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oonajaeadira · 4 years ago

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LOSING MY RELIGION: CHAPTER 9: REUNION

(Image: Kashyyyk spaceport.)

Rating: Mature.

Pairing: Post Season 2 Din Djarin x force sensitive reader (fem, post-Order 66 Jedi). Soft, slow burn on both sides, internal struggles and feels. Alternating POV.

Warnings: Violence: blaster fire, bludgeoning with heavy objects, punching. Spice: extreme touch-sensitivity, self-pleasuring, kinda-voyerism (eaves-dropping), outercourse/clothed grinding. Fluff: lots of trust and love, some yearning and protection vibes, gratuitous awe at each other’s bliss.

A/N: This is my super-selfish and indulgent comfort chapter. A chapter crammed full of stuff that I just wrote because I craved it. Din on the hunt and beating some ass. The discovery that something somewhat forbidden is actually a gift. A first time that is endearing for someone so battle-worn to have as a first time. Dirty sex in a way that’s a different kind of dirty and a different kind of sex but all the way fluffy. A comfortable understanding of the lust between two lovers that will get there when it gets there and every step on the way is just right for them. Just the smallest dollop of protective Din. And a little friendship and wanderlust fulfillment that I desperately want right now.

Again, if you’d like to be added to the taglist, please let me know. <3

Summary: Din gets your help in more ways than one while on the job on Kashyyyk. Plus, a visit from an old friend.

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←-Previous Chapter 8: The Consort

________________

PART 1: DIN DJARIN

Laying on his belly in a pile of wet peat moss, Din looks through his scope. The brush is thick, but he can just make out the vine-covered side of a ground hut nestled on dry terrain under a wroshyr tree. Helmet sensors pick up one set of footprints in its direction. He doesn’t speak a lick of Shyriiwook, so there’s going to be no negotiating this time. His best bet is flash charge, blaster bolt to the weapon hand, maybe one to the leg, whipcord, and get the binders on as quick as possible; the stun setting on them should keep the bounty steady. In theory. If all else fails, he’s not going to lose a lot of pay if he has to bring him in cold, but…

He knows you’re going to hate this. He knows how tender-hearted you can be and when you found out you were on the way to Kashyyyk you spoke well of the Wookiees, got that look on your face when something feels calm and truthful to you like the whole species could do no wrong. Well, little bird, you’re about to be disappointed--in him or your furry friends--because every hive has its sting and this Wookiee is mean as they come. He’s earned himself a handle: “The Neck-Ripper.” Seems he likes to pull off heads, makes it easier for himself by using his teeth to start a good tear. Cleared out an entire underground gambling tank on some mid-rim skraghole. No wonder the bounty’s so high.

But if he can bring the bastard in alive, it might please you more. Or, at least, cause you less grief. He’s willing to do that for you, and try not to get his ass killed in the process.

Took Din three whole days to find him, tracking through the spaceport, out around the foothills, finally following the fob and the sensors out into the wild, although thermal footprint tracking is almost useless in this swamp. He’s so close now, just has to confirm he has the right Wookiee before he goes in guns blazing, and that there’s only the one. He takes his time moving in, a few feet every few minutes or so, ground’s watery and unstable, easy to make noise here. But he’s got plenty of day left. His cloak is wrapped like a cowl around his helmet and upper body--keeps the insects from bothering his neck and provides some camouflage. The sun makes beskar easy to spot in between the trees and the less he glints, the better.

Once he gets to dry ground he can get closer quicker, readying his blaster, moving in toward the decaying hut and finding a gap in the timbers to peek inside. One room. Fire going. Zero Wookiees. Thermal sensors show the huge, flat footprints going around the corner to the door, then back out again, around to the tree…

The tree.

Damn it! Din curses internally, reflexes kicking into high gear, skipping back a good three feet into the edge of the bog as a thundering mass of fur and claws and roaring falls from above, landing right on the spot he just vacated.

Too close and not enough time for a flash charge, Din aims the blaster at the huge wall of berserking Wookiee--a good seven and a half foot pillar of hairy rage--getting a couple of good shots to the upper torso and a thigh. But the guy is frenzied and charges right through the fire, fisting a tight grip around Din’s neck and swinging the other hand down in a blaze of claws onto the helmet. The Mandalorian throws his head into it--knows the beskar will hold up to the blow, but his neck won’t if he doesn’t counter. The Wookiee’s fist rings off the dome, and Din gets a good groin-punch in, playing dirty, causing the brute to throw him into the bog, blaster flying off into the mire.

There’s limited time to get his limbs unstuck from the muck before the quarry’s at him again, and Din has to roll once or twice as the guy squats and tries to beat him--fists the size of human skulls combined into one bludgeoning hammer as he lifts them high above his head with a guttural howl and brings them down in the space lately occupied by Din’s spine. A good blast of the flamethrower lights up most of his belly fur, and the beast stumbles back before throwing himself into the wet ground to extinguish himself.

This gives Din a hot second to get his feet under him. But while the quarry’s down, the guy grabs a handful of mud and slings it into Din’s visor, obscuring his vision, making it impossible to retrieve the blaster. Smart move. But not smart enough. Once Din’s upright he calls upon his good buddy Phoenix, activating the jetpack to boost him up and away while he switches to a projected heat sensory view, setting down with enough distance that when the Wookiee turns and charges, teeth bared, Din has enough time to throw the whipcord out, binding the assailant’s legs and pulling them from under him. The bounty goes down hard like a felled tree. This time it’s Din’s turn to be the hammer--but even his fists aren’t going to knock out a Wookiee. That’s why he unclips the Phoenix and swings it crudely but forcefully by one jet flume, slamming it sideways into the Wookiee’s jowl, knocking him out cold.

Wiping the mud from his visor with his cloak, Din swaps back to an unenhanced view.

Okay. Now that the guy’s been shown some tough love, it’s time for the aftercare. Step one, get him turned over, and cuff his hands behind his back. Step two, secure the cord around his feet. Step three. Recover the damn blaster.

Well, that was the easy part.

Step four. Get him back to the ship.

