then immediately you’re underneath it, the sound gone, like you’ve suddenly gone deaf. The water is cold, colder than you’d imagined, cold enough that your heart stalls while it tries to adjust to everything you’ve just put it through.

Instinctively, you curl your legs up in case you’re closer to the bottom than you believed and then you just let yourself stay still until your body stops sinking. From there, you’re able to push yourself up with surprising ease, trying to keep a grip on your mind as it registers that your breath will not hold much longer. And even though you’re not as close to the bottom as you’d feared, it still seems to take you so long to push your way up to the surface, towards the sunlight that shimmers along the rippling water.

Your head breaks the surface and you immediately breathe in as deeply as you can, sputtering a little when some water gets in your throat. The air itself is an adventure you hadn’t planned on, burning in your chest. It takes you a moment to clear the water from your eyes and get your bearings but when you do, you see Darby moving along the side of the river, easily keeping pace with you and the current.

He waves and smiles when he sees that you’ve noticed him and then walks down into the water, up to his waist. You’re able to marshal control of your muscles and push yourself towards him. It’s not that you didn’t believe he’d be there for you but you’re still somehow pleasantly surprised to see him. You’re grinning as you get close and he grabs your arm to guide you to your feet.

“Follow me,” he tells you, holding both your hands and picking his way back through the mud as he guides you.

You’re a little embarrassed that you’re still gasping loudly but he doesn’t seem to notice it or find it odd.

“I… I don’t know…” you pant, your lungs aching with the effort.

“It’s ok. Give it a minute until you’re feeling better.”

He helps you into a small clearing in the foliage and removes his shirt, wiping the water off your face and softly wringing your hair. He still hangs on to your other hand but doesn’t look you in the eyes until he’s satisfied he’s dealt with the water as best he can.

The light bounces off the droplets of water clinging to your skin and his, which makes your vision grow starry. You give him a wan smile because you can tell your expression is a little off. He runs a calloused finger over your jaw, guiding your head so that you look back up at him.

“Are your ears ok?”

You giggle. “My ears?”

“You look a little dazed. Sometimes when you hit the water it can mess with your eardrums.”

“I thought you said I wouldn’t get hurt,” you tease.

“It’s nothing serious. Just one of those things you want to keep an eye on.”

He looks at you inquiringly and it’s a long moment before you realize he still expects you to answer his question.

“My ears are ok. They don’t hurt or anything.”

There’s an almost musical quality to the sounds of frogs and cicadas wafting through the woods, like you can hear notes in nature that you couldn’t before. Maybe your ears aren’t alright.

But it’s not just the sounds. It’s like you can see every ray of light piercing through the leaves, like the dirt and stones on the ground feel different than they did before. Even Darby seems different, like you’re seeing him in sharper focus, and you want to tell him but you can’t even figure out how to explain it, so you rest your hand on his arm, swirling your fingers lightly over his skin and smiling as you feel the fine hairs rise.

You can tell that he knows there’s something different from the way he looks back at you. He’s curious what’s going through your mind.

“I’m sorry if that sucked for you,” he says quietly. “It was a stupid stunt. I shouldn’t have pushed you into it.”

“You didn’t. And it didn’t suck. It was cool. Maybe not fun, really but… I liked it. I’m still liking it.”

With that, you give his arm a little tug and he obliges by moving closer. You’re still breathing deeply and rapidly, but it’s no longer just because of the jump.

“How do you feel?” He asks, his eyes focused on your lips.

You think about it for a moment but the answer is clear enough.

“Alive,” you whisper.

The two of you lean in until your lips just meet and you move them softly against each other, the dewy moisture and light pressure making your skin tingle. You take your time, allowing yourselves to savour each sensation, both of you perfectly in sync, never rushing the other, never pulling the other along. When you draw each other closer, it’s like that feeling of electricity that you get in your skin just before a thunderstorm breaks. Your tongues come together, exploring at the same leisurely pace, quiet sounds of pleasure emanating from both of you. He flicks the tip of his tongue along the roof of your mouth and you jump at the sensation, but you immediately pull him closer to you, running your nails ever so slowly down the back of his neck.

It’s very obvious that he’s excited and you are too, half drunk on the sounds and smells of the forest, your head still spinning like you haven’t stopped falling. But you have stopped falling. You’ve pulled yourself from the river and he’s gathered you into his arms and nothing has ever felt as real as the two of you savouring everything about it as you come together for the first time.

[meesa-hoe]

An Angel In Beskar

Pairing: Din Djarin x Fem!Reader x Paz Vizsla

Summary: Two Mandalorians find you near death in the middle of a desert on Tatooine and while you’re quick to warm up to the one in the mismatched blue armor, his silver companion is much colder towards you.

Rating: M but later chapters will probably be rated E for sexual content.

Word Count: 4,500

Warnings: Descriptions of hopelessness, violence, trauma, and minor injuries.

Author’s Note: Hey everyone! I’ve been working on this for a while and finally decided to post it here since I noticed there’s not a whole lot of Paz x Reader x Din stories and I absolutely love the ones that I have read. I’m hoping to have the next chapter up in the next week!

There is an established relationship between Paz and Din prior to them finding the reader.

‘May the Maker have mercy on my soul.’

There’s no point in you praying when you’re certain death is about to wrap it’s cold arms around your weak body. After traveling through the unforgiving Tatooine desert for days without water, your body is beginning to shut down and you fear that this will be your last night spent alive on such a cruel planet. Your thin dress and the scarf you had used to cover your face in an attempt to protect yourself from the scorching hot suns is your only source of warmth as you lifelessly lay on the sand and you wonder how long it will take for you to be buried deep underneath the soft granules.

You will soon end up like the ones who had perished in your village after it had been brutally attacked by bandits and raiders just days ago. Though you had barely escaped in one piece, you suddenly wished you had stayed so you could have at least had a quicker death, rather than slowly dying in the middle of nowhere. You had been foolish to think there would be another village nearby and tears finally trickle down your cheeks as you peer up at the moon, an intense feeling of despair seeping all the way down to your heart.

You miss your family.

The silence that surrounds you only makes you sob harder, loneliness eating away at you as you simply long for your family. Despite not living a luxurious life in the tiny village, it never diminished the love you had for the ones close to you. The images play on a loop in your mind--bodies covered in blood and lifeless eyes staring into your soul as you hid from the bandits--and you finally allow the physical and emotional pain to consume you.

In a way, it’s cathartic to let it all out without others being around to judge you, though it also has you longing for a comforting touch, whether that be a firm hug or someone just holding your hand. You’re reminded of the way your parents would comfort you and your siblings when you were younger, their voices always like soothing, cold water during the hottest days of summer and it only has you crying harder.

Once it feels like you can’t cry anymore and you’ve accepted your fate, you rest for the final time.

Hours pass--at least you think that as you barely cling onto life.

You don’t even realize you’re not dead until a quiet, filtered rasp manages to break through the darkness and silence that surrounds you, though your eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds and are nearly impossible to crack open. It’s morning now, or maybe even the afternoon, judging by the way the suns ruthlessly beat down on you.

“How did she manage to get all of the way out here?” That hushed, soothing voice sounds a little further away and you wonder who he’s talking to until two leather digits press against the pulse on your neck. “The nearest village is days away on foot,” The person taking your pulse simply grunts in response and you finally manage to pry your eyes open when your curiosity threatens to overwhelm you. 

Who would be insane enough to trek through a desert on Tatooine?

Your vision is blurred, black dots floating around as you blink several times before it finally clears.

Instantly, you’re face to face with a t-shaped visor and--

A Mandalorian! 

Not just one, but two.

You think the lack of water and the intense heat has you hallucinating.

You had grown up hearing stories of the warriors, your oldest brother telling you how they were the strongest beings in the galaxy and typically not cruel to strangers who were innocent. There had been rumors of one living on Tatooine and as a little girl, you remember praying to the Maker that they would show up and rid your village of all the bandits that would terrorize your family and neighbors.

Even the Gods don’t want anything to do with Tatooine.

If you weren’t so exhausted and weak, you could have cried from relief and begged the two Mandalorians in front of you to save you, though your throat is far too dry and your mouth feels like cotton.

“What are you doing all the way out here, little one?” The blue Mando closest to you questions when he realizes you’re awake and you find that his voice is far more rough and brusque than his companion’s, though it’s not unpleasant in the slightest. After going days with nothing but your own thoughts to keep you company, you’re just happy and relieved to not be be alone

“P-Please... Help,” You manage to speak in a hoarse plea, tears spilling from your eyes as you clutch at the material covering the warrior’s ribs as tightly as you can, afraid that he’s simply going to stand up and leave you there to die. The way he leans in a little closer instantly fills you with hope and even though your face is mostly covered, you pray that he can see the desperation in your eyes and that he’s able to sympathize with you.

“It’s okay, you’re safe now.”

He’s massive and wears scuffed up, dull blue and yellow armor that you think has seen several battles since it was forged; he’s all mismatched and terrifying, but in that moment, you see him as some sort of Beskar angel.

His armor looks far more worn than his companion’s as you lift your gaze to peer at him, though it only has you squinting your eyes in pain as the impossibly bright suns reflect off of the silver Beskar and you simply let your eyelids slip shut once again. You feel a hand touch the thick cloth that covers your cheekbone, your Beskar angel letting out a low hum as he assesses your injuries as much as he can with all of the fabric in the way.

“What are you doing?” The silver warrior questions, his tone now cold and your heart instantly shatters when he continues, “We don’t even know who she is and you want to bring her with us?”

“We can’t just leave her out here to die,” The Mandalorian crouched down next to you doesn’t hesitate to admonish him, his voice filled with sympathy and conviction, “The ship isn’t too far from here and I don’t mind carrying her. Who knows how long she’s been walking through this desert on foot.”

“We can’t just take in every stray you stumble upon. Besides, we don’t know her--what if she’s just another criminal? Tatooine is filled with scum.”

“Look at her!” The blue warrior instantly snaps, his voice tinged with anger towards his companion and you nearly cry upon realizing he’s willing to fight for your survival, “She’s so weak that she can’t even keep her eyes open and she looks injured. Who’s to say she wasn’t running away from a bad situation? Besides, if she does try anything, do you think she could really get the upper hand on two Mandalorians in her condition? She doesn’t even have a single weapon on her!”

You hear an exasperated sigh and before the shiny Mando can put up anymore of a fight, you feel clunky Beskar sliding under your knees while his other arm winds around your shoulders, bringing you off of the hot sand with ease. If your mind wasn’t so hazy, you would have marveled at his sheer strength, but you feel your body relax against his Beskar that has been warmed from the suns.

“If she tries anything, I’m putting her in carbonite.”

Instead of praying to the Maker for mercy like you had hours ago, you find yourself praying that the stories your brother had told you of Mandalorian are true and that these two strangers don’t have cruel intentions with you. The blue one carrying you seems nice enough, but the silver Mando with the quiet voice still has you on edge and you immediately tense up at the thought of essentially being frozen.

“You don’t have any slabs left available because you’re an impatient di’kut,” The blue warrior reminds him, sounding more amused than agitated and you hear a hint of fondness in his gruff voice, “Let’s just get her back to the ship and we’ll find out what happened to her.”

“Fine, but I’m putting the cuffs on her.”

The one carrying you is quick to shoot down that idea, “Unless you want me to give you a concussion, you’re not putting cuffs on her.”

Using all of your strength, you manage to curl your arms around your savior’s neck, your fingers pressing into the soft fabric covering his nape as you whisper out a meek ‘thank you’. It hurts your dry throat but you hope he can detect the genuine gratitude in your hoarse voice, tears filling your eyes as they crack open to peer at the silver Mando who’s trailing behind your savior.

His tilted visor is trained solely on your face, despite the fact that most of your features are covered by your white scarf and you can tell he’s still wary about your presence. For a moment, he fiddles with his cuffs before giving up with a tired sigh and you let your eyelids slip shut when you realize he’s no going to restrain you.

“Shh, little one,” The Mando carrying you intones, his rough voice soothing the ache in your heart as you sniffle, tears soaking your scarf, “It is safe to rest your eyes now. Once we get back to the ship, we’ll get some water and food in your belly again.”

That’s all he has to say for you to slump against his cuirass before you’re being tugged back into unconsciousness once again. You’re in and out of it for most of the journey and every single time you manage to pry your eyes open, the silver Mandalorian’s visor is fixated on you, putting you even more on edge until you fall back asleep again. Even with his gauntlets digging into your knees and shoulders, you find comfort in knowing that you have the protection of at least one Mandalorian and it’s the only thing that lets you rest as peacefully as your hectic mind will allow.

The next time you regain consciousness, it’s to the sounds of the warriors conversing with one another in hushed tones, perhaps in an attempt to not wake you up.

“Do you think it’s okay to take off her face coverings?” Your savior sounds hesitant as fingers graze along the material covering your jaw and something about it is endearing, “What if she has it on for a reason?”

He thinks your culture is similar to his--that you have to keep your identity concealed just like a Mandalorian--and if you weren’t so exhausted and in so much pain, you would have found this amusing. “Not everyone who covers their face does it because they’re sworn to a creed,” The silver Mando sounds just as entertained as you are, the terseness from earlier no longer lingering in his filtered rasp and when you finally open your eyes, you’re surprised to find how relaxed he appears as he sits on a crate adjacent from the cot you are laying on.

Your savior has his back to you as he stares at his companion, “I just don’t want to invade her privacy.”

“She’s probably wearing it to protect her skin from the suns.”

“You think so?”

“Ask her yourself.”

The blue warrior instantly turns to you, his visor tilted to the side as you stare back up at him with wide eyes, suddenly feeling sheepish and shy. Slowly, you manage to sit up on the cot with a pained whimper and reach up to remove your white scarf that is stained with splotches of blood. As soon as the cold air cycling through the ship kisses your warm cheeks, you let your eyelids slip shut with a relieved sigh, the stained fabric that had protected you from the unforgiving suns falling to the metal floor next to your feet.

“You must be thirsty,” The blue Mandalorian’s rough voice has you opening your eyes and you nearly let out with a loud gasp when he offers you his canteen, “Here.”

The water could have been tainted with poison and you wouldn’t have even noticed as you chugged the cold liquid, a few tears escaping your eyes at the immense relief that instantly floods you after going days without a drop of liquid. “What is your name?” He inquires once you’ve sadly finished off all the water, though the one in silver approaches the two of you and retrieves the leather canteen, wandering off to perhaps refill it.

You hesitate to give the stranger an answer, especially after all you’ve been through these past few rotations, but you think if he wanted to hurt you, he would have done it by now and you eventually whisper your name after a pregnant pause. His visor tilts further to the side as you stare at his scuffed up cuirass rather than his helmet, tears filling your eyes when he asks how you ended up in the desert.

“It is okay, little one,” He soothes your pain with that gruff voice as he towers over you, “You’re safe now.”

“M-My village, it--” The blue warrior places a heavy hand on your shoulder as the terrifying memories of your home being burned to the ground play on repeat in your head and something about his firm touch is incredibly comforting, “The raiders they… They killed everyone and burned down all the buildings. My whole f-family--”

You don’t realize the shiny Mandalorian is within earshot until he says something in a foreign language that you don’t recognize, though you think he must have asked about you when your savior repeats your name in a terse voice, along with a few other words. 

“Dank farrik,” The smaller of the two sighs before angrily shoving the canteen into your hands and they continue to speak in their mother tongue, sounding as though they’re arguing.

“D-Did I do something wrong?” You meekly question them after you take several swigs of the cold water, tears still drying on your cheeks as they both gaze at you long enough to cause your nerves to spike even more. Anxiously, you pluck at the loose threads on the hem of your skirts, feeling anxious underneath the intense stares of such strong warriors when you feel the weakest you ever have in your life. The blue warrior angrily shakes his scuffed up helmet before hastily stomping off of the small ship, leaving you alone with the silver, brooding Mandalorian that seems far more awkward around you than his companion.

The ruddy, orange tips of his leather gloves curl against his sides as he silently regards you for a few more moments. 

“Come with me,” He eventually orders with a slight tilt of his helmet, urging you to follow him as you scramble to your bare feet to obey his gentle command. He leads you to the hull of the ship and you nearly cower away from him as he leads you through a small walkway that’s lined with several slabs of carbonite, afraid that you’ve done something wrong. With the blue Mandalorian gone, your mind runs rampant of all the horrible things this stranger can do to you and your gaze lifts to the huge rifle strapped to his back.

You freeze as you wonder how many people he’s killed with it, or if he prefers to use the smaller blaster holstered against his hip.

Upon noticing that you’re not following him, he turns to face you.

“I’m... I’m not going to hurt you,” He quietly promises when he notices your hesitation, his visor lingering on you as you eventually trail right behind him again, still clutching the leather canteen between your clammy palms, “I just want to see if you recognize someone.”

The stranger comes to a stop in front of one of the slabs of carbonite and confusion floods you as he gestures to it like one would offer a prize, though fear and horror immediately has your heart in a frenzy when you recognize the Zabrak frozen in time.

He had been among the many that had terrorized your village for so long.

“W-What is he doing here?!”

“He’s the leader of the group of bandits that burned down your village and he is also a quarry of ours,” He quietly explains in an oddly gentle voice, watching as the canteen slips from your palms and onto the floor of the ship, “We managed to track him down the day after the attack. I am... sorry we were too late.” 

The shiny Mandalorian holds a hand up in an attempt to calm you as panic tugs at your heart to the point where it’s difficult to breathe properly and you quickly back away from the hunter, fleeing further into the ship until you manage to find the refresher. You’re grateful there’s a lock on the door as you sink to the floor, the hunter’s voice calling out to you on the other side of the door, though there’s a sharp ringing noise blaring in your ears that makes it damn near impossible to hear even your own thoughts.

The Mandalorian eventually gives up on trying to get you to exit the refresher and leaves with a defeated sigh. You’re shaking with fear as you keep reminding yourself that the you’re on the same ship with the cruel monster that orchestrated the attack on your little village.

That Zabrak is the reason why your entire family was slaughtered.

And he’s on the same ship with you.

You sit there in solitude for quite some time, listening to the two Mandalorians as they quietly talk to one another in the hull of the ship. The larger of the two must have a naturally loud voice and you can’t stop yourself from smiling when his silver companion occasionally shushes him when he speaks your name. It sounds like they might be arguing about something and you hope it’s not about you, but judging by the irritation in both of their voices, you’re certain they’re trying to figure out what to do with you.