Of course he wasn’t going to come quietly; knocking him out was Din’s best bet. And if he wakes up, he’s nasty enough that there’s little chance he’ll stop for blaster fire or succumb to the stun mechanism in the binders. He’s got to be dragged back to the port. Hopefully Din can get him there before he comes to. Sitting the Wookiee up and lining him up back to back, latching an arm through each of the furry ones, he puts his weight into his knees, flexes his thighs and stands with a grunt, dragging his quarry behind him and carrying the Phoenix in one hand. The return’s going to be a slog--the ground is soft and this guy is huge. And he stinks. Even the helmet’s air filter isn’t helping him here. Din’s going to earn every credit.

But there’s another problem.

An axe-like horn and a couple of rows of razor teeth set inside a man-sized lizard, snarling and gnashing like the swamp skrag it is. Seems the noise and splashing called an oevvaor to the fray. Din swings his visor to the right; make that two oevvaors. And to the left. Soon to be four. Dank farrik. He has to shrug off his quarry to reach the blaster in time before the beasts strike, wasting no more than a shot a piece, dropping them easily. He can hear a gluttering in the distance, the sound of another arrival. Probably not the last.

Tricky.

Can’t carry this guy and fend off the carnivores at the same time. Can’t waste time taking them out as they come. Can’t just leave him and jet off for the Crest--there’s nowhere clear to land nearby and the bounty’ll most likely wake up and escape by the time he gets back. Or end up eaten. Jetpack won’t lift them both too far for too long.

But. It might lift them straight up for a short burst.

Din grins under the helmet, realizing he’s got a divine intervention now, a goddess he can pray to for just such an occasion.

Even with a gloved finger, he touches his remote buttons with precision, activating the long-range com.

“Little bird. You there?” He pauses to put a blaster shot through an oncoming oevvaor skull. “Hey. Pretty little bother. Are you asleep? Wake up.”

“I’m here, Captain.”

“Any chance you’re with the ship? I need you.”

“I am. Are you okay?”

“I will be when you get here. I want you to get the Crest in the air.”

________________

PART 2: YOU

What you miss in the mornings is waking up to arms around you and scruff brushing your cheek. To opening your eyes to a mess of black-brown cowlicks and a sleepy, dimpled grin. It’s only been a handful of days sharing a bed, but you’ve found that Din is at his most pliable in the morning, less guarded or cynical, willing to answer more questions about his life if you let him just hold you for as long as he wants, wrap your arms around his beskar-free body and let him put his big, warm hands under your shirt to stroke your skin.

The morning you landed on Kashyyyk and he left for the hunt, you tried to do the same to him, pulling up the flight suit top and undershirt, letting your touch roam free on the plains of his back. But any talk that morning devolved into mere sounds and single words on his part, his brain grinding to a halt as you skimmed your fingertips through the sea of goosebumps and the waves of shivers and over each found scar. How he tried and failed to resist rolling his hips against you. How you pulled in close, whispered it was okay, if he needed you, he could have you, whatever he wanted. But just the suggestion of your offers while you pressed against him and brushed a finger over a scar on his flank sent him over the edge.

He was quiet about it. Controlled. A little gritting of teeth, a bruising grip on your side, a holding of breath. Then a soft kiss on the forehead and an unapologetic retreat to the refresher. But damn if his face didn’t break your heart open with the beauty of his struggle.

When he returned and asked you in his way what you wanted him to do for you--half sentences left hanging--you simply asked him to come back to bed and talk, to allow you to continue mapping each others’s roads on your way to your next destination. There was no hesitation, no sign of timidity, just total acquiescence to your request, folding around you like he was made for nothing else.

Raking your fingers through his hair got him purring and talking. Through a series of inferences and short answers--even when he’s in a talkative mood, Din isn’t much of an elaborator--you learned that he’s not inexperienced; you’re close to equal footing. But this level of intimacy, this unnecessary skin-to-skin contact hasn’t been part of that experience and you--just by the very nature of your patient and gentle handling--are a whole different galaxy to him. He’d come through youthful experimentation, one-offs and non-committals, and then later, well, it was mostly easier not to bother.

“You though,” he’d breathed, eyes closed, just concentrating on the feeling of you petting his face and scalp, pushing his curls around his ear, “You’re a bother. You have been since the day you stepped on my ship. Some days I think Ahsoka knew exactly what she was doing.”

“Only some days? You underestimate her.”

________________

That morning you swore that if he didn’t know how long he was going to be gone, at least you were going to put a good meal in him before he went.

“So what should I expect? Hours? Days? Weeks? I don’t know how this works.” You held out his plate to him, waiting as he put the helmet down before taking it and digging in.

You’ve discovered that while he is mostly tactful about it, Din is not the most elegant eater, uses his utensil like a shovel to push the food together into an efficient pile before taking whatever fits on the spoon, never concerned about what individual thing he’s picking up, just working the long goal of clearing the plate.

“Depends,” he chewed with one side of his mouth and spoke out of the other, “hopefully a day at most.” Swallowing, he slowly raked his next bite together, readying the next supply delivery to his stomach. “If he’s in the port, I might find him today. But it’s unlikely. Probably skipped into the brush, so, might take a while, maybe a few days, a week. Depends how clever he is. How well-armed. How much he suspects someone might be after him.”

You’d watched him focus on shoveling and chewing, the simplicity of fueling himself, somehow astounded that none of this bothered him, there was no apprehension of the task at hand. But why should there be? He was going to bring them in warm, and if he couldn’t do that, he’d bring them in cold, but he’d get the job done one way or another and come back to you and go get paid, nothing to it. “If I pack some of this up, would you be able to take it with you?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“So you like it.”

“Yeah, It’s fine.” This is his usual reaction. Food is food is food.

“Tsk. I put some really good spices in that. Thought I’d actually impress you this time.”

“I’m already impressed with you.” Didn’t look up, didn’t get the sarcasm, just worked on his plate, dryly stating a fact.

“That’s not--” you’d laughed, not really needing a compliment, just, teasing, acting out of a residual melancholy of knowing he was going to be gone for a while. “I just wanted to make you a happy Captain.”

This time he did look up, but didn’t stop the raking and scraping of the food pile. “You think you don’t make me happy?” Shovel. Chew.

This needed no response. You’d simply weaved your fingers through his curls, his eyelids falling closed at your touch, and knew that it was the ingredient he needed to really enjoy the meal. Your surly, straightforward Mando.

You’d turned to go pack up the leftovers. But suddenly his arm was around your middle, pulling you backward onto his lap, the plate clattering on the crate beside him. His face dug into your shoulder and the gloved hand that so lately held his meal found your thigh, fingers making a home there in warm circles.

“Tell me...” he hesitated, not the one used to making requests, “what you're going to do while I’m gone.” His tone was soft, sincere, his breath seeping in humid through the layers of clothing on your shoulder. He was asking you to paint a picture of yourself for him, one he could take with him. Keep him warm.

“Mmmm... I’ll probably play tourist? Explore the port, maybe the town too if you’re gone long enough. Look around. Eat some new things. Try to learn some phrases in the local language.”

His hand slid over the top of your thigh and around to the inner knee, absently stroking a little pattern there. “Yeah? What else?” Ah. He also wanted to be assured that you’d think about him while he was gone.

“Sleep in late. Miss you.”

“Hmm.” And then that hand started a slow tentative drag upward. ”At...the same time?”

Oh. Now he was going to go there, was he. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

“Yeah.” A silent sigh warmed through to your shoulder. “Tell me. What else.”

“Worry about you, probably.”

He went soft and still around you. “Hey--no. Don’t.”

Not the answer he was looking for, apparently. But it was the truth whether he liked it or not. You gently took the hand from your thigh, laid it over your heart, and hugged it in place of him.

Attachment leads to the fear of losing what you have. It’s a part of the code you grew up with, a sentiment that you’ve found to be true. And you’ve accepted the trade. Sure, the lesson was supposed to lead you away from attachment. But then again, deprivation isn’t good either. There’s a reason the Order fell. Tell someone they can’t love who they love and there’s going to be hell to pay. Din can tell you not to worry all he wants, but it’s linked to your attachment and it’s not going to stop. Still. It is a comfort to hear him tell you not to.

Din rocked you forward and walked you to the weapons locker. After digging through the mess at the bottom, he handed you a fob--a black box with wires and buttons that was roughly the size of your palm, unfinished, looked like it had been taken off another piece of tech. “This button controls the ramp so you can come and go. I’d prefer it if you’re back in the ship before too late at night. Spaceports can get rough.”

“Wait. Now who’s worrying?”

“It’s my job. This one will open a long-range comlink to the helmet. Do not use it unless it’s an emergency. You come into my ear at the wrong time, things could get bad for me, understand?”

“But I suppose you claim the right to contact me at any time.”

“Yep.”

“Because it’s your job.”

“Something like that.” He’d brushed a knuckle over your cheekbone, then pushed your hair behind your ear. “You probably won’t hear from me. And that’s a good thing. That box stays quiet, you know everything’s okay.”

While you let that sink in, he’d grabbed his plate, keeping it with him and taking a spoonful here and there as he pointed out codes on some of the panels--air filters, running lights, auxiliaries, intruder alarms if you wanted, if they made you feel safer. Gave you a stash of credits so you could pay docking fees once a day.

The last thing he’d done was stock up his gear and wait for you to bring the helmet, leaving a set of whispered assurances in your ear. You brought the bucket down and over his head between kisses--one for his lips and one for the visor. He was down the ramp and out of the dock without a look back, arms swinging wide under his broad shoulders, cape fluttering in the warm air, sun glinting off the jetpack, blinking fob in hand. Already on the hunt.

“This is what I do.”

“I know.”

“You told me to take this job.”

“I did.”

“So no worrying, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Relax. Try to have fun. I’ll see you soon.”

He’d taken all the leftovers. And his plate was clean.

________

Thikkiiana’s spaceport isn’t as large or as trafficked as Rwookrrorro, but it still has a lot to offer, maybe more so when it comes to local culture, since Thikkiiana’s port buildings are still built into the wroshyr trees, eschewing the more galactic metal structures of the bigger city. The locals here are kind and accommodating, fluent in Basic even if they can’t wrap their tongues around it, but patient in turn with those who can’t speak Shyriiwook. Almost every sign is translated in Aurebesh among other texts, the languages at the port singing as much on menus boards and service lists as they do through the air.

You’ve found a good steam spa, attended a woodwind orchestral concert, and spent some quality time in a port cafe chatting up a nice Mirialan woman who was looking to settle down and open a shop here.

And then there’s the chef at your favorite greasy spoon where you’ve become quite the regular. Now that she knows you’re adventurous and want to try the native dishes, she makes sure you always have a seat at the bar. Keeping her fur tied back in a great wooly puff and greeting you each time with a pat on the counter where she wants you to sit, she pulls up a datapad to let you know what she’s got for you this time. So far you’ve loved the mushbloom salads and the grasscakes with wroshyr lice syrup, but you did have to push through the mykal steaks and the kabatha breakfast guts. Her admiration skyrocketed after that last one--the local favorite is not so loved by off-worlders for sure, but at least you got it down and kept it down. When Wookiees laugh, they shine big.

By the third day you’ve exhausted the port’s better entertainment and put together a pack for a early morning walk through the town and a hike through the surrounding forest. Might as well see if there are any interesting plants here you may want to bring back to Mala for pollen study. And when you mentioned you were thinking of going out into the wild, your chef friend excitedly pulled up a holomap and showed where you might find some mushbloom deposits, offering to pay you if you brought back surplus.

The planet is humid and hits your eyes and ears all green and woody. It’s lush and organic--even the towns are built into living structures. You’re lucky enough to be on the ground when all three moons were meeting in their orbits so they’ve been present every late afternoon to catch the setting sun, and then to shine in triplet through the early hours of the night. It’s really a beautiful place--no wonder the locals are so calm.