Especially now that you have no home to go back to.

A deep sigh pushes past your lips you as you finally stand, the warriors’ argument ceasing when you move to the sink and turn the water on to splash some of the cool liquid on your face. The stark contrast between the cold water compared to the sonic shower in your home is lovely and cathartic after having gone so long with only ever really having warm water.

There’s a firm knock on the door, the blue warrior calmly reciting your name in an effort to get you to come out, “It’s okay, I just want to talk with you.” 

Dread floods your frantic heart as you dry your face off with the sleeve of your dress before hesitantly cracking the door open to stare at his scuffed up cuirass, too afraid that if you look at his helmet, you’ll only breakdown again.

“I am sorry for your losses, little one,” The Mandalorian sighs, holding his hand out for you to take in a friendly gesture that has you opening the door all the way. “I know all too well the grief of losing loved ones,” You take hold of his hand and he immediately strokes a firm thumb along your knuckles, the foreign touch comforting as he guides you out of the refresher and to one of the crates so you can sit down.

“Are...” You hesitate as you finally peer up at his tilted visor, fear wrapping around you like a vice, “Are you two going to leave me here?”

A sigh escapes him and your eyes widen when he rests a leather palm on the side of your neck, his thumb grazing along your jaw as he takes in your appearance for several moments. Though you’ve only been in the presence of the two warriors for a couple hours, you realize just how different their personalities are. Your Beskar-clad angel is massive, loud, and rough around the edges, yet somehow so gentle around you, while the silver warrior is placid, quiet, and constantly brooding, wanting nothing to do with you. 

You can’t help but to wonder what their relationship to one another is, if they’re simply close friends or something more, given how they’re simultaneously comfortable and dysfunctional around each other.

“No, we’re not just going to leave you in the middle of nowhere,” He sounds oddly sad as he pulls you from your thoughts, his voice the quietest you’ve heard from him so far, “We can either drop you off somewhere safer or you can stay with us for a little while and help out with certain things on the ship.”

You don’t hear the silver Mandalorian descending from the cockpit, his visor on the two of you as shock courses through you. “Y-You would let me stay?” His fingers twitch against your neck upon hearing the way your voice shakes, your eyes burning at the kindness he’s displaying, “But... I don’t think the other Mandalorian really wants me here. He doesn’t trust me.”

His blue pauldrons slump and you resist the urge to reach out and trace a silver indentation on the worn armor, “It’s not that he doesn’t trust you, we’re just not used to being around people who don’t want to kill us.”

You contemplate his words thoroughly as his thumb continues to stroke your jawline and after going several days without anyone to talk to or share your fear with, the touch is a warm welcome. “Well, after everything that happened to my village, I don’t think I have it in me to hurt anyone, let alone kill,” Your own shoulders slump, eyelids slipping shut as you remember how scared you had been as you hid yourself from the bandits underneath a pile of bloody, lifeless bodies.

You don’t realize you’re shaking until the silver Mandalorian makes his presence known by softly saying a word in what you think is their mother tongue, instantly earning his companion’s unwavering attention.

“Vizsla.”

You quickly pull away and wipe the tears from your flushed cheeks, a heavy hand lingering on your shoulder as the quiet Mandalorian speaks in that gentle rasp that sounds softer than usual and you feel bashful when his visor lowers to regard you. 

“I set the coordinates for the next stop,” He appears awkward as his fingers flex against his thighs, his visor still fixated on you as he offers you a sharp nod. The blue warrior chuckles, though you’re not sure why as his companion approaches the two of you, seeming to tense up a little more and you’re certain that the silver Mando hates you already.

“This is your last chance for us to drop you off at the nearest village,” He warns you as the heavy-infantry warrior gives your shoulder a firm squeeze, as if trying to give you some of his strength even though you feel devastatingly weak, “Otherwise you’re stuck with us until further notice. We can’t guarantee your safety.”

You try your hardest to appear tough in front of the hunter, though his helmet tilts to the side with what feels like amusement as you awkwardly shift on your feet, “I… I have no family left and nowhere else to go. I would rather be with you two than have to suffer alone in an unfamiliar village that may or may not be attacked by cruel people again.”

He hesitates, visor shifting between you and the Mandalorian at your side, before nodding and making his way back to the cockpit without another word, pulling a sigh from the blue warrior as he turns back to you, tilting his helmet in the direction of the ladder. “Come on, little one,” He helps you off the crate before guiding you to the cockpit, following close behind as you push yourself up the ladder. Before you can say anything else, you’re interrupted by an intense rumble coming from your empty stomach and you pray that he didn’t hear it, though judging by his snort of laughter, your prayers were unanswered.

“Once we make the jump into hyperspace we’ll get you some food. Flying can be a lot if you’re not used to it and I don’t want you throwing up all over the cockpit.”

A warmth blossoms across your cheeks as the metal doors slide open, his palm still covering the small of your back as he urges you to sit in one of the unoccupied co-pilot chairs. You quickly buckle in as the brooding hunter flicks some switches on the console, seeming completely at ease as his blue companion lazily plops down in the chair next to you, the two of them not bothering with their seatbelts. Briefly, you wonder how long they’ve been doing this--traveling with one another--and with how sure of himself the silver Mando appears as he easily guides the ship off the sandy ground, you think it’s been quite a while.

“Have you ever been off Tatooine before?” The blue warrior asks you when he notices how tightly you’re clutching your seatbelt the further the ship ascends and you force yourself to relax your stiff fingers. “N-No,” You quietly inform him, tearing your gaze away from the windows to peer at him instead, “I lived in that village for all my life. When... When everything happened with the bandits, I wasn’t sure where to go, so I just ran.”

His visor tilts to the side and as he continues to speak, you can’t stop yourself from wondering if he’s doing it to distract you as the ship breaks the atmosphere of the sandy planet. “Well, it’s a good thing we happened to be close by since the nearest city was at least four more cycles away on foot,” This information makes you shudder and instantly, you grow quiet, knowing that there was no way you would have ever made it if they hadn’t shown up when they did.

He seems to notice your melancholic disposition and is quick to change the subject, his filtered voice melting into something more lighthearted that has you weakly smiling at his visor. “Maybe it’s a good thing you’re here,” He tilts his helmet to where his silver companion is piloting the ship into space, “He doesn’t exactly make for the best company sometimes, always brooding and complaining. Besides, you’re far prettier to look at.”

Your cheeks immediately grow warm at his sudden coyness, though it only seems to exasperate the other Mandalorian as he sighs, his silver helmet shaking as starlight reflects off of the pretty Beskar.

As the old, rickety ship makes the jump to hyperspace, causing a queasy sensation in the pit of your belly, you think that maybe the two of them don’t make for bad company at all.

Perhaps there is some force in the galaxy that took mercy on your soul after all.

[paper-n-ashes]

sparks and embers - chapter 4

Characters: Poe Dameron x Original Female Character, Kylo Ren x Original Female Character

Story Tags: Explicit (18+), Canon Compliant/Divergent (Set after TLJ), First Person POV, Love Triangle, Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Porn with Plot, Hurt/Comfort, Kylo Ren hates Poe Dameron

Chapter 4 - Fun

Words: 5.7k

Chapter Tags/Warnings: The biggest warning I can give is that this was my first ever attempt at smut - ever. Mutual masturbation, one party technically unconsented.

Read on AO3 or Start from the beginning

~

It was paradise and torture, all rolled into one.

He looked unbearably delicious sitting on the ‘fresher stool, facing away, towel draped carefully below his waist. Steam rose in swirling clouds from the floor around him, making the air heavy as I drew in slow, measured breaths.

Poe didn’t look up as I moved past the open curtain, and I could only assume it was because he felt as uneasy as I did. Without much control over myself, my eyes traced the droplets wriggling down his back over his now unwound muscles, wanting nothing more than to draw my fingers over, to feel his smooth skin on the tips.

It was all so enticing, and the throb in my centre becoming harder to ignore. I was forced to put more thought into my movements as I stepped towards the shelf in front of Poe, wondering if he noticed the side glances I attempted to get a better view.

Now is not the time Alexys.

The remark shook me back into sensible thinking, realising Poe was in a vulnerable position, and he trusted me enough to see him like this. He wouldn’t want to be gawked at - he genuinely needed assistance.

With a newfound sense of responsibility, I took the shampoo from the shelf and rounded back behind Poe’s head, his hair glistening with moisture, looking at nothing but my hands. He was silent along with me, probably bracing himself for this stranger to mangle their fingers awkwardly into his hair.

I squirted a stream of liquid shampoo on his head, the icy temperature of it making him tense for a moment, noticing when he raised his bandaged hand to grasp the side railing of the chair. Timidly I began to run my fingers through the portion of I’d covered, building the soap up into a foam, continuing to spread it through the rest of his wettened mop.

There was a warmth that soon arrived, spreading through my chest as I drew my fingers in and out, a warmth that felt less salacious and more… kind. And it would have stayed that way if Poe hadn’t hummed a low moan.

Oh maker, you are not making this easy.

As soon as it bristled past his lips he bolted upright.

“S-sorry,” he stuttered, evidently surprised himself at the sound he’d made. “No one has washed my hair before, I mean if you don’t count my parents when I was a child. It just felt... nice.”

I didn’t respond, making the air hang thick with our silence. Nothing I could say was going to make the moment any less awkward for the both of us.

After briefly stopping the twirling movement of my fingers following the… sound, I continued my lather over his scalp, making sure every particle of dirt, sweat and most likely blood was caught in the froth of soap.

When content with my work I reached over his shoulder and unhooked the detachable shower head, my eyes still trained on anything other than his bare skin. After angling it down, I pressed the start button on the handle, the flow of water hitting my bare feet as I made sure the water was an acceptable temperature before letting the cascade of soapy water rush down his spine.

With my hand I began to guide him to tilt back so I could safely wash out the soap just above his forehead. In this position I could see more of his face, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, eyebrows wrinkled like he was uncomfortable.

“Is the water too hot?” I peeped, pulling the shower head away.

His eyes opened in a flash, startled by my question. “No! Not at all! I was just lost in thought about… Uh… How to fix BB-8. It’s fine, really.” He shifted in the chair, his bandaged arm still gripping onto the rail while his casted arm rested rigidly over his lap. As I moved the water stream back to his hair, his eyes closed again, this time without the tautness I’d noticed before.

After all the shampoo had been thoroughly rinsed I began the process again, only this time with conditioner. I didn’t ask if he actually wanted it, since it was more out of my own habit, but he didn’t stop me when I grabbed the bottle and jetted the thicker liquid into his hair, continuing to slowly massage it into his tresses.

It became somewhat relaxing, methodically weaving my fingers to evenly spread the silky lotion to every strand. He moved uneasily again, and I noticed the hand holding the rail was clutching tightly, his bicep tensed hard.

Maybe I’m terrible at this.

Deciding it was time to finish this embarrassing experience, I started up the water and rinsed Poe’s head free of conditioner, again seeing the strain washing over his face as he leaned back, like he was trying to conceal it from my view.

I rustled a fresh towel over his scalp, leaving his hair only slightly dampened. “I’m sorry if I hurt you,” I mumbled. “I’m not used to washing patients’ hair.”

Poe immediately twisted his torso, looking up to my face. I gritted my teeth as I registered his contracted abdominals. “What are you talking about? You didn’t hurt me.”

My eyes flickered to his arm. “You just seemed really... tense.”

“Uh,” Poe mouthed, the sound muted. I watched his eyes move down my chest, pupils swollen against his brown irises. He didn’t continue. He seemed lost for words.

I followed the trail his stare had made down my torso, sucking in an alarmed breath. I’d diverted so much of my thoughts towards Poe I hadn’t recognised the spray of water that’d soaked through my white cotton shirt, my bra now starkly visible through the dampened fabric. The cloth clung tightly to the curves of my breasts, leaving extremely little to imagination.

Of-fracking-course.

I laughed. A body shaking cackle that bounced off the tiled walls around us.

Any embarrassment in me simmered to hilarity at the thought of Poe’s face with my chest readily on show. His illuminating smile continued to flash as he chuckled along with me, and I couldn’t help but relish in it for the moments in which we continued to snicker.

When my laughter died down, I sighed, not exactly attempting to cover myself. He’d already seen what I had on display. “Well I think I’ve done just about as much as I can,” I jested, a smirk still drawn on my lips. “Do you think you can get yourself dressed? There are more night-clothes in the cupboard behind you.”

“I think I can manage,” he grinned back, seemingly relieved at the disruption from whatever tension had risen during this whole endeavour.

And with that, I sauntered out from the ‘fresher, closing the door gently behind me. My heart pounded to the beats of memories dashing into my mind, barely able to strangle a coherent understanding of everything I’d felt. It was all I could deliberate on as I entered my living quarters at the end of the hall and changed into new shirt - navy blue this time. My mind desperately tried to collect all the emotions I had experienced in the last 30 minutes and render some form of comprehension from them.

It was clear, I’d grown unprofessionally attached to Poe, so quickly, and more than any other human I’d encountered.

You like him.

It was a simple answer, yet it felt childish, to have developed a juvenile-like crush so soon after our meeting. I knew it was more to do with his appearance than our limited interactions, even though they were still somewhat endearing. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d experienced any of this heart fluttering emotion.

There were a few men that littered my past, but I had yet to experience the all-consuming, overwhelming need for someone that made people do irrational things, and I was sure no-one had ever thought of me in that way.

Only fleetingly had I endured any type of loneliness during my time on Raxus, and it usually passed as I woke to a new day - my work and my patients being wonderful distractions. I’d become so independent, so self-sufficient, that I never yearned to have someone become the centre of my universe.

Come now Alexys. You know that is not the reason why.

I gripped the sheets at the edge of my bed I had found myself sitting on.

You cannot let anyone too close. Not unless you want them to die along with you.

Before I could let the voice cause me to dive into an ocean of panic, I heard the ‘fresher door click closed.

“Alex?” Poe called from the hallway.

My feet planted onto the floor as I stood, letting the anxiety dissipate into the air around me. “Back here Poe.” I listened to his footsteps plod along the floor as he limped towards my living quarters, along with a few quiet huffs of effort. When he came into view at the entrance he still looked as appealing as before, even without his bare skin on show.

“You live in your clinic?” he questioned, looking around the apartment style quarters I’d constructed with the help of a few locals.

It was simple, efficient. The sizable room had everything a normal home would contain, all pulled into one. Kitchenette and dining table to the left, living room with a small two-seater sofa at the back wall, and my bed and closet to the right. A door leading to an ensuite ‘fresher was in the far right corner, one I only used if an overnighter patient was with me.

“It’s so I can still monitor a patient’s condition when they’re unable to return home yet. Remember, I’m the only doctor for thousands of kilometres.” I motioned to the holoscreen on my bedside table that would usually be displaying the vitals for any patients connected to monitor lines. There were only flat lines and zeros there now.

Poe cocked his head. “You don’t ever stop do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Being a doctor, looking after people. Even in your own quarters you’re still in that mode.” He hobbled further into the room, taking in the space around him.

“I’m sure you’re the same with your work for the Resistance.”

“True,” he conceded. “Being in the middle of a war tends to do that to people.”

I couldn’t hold back a cynical snort.

His eyebrows crinkled together. “What did that mean?”

Kriff. I wish I hadn’t done that.

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Just tell me,” he grumbled.

I pressed my lips into a hard line. I didn’t really want to start a heated discussion about the futility of this war with a Resistancepilot. But from the interactions I’d had with Poe so far, I doubted he was going to let this go.

“It’s just… Don’t you see the pointlessness of it all? Even if you overcome the First Order – how long will it be before another enemy rises up, or your new leaders become the same ruthless dictators themselves?” My voice grew less apprehensive, straightening myself into a more confident pose. “People are fickle. They change. Their emotions rule them beyond anything else, and because of that they can be manipulated so easily. People who swore fealty to one side can be dragged onto the other. The cycle never ends. There will always be more war, more fighting, more innocent deaths.”

Poe stared at me, bewildered. “You think it’s pointless to fight back against the First Order? People who conquer or destroy planets simply for more power? You’d rather we let them do as they please, letting billionsof innocent people die?”

“No of course not-” I started, already regretting every word I’d said.

“But that’s what you just implied, isn’t it? How can a doctorhave such a bleak view of the galaxy?”

I sighed, more at myself for opening my big mouth. “I’m just a realist Poe. People fight, we can’t help it. And those with the most power will fight to keep it, no matter how. I’ve just… I’ve seen too many people die, or damaged for the rest of their lives, for me to think war can ever generate peace.”

Poe’s eyes narrowed, his demeanour darkening. “You don’t think I’ve seen people, my friends, die or horribly injure themselves? You don’t think I’ve seen what war does? I still want to keep on fighting. I haveto. For the people that I’ve lost, who gave their lives for the rest of us, and the people I could save. Because people deserve a galaxy without a tyrant like Kylo Ren deciding who should live and who should die. Somehow, in your eyes, you think it’s pointless to even try?”

I didn’t have any type of acceptable answer. It was rude of me to point out the flaws of war with someone who had risked their life, and most likely come close to death because of it. “I’m… sorry Poe,” I insisted softly, settling back down on the edge of the bed. “It’s not my place to give my opinion on matters like this. I truly apologise if I offended you.”

I glanced up from twiddling fingers to see his delicately confused expression. He exhaled loudly, as he wobbled painfully to one of the chairs of the circular dining table across the room, straightening his injured leg out to rest it.

“I’m sorry too," he said, exhaling. “I’ve been living my life with the Resistance for so long I forgot there might be people who don’t believe in the cause like we do.”

“It makes sense,” I remarked. “Sometimes you get caught up in the bubble of the world around you, it’s hard to see beyond it.”

He nodded. “That’s very true.”

We sat in silence for a moment, both letting the heated exchange dry out into passing memories. Poe continued to peer around the room, his eyes scanning with a subtle scrutiny. “So what do you do when you’re not being a doctor?” he asked, the fierceness from before completely replaced by his normal cheerful tone.

“You mean in my free time?”

“Yeah. Do you have anything that keeps your mind away from all that... doctor work?”

I felt my face crinkle into confusion. “I… I don’t really.”