As you leave the city and plunge immediately into forest, the sounds of Wookiee calls and speeders fall away, and you try to remember the last time you had a vacation like this. Nothing but time to look around you at new surroundings, meet new people, try new things, get out into nature and just bathe in it. It’s been a while. You’re grateful for this freedom.

And you might not be here if it wasn’t for Din. Does he ever do this? Slow down? Take a walk in the woods? Hmm. It’s been three days. Most likely he’s already been out here for a while and it’s not such a picnic for him. Did he bring enough food? Where’s he sleeping? Is he sleeping?

Nope. Stop. You promised.

You allow yourself time to think about him when you’re in the ship, but it’s lonely there without him which is why you’re out here getting some nature time, so just enjoy it already.

After an hour or so, you’ve come upon a huge hive of mushblooms and stock up, imagining how happy your new friend will be and excited to share some with a certain Mando later. You’ve been lucky enough to come across some milk grass--the roots of which have amazing soothing properties for use on rashes and burns. If you can get the samples to thrive in the ship--tricky, but possible--you’ll have good stems to bring back for a more substantial planting at the clinic. Mala will be pleased.

But it’s when you light up your saber to harvest some shi-shok bark that you get a viciously unpleasant zing--like biting down hard on metal--a reverb that bounces back and forth from the weapon and then out into the forest like a lightning strike gone rogue. What in hells? You have to sheath the beam or you might throw up.

Your ears ring for a second as you try to orient yourself again. The lightsaber in your hand looks innocent enough, your old friend glinting in the dappled sunlight. It isn’t damaged in any way that you can see, there’s no Force seepage of the crystal--

But then you feel presence out in the forest. Eyes on you. Not the usual Force that hums in every living thing, not the feelings of a more advanced being. This is like a reverse sensitivity, like someone else is...licking you, tasting the Force in you, strumming a tight thread that leads between you and...it.

You’re being hunted.

You reach out, trying to get a bearing on the source. It’s malignant and somewhere deeper in the forest than where you came from. Not sure if you should run, try to get up in a tree or down into the brush; you have no clue what’s out there and how it is tracking you.

You decide to walk slowly back through the path toward the town, keep your senses up, try to gauge distance and intent, just in case it gets close and springs. Lightsaber at the ready--even if it’s being triggered to reverb on you--it’s still a weapon and you’re going to have to endure it if you need to defend yourself.

After a few dozen paces back toward the city, there’s a crashing in the underbrush, something coming at you from a different direction, and you light up the saber to lash out--

“Put it away! Put your lightsaber away and run!” A cloaked figure comes crashing out of the trees, putting itself between you and a monstrous creature just emerged from a thicket. All you see is something like a small rancor--but all spikes and tusks and teeth--come rampaging at the figure before you turn and do as told, barrelling down the path toward the town.

What in hells. What in blazing hells is going on.

Once you’ve put some distance between you, you can look back over your shoulder and come to a stop. Ducking behind a tree and watching through the branches, you watch the beast twist in the air, the hooded person below it using the Force to lift it, manipulate it, subdue it, and finally let it drop in a heap.

They stand for a second, scanning the forest, looking for more of these creatures, but you can’t feel any others at the moment, and by their stance, it seems neither can they.

What you can feel is a presence you long for. Something you leave your hiding place for and run to. As you reach her, your old friend turns and catches you in her arms.

“Let’s get out of this nest first,” Ahsoka whispers, turning you and leading you quickly down the path, “then we’ll have a reunion. Hurry now. Stay low and quiet.”

________________

At the edge of the forest you collapse on each other, a hug that’s strong and reciprocal and many years coming.

She’s here. She’s really here. How many times have you wished to see her again.... And the time you have with arms around each other expresses all the greetings and missing and emotions upon being reunited after so, so long.

“Birdie, why in the galaxy are you out in the forest serving yourself up on a platter for terentateks?”

You laugh against her. “I didn’t know! I didn’t know! What the hell was that?”

“They’ll mess with your Force sensitivity. They eat it like dessert.” She breaks the hug, squeezing your shoulders, looking you over for the first time in years. “Didn’t expect to find you on Kashyyyk. But it’s good you’re here.” Her brows knit. “Why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

She stares at you, thinking, her eyes reading more in a few seconds than just your expression. Then nods toward the port. “You over there too?”

And with an affirmation from you, she leads the way back.

“I came here to talk to an old friend, see if he would help my cause,” she explains. “I was about to leave the planet and felt your presence. So did the terentateks, it seems.”

“I actually told a local I was going out here. She never told me to look out for them.”

“Well, if you didn’t let on you’re a Force-wielder, nobody would have warned you. They don’t show themselves much and it is odd for them to come so close to a town like this. Force-sensitive blood is their favorite delicacy, so you must be drawing them. You been here a while?” When you nod, she huffs. “Well, that will do it. How about you don’t go out into the woods on your own anymore? Didn’t I assign you a bodyguard?”

“He’s working. I’m on vacation.”

“Huh.” Ahsoka eyes you with a small, knowing grin. “Just tagging along for fun?”

“We’re on our way to Zoph. Going to go check out the old kyber caves there. And Di-- Mando picked up a couple of bounties on our way.” You ignore her continued smirk. Change the subject. “It’s not that exciting. But you…. What’s this cause? This mission you’re on?”

As you wind through the city and close in on the port, she tells you what she can. A lost padawan. A mysterious admiral. A Mandalorian girl she’s guiding. Came here to call on a Wookiee acquaintance. She heard Mando ended up with the Darksaber, was that true?

“It is, actually. Got it in the ship. He doesn’t love it.”

“I bet he doesn’t.” Her elbow catches yours. “I bet you do.”

You try to hide your smile and fail. “I...may have lit it up a few times. You know. For research purposes.”

“Not surprised. And what else are you ‘studying’?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Mmm hm.”

_______________

The sun is still high in the sky by the time you make some pit stops and arrive back at the port, the moons just starting to come up above the horizon behind the ship, making for a stunning view.