His expression mirrored mine. “You don’t have any hobbies? Something you do just for fun?”

“Uh…” I started, raking through my brain for anything I did outside the realm of my work. “Huh. I guess I don’t. I may just be the most boring person alive.”

Poe chuckled, and shook his head. “That’s definitely not true.” He met my eyes, flashing me a comforting grin. “You’re just hyper-focused on your work. Trust me, I get that. Sometimes all I even dream about are war council sessions and my ship interface. But you’ve got to switch off eventually, otherwise you’ll go insane.”

I was slightly dubious at that sentiment, since I’d made it over 4 years without slipping into insanity, but Poe’s question made me take check. Truthfully, I couldn’t remember the last time I had fun, when I felt joy in something other than making ill people better again.

Poe could see my face begin to fall. “Hey come on, let’s try now. You’ve only got me as a patient, and I am in no need for your treatment right now. Think of something you used to do, or always wanted to, and we can have a go of it together.”

His sudden eagerness to help made my heart swell. “Uh... sure. Okay.”

Poe nodded once without speaking, urging me to search through my mind for an idea. But it was hard to think when I kept looking at his face, now melted into an enthusiastic smile. I made my eyes glare at my feet, since they would be significantly less distracting while I attempted to think of a supposedly fun activity.

Even when I’d finished my work for the day, on the rare occasion I had no overnighters staying with me, I simply returned to these quarters to have dinner and prepare myself for sleep. In the moments between, all I tended to do was read over current news and research on my data pad, sometimes flicking through medical texts if I was stumped on how to deal with a patient’s condition, especially when it came to rarer alien species. Generally, I would be so tired from the day that I never needed to pass my time with anything remotely hobby based. My focus would be to eat, use the ‘fresher and settle into an easy slumber.

And in this singular moment, I realised how monotonous it all was.

Poe saw me struggling, although probably not knowing it was at the realisation that I had no idea what fun was anymore. “Okay, how about games? Surely you’ve played at least one holo or card game in your life?”

“Well yeah, but that was years ago, and I don’t have any-” I stopped mid-sentence, the flicker of a memory rising into my mind’s view. “Wait here a second.” Hopping up from my bed, I made my way to the office, switching on the light. A large wooden desk sat in the centre, littered with old patient notes I had been in the middle of updating when my life had been so suddenly interrupted with Poe’s appearance.

I ignored them to walk towards the storage cupboard behind it. It took a few minutes of rummaging through stacks of files and old pieces of obsolete medical equipment to find what I’d come in here for - a small, rectangular metal case the size of my two hands, snatching it from the shelf I’d mindlessly placed it on nearly 3 years ago.

Bringing it back with me into my quarters, I quickly sat at the dining table next to Poe, who turned to face me with a look of intrigue. I opened the case, exposing the contents inside. “An old patient of mine gifted this to me, promised to teach me how to play. He… never got the chance to.”

My mind wandered in the memory of the older gentleman who had been struck down with Quannot’s syndrome, only lasting a few days before his unavoidable death. I recalled how much I mourned his passing, distressed at how little I could do to ease his pain before he left this world.

“Sabbac!” Poe burst, interrupting my sombre reminiscing.

I shook myself back into the current reality. “You know how to play?”

“Of course, almost every being in the galaxy knows how,” he scoffed. Only after he noticed me shifting awkwardly in my seat did he realise what he’d said. “Uh, sorry. Come on, I’ll teach you.” He continued to pull the cards out of the case, laying them out face up in a specific order. “Okay, so this is the Flask suit...”

*

If we were playing for real money, Poe would have put me in the red.

“23? Again? You’re definitely cheating,” I grumbled, huffing into my seat, not for the first time of the evening. After I’d grasped the basic concept of the game, we’d played for hours, time passing quickly in the midst of bluffing and strategy.

Poe was evidently enjoying the immaturity of my tantrum, laughing softly as he pulled the last of my chips towards his already immense pile. “I guess beginner’s luck didn’t really work out for you in this case,” he sniggered.

I pouted, watching him stack the chips neatly in coloured towers. “Well, I’m out. You took me for all I’ve got.”

“But didn’t you have fun?”

I nodded and grinned, conceding even when I’d been horrendously beaten, but was a combination of both him and the game we’d played that made me feel an unfamiliar contentment warm my body. I eyed him marvelling his chips, an expression of pride filling his features. “You really like winning, don’t you?”

“Being with the Resistance, you kind of get used to savouring the wins when they occur. Doesn’t happen exceedingly often.” His thoughts seemed to drift away, and in his face I knew he was pondering over the state of affairs back at base with him missing.

“I have no doubt they’ll be searching day and night for you,” I soothed, hoping I guessed correctly.

Poe attempted a smile, but it dissolved when a large sigh breathed past his lips. “I’m doing my best not to worry. The people there, they’re all smart and capable, but we had a plan… and I haven’t been able to see it through. We were running out of time as it is. I can only imagine how concerned they'll be after not receiving a report in over two day cycles.”

“It’ll be okay,” I said softly, tentatively placing a hand on his upper arm, above where I’d placed the plastic cast. “I know it sounds kind of naïve, but when I’m overwhelmed, especially in my work, I break everything down into smaller problems, and try to face the most pressing one. The big picture doesn’t matter, it’s all about solving the most concerning challenge at the time. And little by little, the whole situation becomes… easier.”

“It does sound a little naïve. But… I like it.”

“It worked for me when I was trying to save you.” I gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.

Poe didn’t respond. He seemed to ruminate in his own mind, his mouth in a forced, hard line. I watched as his eyes glanced down to where my palm rested around his bicep, then back to me.

His gaze was suddenly heated, smouldering, so intense it locked me into place, a ribbon of flames darting through my veins. I noticed the speckles of gold hidden through his irises, as it occurred to me how close our bodies had become during the time spent sitting at the dining table. The air around felt dense, the only sound I could register my own gradual breathing.

Poe's vision wouldn’t move from mine, his blazing stare a stark difference from the rest of his softened features. It felt as if his movements were in slow motion, the way he lifted his bandaged arm, a hand reaching up to my face.

I remained unmoving, even when my entire being began to flicker with electricity, igniting sparks at every nerve ending on my skin. Fingertips finally touched my cheek, grazing over it so delicately, yet still making the energy glowing through me intensify, as if trying to break free from my body.

Poe began to lean closer, and unconsciously I mirrored his movement, wanting nothing more in this moment than to feel his lips on mine.

Stop this Alexys. Stop it now.

The voice caused me to jerk backwards, pulling myself away from Poe’s touch, rising abruptly out of the chair. “This is… this is inappropriate,” I peeped, rushing directly to my ensuite ‘fresher, clicking the door closed. With my back pressed against the door, I slid slowly down until my rear hit the tiled floor.

I could still feel the heat of Poe’s fingertips on my cheek, a painful reminder of what I’d run away from. But the echo of what the voice had demanded still rattled through, and I knew it was right. I knew I couldn’t let myself get too close - I couldn’t give in to the sudden desire that had shimmered inside my chest.

It would cost me my safety, my work, my purpose of being. I’d risked everything to get here, given up all I knew of home. I wouldn’t let it all be in vain on the whim of my emotions.

There was no way to stop it, the lone tear that strolled down my cheek. It was a mere fraction of the sobs I wanted to express, both despair and frustration gripping me in a strangling hold.

With shaking palms held front of me, I traced each creased line in the flesh with my eyes. Not for the first time, I cursed at the energy that flowed through them, unlocked from the depths of my consciousness and healed those who needed it the most, those who would have otherwise died when even the greatest medical care couldn’t save them.

I’d kept it hidden for my whole life, the Force I’d been born with and couldn’t escape from. I’d concealed it from everyone, including my parents, keeping a far enough distance to hold my secret within my mind.

Only two outcomes came with exposure. One being I would be recruited, trained as a Jedi and guilted by the Resistance to join a war I didn’t believe in. The other being hunted by the Sith, or any kind of dark side user, and killed for showing any type of prowess with the Force like so many younglings before, or swayed into the war to fight on their behalf.

There was no way either side would allow me to slip from their grasp once they knew. They would never tolerate my neutrality and let me stay here in the countryside of an Outer Rim planet, doing exactly what I wanted to do. Heal.

Why me? Why did this have to happen to me?

Because you do not want it.

That’s cruel.

Such is life.

*

I wasn’t sure how long I spent sitting on the ‘fresher floor, ceaselessly on the verge of tears, yet never allowing the emotion to fully break. A creeping feeling of humiliation had started to filter in a short time ago as I recounted over and over how abruptly I’d run from Poe.

My eyes hadn’t caught the glimpse his face after I wrenched myself away from his hand, yet all I could do was imagine it now, features struck with shock and rejection. I’d barely heard him leave my quarters after I’d shut myself away, faintly recalling his right leg still making a larger thumping sound when he walked into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

That memory had taken place hours ago, and my body was beginning to ache after another large portion of time connected to hard tile.

The only thing I wished for now was the comfort of my bed, to sleep away this evening and wake to a fresh day. But I couldn’t. There was still a patient to look after. I needed check on Poe’s condition, update vitals, make sure his wounds were still healing. For my own benefit, I would rather wait for the morning when some of the lingering awkwardness would have dissipated, but there was no possibility of sleep without being sure he was still in good health.