“Ugh, you’re right. That is good.” Ahsoka leans back next to you on the open ramp of the Crest II, dropping a half-eaten grasscake back into the box, overstuffed and unable to continue. “They’ve got a really great society here, but I can’t stomach their food. You managed to find the only palatable stuff on this planet.”

On your way through the port, you’d made a stop at the diner to make a trade for the mushblooms, and while your chef friend was willing to pay in credits, you settled for a few boxes of her best dishes. For the last hour you’ve been able to bask in the humid, woody air, emptying a whole box between you, making a decadent picnic of it with your old friend, savoring not only the food, but some precious time together.

It’s been years since you’ve seen her in person. Not since her layovers at the refugee camp to bring you new codes or supplies. Those years during the war were rough, but they were nothing compared to the early Imperial Era when for much of it you didn’t even realize she was still alive. When you didn’t know if anyone was still alive.

But that age is over. And still she fights. Whatever it costs her. She was always the star you admired, the one from your clutch that went on to do great things, who excelled not because she followed blindly, but because she truly let the Force guide her. You remember what a rebellious spitfire she used to be in your younger days--and the playful Snips you know is still in there. But she’s more now, absorbed all the good and true lessons, lived through her trials. A true Master. Her bravery and selflessness is admirable and you envy it a little. Which is why it’s more than satisfying to steal some of her focused time, watch her laze around and enjoy herself for just a slice of a day.

Ahsoka lays back onto the ramp, contemplating the rising moons. An actively calming, pensive presence. You wish she’d at least stay with you until Din was back, but you know she’s got an agenda, can’t linger long. Even so, a stolen moment is better than none.

“You wanna take some of this with you?”

“No, thanks. Keep it for your man-- Your Mando. The...Mandalorian.” She just smiles brightly and shrugs when you shoot her a side-eye. No shame in her at all. It’s maddening. “What. You always had a thing for Mandalorians. I would think you’d thank me.”

“So that was your plan.”

Her laughter is smug, catching you in a non-admission. “Not exactly. You two just happened to be the right ones for the job.” She reaches over lazily, her hand catches yours. “But that’s not to say when I sent him in your direction I didn’t have some...passing optimism. I know your heart, Birdie.”

She does. Which means she damn well knows it’s full of the deepest affection for her. She’s seen your past heartbreaks in all their scattered forms. And she never judged, even though the same fault eventually brought down her Master. She always accepted that it was one part of the code you had trouble adhering to, knew you wouldn’t let it break you; that you never meant to possess anyone’s heart, only give away pieces of your own. One weakness out of many.

“I will not give you the satisfaction of admitting anything.”

This she doesn’t laugh at, but your old name rides out on her sigh, a profound reminder of your long friendship. “I want you to stay close to him. It’s good you’re on the move right now. I’ve heard some rumors.”

“Rumors. Really. Ones you started?”

Frowning, she takes a breath to speak. But the next voice you suddenly hear comes from your hip instead, causing you to jump.

“Little bird. You there?”

The com is open. Ahsoka’s eyebrows shoot up, quirking at the familiar nickname. There’s a sound of a blaster in the background as you fumble for the receiver.

“Hey. Pretty little bother. Are you asleep? Wake up.”

Ahsoka’s face is a salacious question as she mouths “pretty little bother???”

Ugh. Din. Not now with the pet names.

“I’m here, Captain.”

“Any chance you’re with the ship? I need you.”

“I am. Are you okay?”

“I will be when you get here. I want you to get the Crest in the air.”

You’re already getting to your feet. “Copy. On my way,” you affirm, extending a helping hand to your food-bloated friend. “Wanna go for a ride?”

The corners of Ahsoka’s mouth twitch and curl as she stands. “This should be interesting. Start up the engines. I’ll clean these boxes up.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” you call back over the comm, already halfway up the ladder. “I’m bringing a friend.”

“You brought someone back to the ship???”

“Down, boy. It’s fine.”

As you spin the pilot’s seat to the panel, you tamp down your fear and map your procedure. You’ve seen Din do it a number of times. Those buttons. These three switches. Port engine. Starboard engine. Send flight signal to the dock master. Lift sequence requires a manual shift, nav may call for a good smack and jostle.

“I need your coordinates, Captain.”

“Throw the green switch on the nav. It should lock in onto me.”

There’s a sharp click behind you as Ahsoka straps into the jump seat and you hit the button for the ramp lift, easing back the lever to bring the Crest up. The craft shimmies slightly, but the familiar whirs and clunks all happen at the appropriate times, so you must be doing something right.

“Got it. Have a lock. On you in two.”

“Good. When I see you, I’ll tell you. Then you’re going to knock it back and open a side hatch for me.”

“I’m not landing?”

“No. I’m jetting to you. You’ll see me rise. Line me up.”

“Oh...kaaaay.”

“Hey. I trust you.”

“Well, at least somebody does.”

There’s more blaster fire over the com.

Kriff. C’mon, girl, can’t you go any faster? The ship bounces a bit as if to say it’s trying, and you realize you’re gripping the stick too hard. You grapple with the sensitivity, keeping her level with the horizon. Much like you from time to time, she likes a light touch. “What was--tell me you’re okay, Captain.”

“I’m fine. Just concentrate on flying.”

There’s a tense minute of silence, just skimming and skimming the dense treetops toward the foothills until--

“I see you. Knock it back.”

Easing up on the lever, you punch the button for the hatch, hearing it whir below you. He’s there, rising out of the canopy, twinkling in the sun, jetpack blazing...but rising slowly. He has drag. A lot of drag. Because he’s carrying someone massive. And hairy. You aim to line him up to the side with the open hatch as you near him, but he can’t seem to get any more height and you’re already flying low.

“Dank farrik...he’s heavy...c’mon...c’mon…”

“I’m trying, Captain. I--”

“Phoenix...can’t handle both of us…”

“Blast. He’s stalling. You’re stalling!”

Ahsoka’s calm comes from behind you. “Keep it steady. I’ve got him.”

You keep eyes front. Hear her unclip and slide down the ladder. As you bring the ship up parallel to Din, trying to get as low as you can, he hangs in the air, jetpack flumes ballooning as hard as they can go. Then he’s drifting out of your vision up toward the ship.