Plus, I hadn’t told him about the food supplies waiting in the clinic cupboard. Being so distracted by playing cards I'd never made us dinner, and he needed all the sustenance he could get to heal properly.

With a fragile resolve to get it done and over with, I peeled myself from my sitting position, joints popping at the movement after being inactive for so long. I peered slowly through the door, on the small chance Poe was out there waiting to greet me, but it was just the empty quarters that filled my view.

For a reason I couldn’t discern, I began to tread lightly towards the hallway door, the stillness of night sending a quick shiver down my spine. Before opening it I glanced back at my chronometer on the bedside table.0200.

He was probably asleep by now.

Hesitation washed through me, knowing if that were true I shouldn’t go poking him awake just to assess basic vitals. But the urge was too strong, pushing me to step into the hallway, tip-toeing cautiously over the floor.

I was halfway down when I heard Poe’s low exhale echo through the passageway.

Hm, maybe he was dreaming.

My movements halted, waiting for another sound to confirm my guess. Soon enough, a louder sigh floated towards my ears, tainted with an emotion I couldn’t name.

I continued to tread ever so lightly towards the clinic entrance, noticing the lights had been shut off except for the lamp at Poe’s bedside softly illuminating the room. I shifted carefully closer, almost at the doorway, Poe’s relaxed breaths still filling my ears as I took nimble steps towards the noise.

When a low, breathy moan swirled into the air, my body froze.

The fire in my lower abdomen crackled to life at the sound, making my limbs heavy, locking me where I stood, hidden from view.

Another moan, louder this time, rumbled past Poe’s lips, and I savoured the way it hit my body. My hearing strained to collect every wavelength of sound coming from just outside the hallway entrance. There was movement, a rustling of fabric of some sort, a slight creak of the bed frame.

I could feel my throat growing tighter, fearful of my breath alerting him to my presence, as the realisation of what was happening - what he was doing - finally dug its claws into my skin.

Poe groaned in pleasure as I began to recognise the sound of a repetitive slippery motion over flesh, the flames inside bursting into an inferno, the fever hottest between my legs.

I leant my back on the hallway wall closest to Poe’s hospital bed, fearing my knees would buckle underneath me. His breathing became faster, more passionate, as the pace of his movement grew more rapid.

Inside my mind, I was bombarded with hypothetical images of his body in the next room, a strong hand gripped tightly around the shaft of his length, shifting up and down. The gasps he continued to make fell into time with my imagination, the sound of skin making a slicking friction keeping rhythm with the urgent pumping of his hand I visualised with impeccable realism.

My fingernails scraped at the wall, eyelids shut tightly while Poe’s delicious moans sent shockwaves through my circulatory system. I’d never felt so much lust in my life, knowing if I caught any other male in this vulnerable position I would have scuttled away quickly, mortified. Yet the reality of Poe touching himself a few metres away, not knowing I was here listening to his rising pleasure, made an urgent craving throb between my legs, one that needed to be relieved. Now.

Little care had been paid to my sexual needs in the last 4 years on this planet. Suddenly, it felt like I had to give into it otherwise I might die.

Poe’s breath hitched, a sharp inhale indicating he was getting closer to his peak. The singular noise made me slip my hand down past the border of my leggings and under my panties, sliding a finger down in between my folds. A slick moisture was waiting, more than I’d ever felt in previous encounters.

Dragging two fingers through it, preparing myself, Poe’s groans became hungrier, desperate. As soon as I began the motion of relieving the ache below, fingers gliding gently over my swollen clit, the flames fizzled, only to be replaced with an immense sparkle of electricity radiating from low in my core.

I inhaled sharply, like Poe had done, and hoped he was too lost in his own pleasure to notice the sound I’d made. When the steady noise of his hand running smoothly over his shaft continued without pause, I knew I’d not broken my cover.

My thoughts intensified to him, envisioning his arm tensing as he held himself within his grasp, his chest bare with muscles contracting along with his movements, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his skin.

Fingertips slid quickly back and forth over my pleasure point as I pictured his face contorted in both effort and enjoyment, his mouth opening only slightly as luscious groans seeped from his throat. I grit my teeth to stop from moaning myself, an undeniable bliss growing stronger with each swirling motion. My chest heaved through silent breaths I couldn’t articulate with noise, mind muddled with overwhelming images of every part of Poe’s body I so desperately wanted to see with my own eyes.

But I refused to move. I didn’t want to break the course of the moment, wishing for nothing more than to hear the sound of his release, knowing it would push me into my own. He wasn’t rushing into it, almost as if savouring this time alone, moans rising only to fall as he slowed his pace again.

I didn’t do the same.

The circling over my clitoris continued to accelerate, tiny instances of my waiting climax peeking their way out every so often, telling me I was getting closer to falling over the edge.

My legs were shaking, being held up by pure resolve to prevent any noise resonating from my body. Poe was speeding up his movement again, but this time he didn’t slow, stuttered sighs escaping his chest, and it hastened my climbing pleasure. I was close, I could feel the tipping point bubbling under the surface of my skin.

Slowly, I heard him growl a few barely comprehensible words.

“Ugh… Alex... yes...”

My release abruptly exploded through me at the sound of my name on his lips, pleasure pulsing in overflowing waves over every portion of flesh. Front teeth bit hard into my bottom lip, preventing the whine I desperately wanted to set free. It was the most intense sensation I’d ever felt, sparks flickering in both the deepest part of my core and the nerves of my limbs, making me shiver in delight.

Quickly, I was all too sensitive, pulling my fingers away, eyeing the sheen of moisture that covered them. My attention was again caught in Poe’s moaning, as he too reached his peak, muted gasps coming in jolts as he finally came, obviously attempting much like me not to make any excessive noise.

Eventually he began to heave in relief, breaths hissing gradually through his teeth. We both stayed in our positions for a minute or so, relishing in the afterglow of our separate orgasms, the flames I’d felt down below settling into smouldering embers.

I was mulling over the pleasure I’d gone without for years, when I heard Poe rustle in his bed, feet softly plodding on the floor. It took two steps for me to finally realise.

He’s coming this way.

~

Next Chapter

Tag list: @tlcwrites @roanniom @foxilayde @blackberries45 @hopeamarsu @caillea @princessxkenobi @leatherboundbirate @blowthatpieceofjunk @mylifeisactuallyamess @poedameronloverx @lightsinthedistancee @paterson-blue

[rizumary]

Like A Soda Pop (part.2)

This was the highest peak of Hajime Iwaizumi’s delicate springtime of life—according to Tooru, who definitely didn’t have any say in Hajime’s love life. At all. (Or, the one where Iwaizumi got overwhelmed by a kouhai’s not-entirely-unwelcomed romantic advances and Oikawa did have any say in his love life, after all.) [Iwaizumi/OC; confession fic]

Writer: nutteu | AO3 version [part 1] ー [part 2]

There were days that felt like Akeno; soft, airy cotton candy days filled with wondering eyes and quick-silver heartbeats. Where his hands trembled with the confusion of wanting to hold Akeno’s hand or to punch the wall because he was too overwhelmed by her.

But, there were also days when Hajime felt like he ached so deep within his marrow. The cramp from their latest bout of harsh practices, the looming threat of competitions, the painful anxiety of losing, of not being able to play a little bit longer—just a little bit more—

For people like Tobio, like Ushijima, even Tooru, the ache must have been filled to the brim with growth and potentials. But for Hajime, it felt like bone deep weariness and fear. That it wasn’t enough, that he didn’t try hard enough, that eventually, he wouldn’t be able to catch up no matter how hard he worked for it. He was neither the gifted nor the talented. All he had was his love for volleyballs, and the stubborn, unmoving desire of reaching the pinnacle of championships with his team.

On those days, he smiled less, hit the balls harder than ever, took every cramp and ache in his muscles. He came early, went home the last. On those days, there was nothing he would like to do but scream, and practice until his legs give out; nothing but staying away from everyone and curl up and cry. The juxtaposing needs made him tired, so tired.

Tooru knew, of course he knew. On those days, he gave as good as he could; teased less, and pacified the other members when they were worried about Hajime’s unusual walls he erected around him. They all got used to it, in the end, letting him vent out his frustrations instead of coddling him. Joked around and acted like he didn’t run himself to the ground just the day before. They didn’t ask, because there were certain things that couldn’t be shared unless they were awake in the middle of the night, or too tired to pay attention properly after a rigorous training camp.

Akeno Hana brought a change to that—abruptly, with her brand of awkwardness and earnest intention.

When everyone else had left, she waited in the gym for him, sitting on the polished floor with a terrifying focus on her delicate face. Hajime almost jumped in surprise when he realized that he wasn’t alone. The irritation was fast to catch up to him. Tooru really needed something to gag his stupidly big mouth. A fist, preferably.

As if reading the hard lines on his face, Hana shook her head and talked first to soother his fraying nerves. “No one told me, they wouldn’t. No one sells you out, Iwaizumi-senpai. Although, they’re as worried as I am. I just—“ she hesitated, and Hajime let out a long sigh. It wouldn’t do anything to snap at her just because she was on the wrong place, at the wrong time.

He reached for his bottle of water and towel, and sat next to her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t mad at you. Things are just… difficult for me sometimes,” he said. He didn’t know why he bothered explaining this to her. He never did, not even to Tooru; not even to his mom, though she probably understood anyway. Maybe it was the way Hana just showed to him that she perceived and paid attention more than anyone thought, maybe it was the patience he saw in her eyes, maybe it was because—

Oh, God, he thought, heaving a deep sigh that suspiciously wavered at the end. He was tired, he was so tired. Worrying about his passion, the continuation of his education, his career path—it all built up inside his chest, and in days like these, he couldn’t rationalize it, couldn’t clear his head enough to control his mind and emotions.

Hana nodded, and took the box of something that he assumed was a bento. She unwrapped the cloth covering, and he noticed, out of his will, that her hands was delicate, pretty. Acutely in contrast with his calloused, blistered hands. He wanted to try holding her hands, he thought, and shook his head to banish the thought away. Hana didn’t seem to notice, thankfully.

“I, uh, I made this,” she started, sounding shy and proud. “I remembered that you mentioned you like these, and—and you made me chicken karaage too when I was sad. I wanted to help you too, senpai. But I don’t know if I can do something that actually counts, so I thought—maybe at least I can cheer you up with these?”

Hajime looked over, and was stunned to silence. On the red bento box, alongside the regular assortments, were agedashi tofu that glazed so beautifully Hajime was reminded of his hunger. But above the dish, and the fact that he hadn’t eaten since lunch, the fact that she remembered, that she cared enough to try to cheer him up with this—Hajime swallowed, his throat felt dry all of the sudden. He forgot how to speak, for a moment.

“I—“ he croaked out, and was startled to realize that his eyes were watering. She must have been puzzled as to why he looked like he was about to cry right now, because she suddenly rambled in frantic manner, gesticulating with her hands as her small face scrunched up in worry and panic.

“Of course you don’t have to eat these if you don’t want to, senpai!” she hurried to explain. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to intrude or to patronize! I swear, I just—“ she bit her lip, and looked at him with pale, pleading eyes. “I just wanted to help. Please, let me help, Iwaizumi-senpai.”

He managed a small smile, and took the bento from her hands; felt an electric current ran through his fingers when they brushed against hers. “No, this is more than enough, Akeno. Really,” he said, when Hana still looked unconvinced, “you’ve helped a lot by just being here.”

And that might be too honest, contained more implications than what Hajime would be willing to admit right now, but he couldn’t bring himself to take it back or play it off as something mundane when Hana flashed him the most brilliant smile, happiness etched into the creases around her eyes. He smiled back, stronger, more sincere this time. They were silent after that, but it didn’t feel stifling. Just a comfortable silence to fill in the scant inches of distance between them.

On days like these, Hajime usually wore himself out until he couldn’t think, couldn’t stay awake long enough to let the fear consumed him. But this, he thought as he looked over to Hana’s still smiling face, it felt nice, too.

Hana confessed, out of the blue. Or not so much out of the blue for literally everyone.

It seemed like, Akeno still had one last surprise for him. The biggest, most unexpected surprise that actually felt like a massive, enormous bang in Hajime’s heart: a confession.

(Or maybe, just maybe, Hajime was too busy being conflicted with himself, too busy being enamored by Akeno Hana’s soft, sunny, enveloping charm, to notice that once again, Tooru was right. Hajime really was too dense about romance.)

At first it was like any other day. Of course, it wasn’t any other day. In his defense, Hajime rarely ever got the chance to marvel and enjoy the full extent of Valentine’s Day. Mostly because Valentine had no business at all in the volleyball court. It didn’t matter whether the whole school was in tizzy from the hormone buzz, if coach said lapped until they collapsed, then they’d lapped until they collapsed—Valentine’s Day or not.

Which was probably why Hajime didn’t suspected anything when Akeno walked alongside him, wrapped in her winter uniform and a pink scarf. It suited her, he thought, glancing down at the top of her head. She seemed… nervous. Or maybe she was just cold. She insisted on coming with him to the club, and it was pretty early in the morning. Maybe he could offer her his jacket, too? Yeah, he could do that.

When he opened his mouth to offer, however, Akeno ran ahead of him, before stopping, and extending something on both hands. For a moment, the world stopped. Hajime lost the words forming on his lips as he stared, open-mouthed, at the small, blue box in her gloved hand. She was bowing, her hair falling into curtains and hid the majority of her face, her voice though was as clear as the sun after a rainy day.

“I like you, Iwaizumi-senpai!”

For a heart-stopping second, there was nothing but the faint sound of the students in the distance; the echo of Akeno’s confession ringing in his mind; his accelerating heartbeat beating drums in his ears. He stood there, stock still, too shocked to wrap his head around the situation. Did Akeno… just say that she liked him? Like, the girl who had been charming him left and right and leaving him feeling warm and fuzzy, was actually here, offering him a box of chocolate, and confessing to him? What?

Unfortunately, his mouth only caught up with the last part. “Uh,” he croaked out, hesitant, bewildered, overwhelmed. “What?”

Akeno looked up then, and Hajime suddenly had the epiphany that her reddened face since they met this morning wasn’t just from cold. But because she was holding this in. She looked—afraid, but determined.

“I fell in love with you since the first time we met, senpai,” she said, her voice wavering for a little bit, before strengthening. “I have heard things about you from Kyoutani, but the first time we met, I was immediately taken by your charm. You were so kind even when I was embarrassing myself, you were patient with me, you helped me a lot, you paid attention to me, and you—“ she stopped to take in a breath, and powered through, as though if she didn’t get this out right here, right now, she wouldn’t be able to let out everything in her chest. Her eyes were bright with affection and determination and shyness, but her next words carried on without a hitch.

“You made me feel welcomed. You made me feel accepted and protected, cared for and cherished. I’m so happy when you asked me about things I like, when you mean it, when you hold me as I tripped, when we played together in the arcade. Every day we ate our lunch together, I felt the happiest because I could sit by your side and get to know you more. I’m thankful, that you let me know you in return, and that you trust me enough to open up to me.” There was a small smile playing on the curve of her lips, almost shy, full of happiness as she recalled her memories of them together. “I—I know that there are other girls who you like better than me, but senpai, I, too, wanted to shine in your eyes because in mine, you are the only one I’ve ever had the eyes for.”

Their breaths puffed out in small rush of fog, eyes wide as they stared at each other. Hajime, every so slowly, took the box of chocolate from her hands, and stared at it in amazement. Akeno’s previous words played in continuous repeat inside his head. He was—surprised, extremely so. But his chest felt so warm, despite the weather. It was just that he didn’t know what to say, didn’t trust himself enough to talk properly.

Akeno must have translated his silence into objection, because she seemed even more flustered than before, and her words started to jumble together. “And! I just thought—I thought, I wanted senpai to know about my feelings. Because they feel like they’re about to burst from my chest. Like—like a soda pop! I just wanted you to know, that I like you, senpai! And that you are very precious to me, and I’m thankful for all your helps as well, and that you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met. So—so um—oh my god, what am I doing—“ she squeaked at herself, and looked up at Hajime with pleading eyes. “so—I just want to say—I like you so much, Iwaizumi-senpai.”

When Hajime still didn’t move, or say anything, Akeno visible gulped, and grinned stiffly. “Um, anyway. That’s all I wanted to say.” She laughed, awkward and very much still high on nervous energy. “Have a nice valentine!”

As she left him, he could faintly hear her murmur, “a nice valentine? Does that even make sense? Stupid Hana!” as she hit her head with her hand. Hajime took a long ass minute standing there, looking at her retreating back, and back to the box that he was pretty sure contained chocolates on his hand.

Everything was happening too fast for him to comprehend, and it almost felt like a dream. But it wasn’t. It didn’t feel so. Because the weight of the box was real, and Akeno’s swaying hair was still in his sight as she left, and the warmth that slowly spread inside him despite the coldness on his face was very much real. This wasn’t a dream. Akeno had actually confessed to him. As in, she liked him.

“Oh my Gods,” he whispered out brokenly after long minutes just staring at the spot where Akeno disappeared. “Oh my Gods she likes me too. Holy shit.”

The revelation, the sudden intensity of happiness, the giddiness that made him lost his breath. Hajime laughed, in disbelief and slightly hysteric because—he just couldn’t believe it. She liked him, as in liked him. . A romantic type of like, the one with fast heartbeats and the unbearable urge to hold their hands, or spend time with them, or smiling when they talked excitedly about their passion. The type of like that now had become one of the spotlights in his delicate springtime of life.

And then, he realized that for the entirety of the confession, he just stood there looking like a dead fish. “Oh my Gods,” he groaned, frustrated and panicked. He hoped Akeno didn’t make the wrong assumption. But then again, she might have. He didn’t even deign her with any answer whatsoever. Which, was fair. She didn’t ask him out or anything back there. So… so it was fine right? Right, it was fine that he didn’t answer because there was never a question to begin with. She just confessed her feelings, and then—and then Hajime could talk to her about his feelings too, and maybe then, he could ask her out. Yeah, sure, he could do that. He just needed to calm down first, and tried to wipe the giddy grin on his face.

(He didn’t meet Akeno for the rest of the day, but Tooru had seen the box of chocolate in his bag, and was so insufferably smug that Hajime had to punch him. He ate the chocolate at home. It was a tad bitter—she probably took the wrong type of chocolate—but it warmed his heart nonetheless.)