There’s a clunk down in the hold. Thank the Force and the Jedi who can wield it. She did it.

“Thank you.” Com line to the helmet’s still open, and you hear Din grunt and swear as he gets himself untangled and on his feet. “Hey. Looks like I owe you again. Little bird? Good job. Take it back to the dock.”

The com goes out and you guide the Crest in a wide even swing to keep it steady for them.

There’s a little glimmer of pride, a glowing relief that your skills haven’t left you, and now that the danger’s passed, you actually find some peace at the stick, maneuvering the gunship through the sky as she obediently responds to every request you make of her. Since they’re not strapped in down there, you allow yourself to take it slow on the way back, enjoying the chance to fly this old beauty. Signaling the dockmaster at the beacon, you’re more than glad nobody’s in the cockpit to watch you cringe and grit your teeth through a landing that you’re not all that confident about, even if it ends up just fine.

Okay. You still got it.

Well. Maybe not it. But you’re still competent at least. Thank the Force.

________________

The hold smells like a curse. Like a decaying animal covered in ripened cheese and drizzled with soured blue milk. All the ramps are open but it may take a while to deodorize. There’s only so much the wet air can move out, so hopefully the filters will do the rest when you lift off later.

The Wookiee in the carbonite looks draggled and brutal, but also limp and wan. “He’s not dead, just out cold,” Din had murmured to you with a stroke of your hair and a tap of his mud-spackled, beskar-clad forehead to yours. It’s a little disappointing you didn’t get to see the quarry go under the spray, but if it saved you the full brunt of the odor, maybe it was a blessing that you missed it.

Ahsoka’s words waft up from outside where she and Din are talking. You can just hear them through the high blowers you’re activating to move air through the ship.

“Your time on Chalacta didn’t go unnoticed. There are rumblings of a Mandalorian and a Jedi taking down some hired Imperial mercs there. Seems one of them might have been able to buy off the magistrate, get himself freed. I assume he reported back to whoever hired him.”

As you move to join them, you can hear the unease coming through Din’s modulator. “That’s...not good.”

“No. But keep on the move for a while, fly low, and you should be fine. It means you’ll have to be more careful when you go after names, the chance of a run-in will be higher. But,” nodding your way, “she’s got you and that makes me feel better.”

Din’s visor dips a little in thought, his shoulders going slack. This, combined with his bog-smeared armor makes him look like he’s just taken on the last straw today. You reach out, hooking a finger through one of his. I’m here. You going to be okay?

He doesn’t turn, just squeezes back. Yeah. Don’t worry. I’ve got you.

“But,” your friend reassures, “like I said, rumors. Just because the story is out there doesn’t mean anything yet. If I was really worried, I would have messaged earlier.”

“Keep me informed.”

She smiles. Calmly. Confidently. “Of course.”

The dockmaster’s announcement calls out the hour through the spaceport overheads, and it’s obvious that time has run out for your reunion. If you all don’t move off soon, there’ll be another night’s fees to pay. When she moves off through the passages to her own ship a few minutes later, you’ve gathered what you need from her; a long hug, a reassuring smile, a restrung thread between you. And a promise to see each other again. Even if it’s years from now, you know it will happen.

You can sense it.

________________

PART 3: DIN

On the second night of the hunt out in the foothills, Din knows he’s getting close. The fob has been blinking incrementally faster and if he keeps pushing through, he’ll have the furry bastard before dawn. But the forest is thick and he’d already come across some nasty nocturnal animals the night before. He’s just hit upon a series of abandoned dens in a cliffside and it seems like a good chance to grab a few hours to wait out the most dangerous time of night before resuming the track in the morning.

He picks a shallow den, vines growing over the entrance. Nothing living inside or hanging from the ceiling, just big enough for him to lean against a wall, curl his legs up and get some quick sleep.

He can’t say what it is, the womb-like darkness of the small cave, the dampening of forest noise to his own breathing, but you invade his mind; he’s suddenly missing being curled up next to you in what had quickly become your shared bed.

And his hand hovers over the button.

Just a second. Just to know if you’re in the ship, if you’re sleeping.

When he mutes his mic and externals and opens the com line, it takes a second to hear anything. Then it’s there, just barely, just a gauzy sound coming through the helmet receivers. Your breathing, a thread of life, a guarantee of your safety. It’s a comfort, although it hardly quenches the thirst he has to be with you. He gives himself allowance for five breaths and then he should get some rest.

Okay, ten.

Maybe a couple dozen.

But laced into the breath is a soft sigh, and he knows he couldn’t break the line now if he wanted to. He lives for that little breathy sigh you make in your sleep or when you kiss, and now he’s heard you do it twice over the com…

...and again. And then…

...the sigh is a word.

“Din.”

His heart twists, just collapses in on itself like a re-birthing star as he hears…

...everything.

His name breathed out on your lips. The cadence of your repeated whispers. The need in your sighs. The tempo of your panting. The catch in your voice and the whimpered moans as you work on yourself. Oh kriffing stars. It’s so beautiful.

He knows he’s intruding but he just can’t, just can’t turn off the com as you comfort yourself in his absence by imagining he’s there with you. He should reveal himself. But would it embarrass you? Anger you? He should turn off the com and give you the privacy you think you have...but damn he just can’t. It’s like you’re playing a concert on the instrument of his soul and when you finally whimper--so sweet and soft--and whine out his name one final time in the bed he gave you--

--he’s like a string that continues to vibrate long after it’s been plucked.

The memory is still echoing through him as he steers the ship out of the atmosphere, hitting the final switches that lock the hyperdrive into gear, letting it pull the ship through space at excessive speed. Once the ship’s on course, he can turn the pilot seat around to you.

Now that he’s got you alone, after he’s been away and had time to miss you, he wants to get those sounds out of you again, would do anything to touch you right here, right now, have you right here in his pilot’s chair. Damn, he’s pent up. But he’s been out in the field for days. Covered in caked mud. Hair matted with sweat under the bucket. Probably got some of that guy’s stench on him. He’s got to take a shower first. Which means he’s got to get past you to get down to the refresher, got to--

But you’re unclipping your safety belts. Before he can move or stop you, you’re crawling up onto his lap, straddling him in his seat, lifting the helmet and depositing it wherever as you seal your mouth to his and fill up his entire field of sight and breath and sound.

Seems you have needs of your own.

Not that he really wants you to stop but, “Hey, I’m filthy. I should take a shower.”

“In a minute,” you breathe in the break between kisses, your eyes flaring with want, your fingers plucking the weapons from his hips so you can straddle closer without tripping danger. “Believe me. You’ll thank me.”

“I stink.”

“You do. I don’t care.”

And as you dive back into his lips, you slide in and press yourself down into him, connecting his solid sectors into your warm and yielding ones, creating a divine pressure between yourselves, making music as you both thrum with your own moans, one soprano, one bass.

The sudden force of need from you sparks a primal fire in him and Din’s body takes over, his hands bracing to your hips, holding you down to fit more firmly to him, straining to breathe in the sudden clamp of your body to his.

This would be enough of a homecoming, enough of a start to new discovery with you, but you’re not finished blowing his ever loving mind when he feels your tongue moving against his lips.

Everything in him yanks to a halt as he instinctively pulls back.

What. Was that.

He has to breathe a second. Understand his complete idiocy.

He can see that his reaction surprised you, sees your sudden look of dismay and he clutches at your face, unable to speak or function just for a second. No. It’s okay. Please don’t think you’ve done anything wrong, I just...you just… He cannot stop staring at your mouth, his brow tightening into a painful furrow, trying to comprehend.

After a lifetime under a helmet, no matter what other experience he’s had, it had never occurred to him that his tongue could be used to kiss you. To touch you. To taste you. He’s been so focused on your smell and your lips he didn’t think…. It was right there all the time…. Why didn’t he think of this? Why didn’t he do this before?

Why doesn’t he do it now.

Leaning in, his mouth to rests lightly on yours, then his tongue, slowly exploring the texture and taste of your lips. Salty and sweet, soft and firm, supple under his slick probe. You’ve gone still, watching him, understanding that this is new territory, letting him have this initial moment to sample you. He can feel your desperate sighing beneath his mouth as he licks at you, feels your fingers digging into his collar, just barely holding back, waiting for him to signal that he’s ready to put this friction session back into drive. The moment comes when his tongue explores further in, meeting yours, pressing against it full and flush. Then the ignition catches as your mouth comes alive against his and you push down into him again.

His whole being is his tongue tasting yours, his hips rocking up to meet you, arms crushing around you to hold you in place and leverage you with more strength. Stars, he needs to taste the corner of your mouth. The hollow at the base of your throat. That damn little space where your neck meets your ear--the salt on your skin there, the smell and the taste of you as you press down on him, roll with him, move in holy, star-bursting ways against his lap until you’re arching your spine and throwing your head back in a rapture, your breath coming in gasps as you drown for air against your pleasure.

He watches it all, aching, burning for you--his own little bird singing her own sweet song above him--and when you come through it, when you dive down and under his jaw, taking his earlobe in your lips and sliding your tongue around it, it’s his turn to break, pulling you down into his needful territory with bruising force.

He’s whispering something to you, something strangled and incoherent that’s maybe about missing you, about being good and sweet, but there’s no way of knowing or remembering, he’s just aware of you above him, the stars streaking out around you like a holy aura and the heat between you both like a damned sin.

This--oh, stars--this is what your bodies can do to each other. It’s raw and frenzied and brutal, but it’s also the most loving release he’s ever known. And there’s still so much more to come.... He’s ready for anything you’re willing to give him. But for now...for now, this is perfect.

You. You are perfect.

When he’s breathing normally again, digging his temple into yours, you pluck one more string by whispering into his ear, “Now you don’t have to shower twice.”

He huffs out a short laugh, incredulous, happy, pressing his scruffy dimpled cheek to yours. “Thank you.”

“Told you.”

__________________

By the time he’s done with the sonic and in a clean flight suit, you’re curled up and dozing, happy and spent. As drawn as he is to join you, he’s got one last thing that needs doing, and slipping on the helmet, he climbs to the cockpit.

He’s about to hit the holo panel to record a message, but there’s already one waiting. When he hits the button and it crackles to life, he recognizes your friend Mala. “Hi there, love. Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. The day after you left, a man did come asking for you, actually. So now I’m wondering how many of these mercenaries are going to come around recruiting you, hmn? This one was bigger than the Mando though. He was...Green? Tall. Spiky face, like,” she splays her fingers out around her cheeks, “I don’t know his species, sorry. I thought at first maybe he was a wounded reveler who was told to come to the clinic and ask for you, but when I said you were on vacation stars know where, he just said okay and left. Didn’t leave a name. Then I thought maybe he was a friend of your flyboy come looking for him? I haven’t seen him around either, by the way, he must have given up on you. Tsk. Poor thing. Of course your Mando had to come and take you away right at the worst time. Oops. I suppose he might hear this if you’re on the ship.” She grins and waves. “Sorry, Mando! But other than that, it’s been quiet. Festival wound down a few days back, but you know, there are still people docked outside the gate. Oh! Geoffin told me--”

The rest of the message is gossip and chatter; it doesn’t go on much longer. But it looks like you connected some dots and already did a little checking in on your network. Which means you’re worried.

Mala’s intel is helpful, but still a bad sign. It might mean someone dug deep to find you.

Well, he’s got a network too. He punches the codes. Opens up a transmission file.

“Karga. I need you to do some sniffing around for me. I’m sending you an encoded info loop with my consort’s name and partial chain. I need you to run a check on her. No criminal record, but there may be some suspect client with a call on her and if so, I need to know. Tell me what you find.”

Hopefully nothing.

Doesn’t make sense to run a check on himself. He just assumes he’s on a list somewhere. Several. All of them. He should reach out to the Chalactian magistrate as well. But it can wait until he hears back from Karga first. No need to open too many doors at once, at least not until it’s necessary. For the moment, he just wants to go to sleep somewhere that isn’t covered in mud and is filled with you.