Akeno didn’t come to the club anymore after that. She avoided him in the hallways, didn’t come to their usual lunch time, didn’t reply to his messages, didn’t pick up his calls, even Kyoutani was at loss. Hajime was, to say the least, panicking. No, it wasn’t right, he was an absolute wreck.

He was worried about it to the point of considering just ambushing her after classes, but she would just squeak and run as she did these past few weeks. The other players had been asking about her, too. “Did you guys get into a fight?” they asked, or something like, “There’s finally a problem in the paradise, huh?” which would get a glare from Hajime, typically. He couldn’t exactly tell them that it wasn’t a fight; it was a confession, which was mutual, but they both were too dumb to deal with it properly.

It went on for about a month, before Hajime finally snapped, and turned to Tooru.

That motherfucker laughed. Of course he did. He spent his sweet ass time rolling on Hajime’s mattress, after eating Hajime’s cookies, laughing at Hajime’s misery. It hadn’t even been five minutes and Hajime had regretted this decision, very much so.

“So, in conclusion, she confessed to you, but was too nervous to ask you out and just hightailed it out of there?” Tooru asked, after calming down and wiping tears from his eyes.

“Yeah,” he replied curtly, frustrated and was five seconds away from throwing Tooru out of the window.

“And you were so shocked that you didn’t even say anything? And then you just stupidly thought she’d come around after that?”

He wanted to punch Tooru for that, but in the end, he just conceded with a defeated, “Yeah.”

Tooru exploded into another bout of obnoxious laughter. “Oh my Gods!” he wailed, “oh my Gods, Hajime, this is precious! I can’t believe it!” he dissolved into another giggle, as Hajime groaned and rubbed his face with both hands. He should have never asked Tooru, this just increased his blood pressure and made him consider murder.

Finally, though, Tooru took a pity on him, and said, “Iwa-chan, hana-chan is a simple girl, you know? She likes cute and cool things, she forgets anyone else is in the room when she talks to you, she cries eating your bentos, and she makes you handmade chocolate on valentine. You don’t need grand gestures, just give back what she gave to you—sincerity and clear affection.”

Hajime was stunned for a moment. He actually half-expected Tooru to joke about this and didn’t actually give a useful advice. But he was surprised yet again. He considered it for a moment, and Tooru left him to it after some more teasings.

Something simple, something she liked, and something he knew meant a lot to her. For the first time in weeks, Hajime might have a clue about what he should do. He just hoped that he was right, that it would be enough to win Akeno back.

It was almost six in the morning, and Hajime barely slept a wink last night. He stared at the ceiling in his room hard enough to make himself dizzy, as if he could drill a hole through it. After spending ungodly hours at the arcade yesterday, and quite possibly losing his pocket money for two weeks and several blood vessels from anger and frustration at the crane machine, he finally got the god forsaken thing that thought—wished—would help him and his ironically comedic, disastrous, wonderful crush on Akeno Hana.

He managed to sleep at ten, and then woke up at one am, thinking about ugly things that might transpire when he confessed. He tried to calm himself down, but the thoughts of what if she lost interest, what if she got heartbroken, what if she—kept him wide awake until 4 in the morning. Finally, the memories of spending time with her, the soft curve of her smile, the shine in her eyes when she talked about arts and her dream, the way she looked so sincere, so pretty on the day she confessed, calmed his nerves down. Enough to catch a little bit of sleep.

It didn’t last long, though. He was sleep deprived, was running on nervous energy, and his stomach felt like a knife had been twisted into it. When he finally couldn’t take it, he took his phone from the charging station, and, before he could lose the short burst of bravery, dialed Akeno’s numbers. He knew that girl had a habit of running late to school. This might the only time when she wouldn’t be aware enough to reject his call.

As he predicted, the call connected, and Akeno’s groggy voice greeted him from the other side. She sounded like a child abruptly woken up from a nap. It was cute, but Hajime wasn’t going to be distracted by cute things. Regardless if the said cute things came from the very person he liked. Whom he was going to confess to. Today. In just a moment. Oh Gods, he wanted to throw up.

Instead, he strengthened his resolve, and said, “Go get ready. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Akeno sounded more awake then, cautious. “But… why, senpai?”

Why indeed. But Hajime couldn’t just back off now. He didn’t want to. A month filled with uncertainty about their relationship and the abrupt absence of Akeno in his life, was enough to fill his courage. He didn’t want to go through that again. “I really need to see you, Akeno.”

There was a soft hitch of breath, and then Akeno’s trembling voice. “Y-yeah—uh, I mean, yes, I’ll get ready. Um, take care on your way here, senpai.”

Akeno was already waiting on the front porch when he got there. She looked nervous, but there was a hesitant happiness that peeked through her pale eyes. Her mom waved at him from the door jam, and he bowed, nervous and awkward all at once. They parted with a knowing look from her, and walked to the nearest bus stop that Akeno usually took.

They walked side by side in silence, the both of them too nervous to break the tension between them. It was as if they were waiting on the edge, and Hajime felt like throwing up again. Even playing in tournaments didn’t feel nerve-wracking, even if both the tournaments and Akeno Hana were just as important to him.

Akeno was the first to break the silence, however, by tripping on the side of the road, over nothing. Hajime’s quick reflexes prevented her from falling over and scraped her knees on the pavement, and she shot him a grateful smile. “Thank you, senpai.”

And maybe it was the familiarity, of holding her like this when she was about to fall, of the words he hadn’t heard in a month, of the smile he hadn’t seen much these days, that he just blurted out, “you’re so clumsy. If you got any clumsier than this, you might trip and lose your head, you know?”

Akeno, affronted, choked on air and replied, “Hey!”

He chuckled, and straightened her up. He started walking again, and Akeno followed his lead. Still looking ahead, he started pouring his heart out, so his gut could finally stop twisting, and his heart could finally calm itself down, and he could breathe once the truth was out.

“You’re so clumsy, and you easily got lost if someone didn’t hold your hand. You’re such a crybaby, and sometimes you’re either embarrassed too easily, or entirely too shameless. You look adorable either way.” Next to him, Akeno let out the trademark squeak of protest.

“You have no sense of personal space, and yet I like it when you’re close. Your eyes look the prettiest when you talk about your art; I just realized that you give your whole attention to me when I talk—and I like that as well. You always wake up late, you got these crazy eyes whenever you’re playing crane games, you cook well but you suck at making confectionaries. You are such a mess of genuine feeling and wonder, and I like you too much to even think about a proper confession.”

Next to him, Akeno had stopped walking completely, and instead was staring at him with wide, wide eyes. So he turned, and smiled, and said, “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure this out,” he pulled out the item from his pocket, and keeping his fist close around it, he offered it in front of her. “Happy white valentine,” he said. “I got this for you, and you better like it because I didn’t just spend my time torturing myself in that cursed machine, and not getting a wink of sleep because I was too nervous.”

“Too nervous for what?” Akeno finally spoke after being shocked still for so long.

“To ask you out, of course,” he said, and it felt so easy, sliding off his lips in light cadence. It felt alarmingly natural on his tongue, like it waited his whole life to reach this delicate springtime of life to finally say it. “Instead of, you know, running away after the confession.”

At that, Akeno finally snapped out of the trance and pouted at him. Even pouting like that she still looked unfairly cute. Hajime was indeed going insane. Simp, he faintly heard Tooru’s voice whispered viciously in his head, complete with the shit-eating grin.

“Hey! It’s not nice to embarrass people like that!” she yelled, high pitched and patting her cheeks to alleviate some heat. They looked appropriately reddened. “I was nervous, okay. You know I do stupid things when I’m nervous, senpai,” she whined, and he chuckled low.

He stepped closer to her, and slowly, carefully, brought his hands to where Akeno’s were and wrapped them around bunny plushy he had tried so hard to get, her soft smiles in mind every time he failed to get it. Hana’s eyes widened, pale irises recognizing the object in her hands immediately, and held back a sob as she realized that Hajime remembered. “So, how about it? Will you go out with me? I promise I’ll make you karaage any time you like, and I made really good confectionaries, and you can steal all my jackets as you like and we can get you all the bunny plushies in the world and—“

And Akeno was laughing, crying, taking the bunny plushy from his hands and rushed forward to envelope him in the tiniest, warmest hug he had ever received in his whole life. “Yes,” he heard her saying, then, more clearly than ever, like a ringing bell in the foggy morning, “yes, I’ll go out with you, Iwaizumi-senpai!”

And really, if people looked at them weird because they were hugging on the side of the road, crying and sniffling and giggling like middle school girls, Hajime could honestly give less than half a shit, because he was too busy wrapping his head around the unfathomable happiness that filled his heart to the brim. Oikawa was going to be insufferably smug, Hajime was too happy to even feel frustrated though.

Because they were shyly holding hands on their way to the bus stop, the bunny plushy safely strapped to Akeno’s bag, and her smile was bright enough to light the whole world. Hajime’s world, at least. And as he looked at her, smiling softly at the radiant joy on every line of her face, he felt his heart beat so loud he could hear it in his ears. Like his feelings and happiness and sheer force of affection for Hana was about to burst.

Like a soda pop.