________________

Back in the hold, he takes a moment to admire you while you sleep. The eyelashes resting on your cheek. The relaxed curl of your fingers. The curve of your backside where he’s going to fit up around you. The line of your neck where his lips have missed spending the night. You’ve changed out of your gear--soiled from your earlier contact with him--and stolen a set of one of his undershirts and underwear to sleep in. Huh. Presumptuous. And perfect.

Among your castoff clothing is your belt and its attachments, including the control fob he gifted you, a remnant of his old bracer. He really should clean up the wiring, maybe set it into a smaller bracer for you. He could even…. Wait. Has that always been there?

Still wearing the helmet, he taps a control on the side of the bucket, opening up the comlink...

...and a small light blinks on the fob. A signal. Showing that the com line is open.

A signal you would have seen the other night when he was alone in the caves, when he only wanted to hear you breathing.

When you were doing much more than breathing.

You would have seen it. You would have known he could hear you.

You would have known.

Little bird.

He really should have taken the time to thank Ahsoka when he had the chance. The odds of finding you, of knowing you, of being this to you would have been nil without her.

The helmet is only the first thing he removes. He knows he’s setting his morning up to be over-stimulating, but somehow he knows you’ll be happy to help him through it. Maybe he can help you too. He strips down to match you, undershirt and shorts. Sliding in beside you on the close bunk and winding himself around you, he melts his arms with yours, his legs with yours, feeling his heartbeat sync to yours. You warm him all over into sleep.

Damn if he’s going to let anyone get to you.

I’m your armor.

Damn anyone who tries.

________________

Next Chapter 10: The Deception -->

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icecourt-crows · 3 years ago

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Welcome Home

I just really liked the art by @paintsandquests so much that I started writing for this blog again (after...years?).

Summary: Kaz settles the books with Jesper keeping him company and Inej is back from her travels.

Unlike people, the numbers never lied to Kaz. Each row of ink on lined parchment paper detailed exactly how much kruge passed through the holy halls of his Crow Club whether lawfully or unlawfully. It was a little miracle that the Crow Club still generated business; ever the cynic at heart, he truly believed this ramshackle hut would come crashing down at the next strong breeze blowing in from the harbor or the countless gangs that rose and fell with the swell of business. Yet, despite the aggravatingly endless task of keeping the Crow Club operational and structurally sound, he was beginning to enjoy himself.

Many nights were spent at his desk, tallying up the winnings and distributing them accordingly to the dealers. Each paycheck squared away, each page on the ledger filled, each coffer locked in its corresponding safe in the many hiding places around the gambling hall. Just watching the numbers steadily raise over the course of years of reforms after Haskell's departure tilted his perpetual scowl into something less severe. The harsh lines carved into his stony façade smoothed ever so slightly.

"Someone's in a good mood," Jesper commented as he finished peeling an apple with a knife on the opposite side of the desk. It was a standard arrangement for them; Kaz devoted his attention to the numbers and Jesper devoted his attention to keeping watch to make sure no miscreant got too cocky and tried to overthrow Kaz's iron-clad grip on the Dregs.

Not that he would know what a coup would look like considering he wasn't in the room when Kaz overthrew Haskell.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kaz replied, writing the date on the last line of the page. Leaning back from the book, he waited for the ink to dry. With no preamble, he said, "the numbers are looking good this week."

Jesper cut a slice of the apple and put it in a little bowl on the corner of Kaz's desk. "They've been looking better and better," Jesper responded as he ate a slice of his apple, "almost good enough to fix the roof again."

"Let's not get too carried away."

That earned him a laugh and Kaz felt his lips form a small smile. "I'll look into re-tarring the roof next week," he said, writing a note to himself on a separate piece of paper, "right before the storms roll in."

"You mean right before Inej comes back," Jesper wiggled his fingers at Kaz teasingly, "want to make the place nice and pretty for her."

"Weren't you the one that suggested the roof gets fixed?" Kaz countered. His keen eye assured him the ink in the ledger was dry, so he closed it and put it into a drawer in his desk.

"Yep," Jesper answered, "because I, for one, want her to come back to a nice, not-wet club."

"Should I come back later then?" a voice said behind them.

They both turned towards the window and watched as Inej landed silently in the room, one hand still on the ledge as if ready to take flight at a moment's notice.

As always, what struck Kaz first was how radiant she is. Somehow, every time he saw her, it's like he'd never seen the sun in his life. The dying light of the afternoon glanced off the tiles of the surrounding rooftops and bathed her in a warm glow. For a moment, he wasn't Dirtyhands or the Bastard of the Barrel; he was just Kaz Rietveld staring at the sunset over his family's farm. "You're early," he said neutrally.

"Inej!" Jesper said, getting up from his chair to pull her into a hug, "welcome back!"

"Jes," Inej said with as much enthusiasm, dropping her bag to hug him back. Easily plucking the knife from his hands, she set it on Kaz's desk before pulling away. "We were in need of a restock, and I was so close to Ketterdam anyway, so I decided to cut the voyage early this year."

Nodding in agreement, Kaz murmured, "good business practice; you wouldn't want to be caught in the seasonal storms without supplies."

Inej smiled to herself; this was as close as she could get to Kaz saying he was worried about her. Yet, through all the years that have passed since the events at the Ice Court, she pushed him a little more. "I think the roof could be repaired earlier," she said with a knowing look.

"I suppose it could," Kaz allowed. Reading her expression, he quietly added, "welcome home."

#come back [to ketterdam]#kaz is the one who refers to crow club as home #jes only said #my writing #kanej #also jesper's friendship with kaz and inej is such a nice dynamic #Jesper cuts fruits for his friends like i cut fruit for mine and i will not hear any criticism #soc #six of crows #also i only read through it twice so sorry for any errors

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f0rever15elf · 4 years ago

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Twin Souls

Summary: Soulmates. Twin souls. They’re the stuff of legends, right? They aren’t real...Or are they? And if they are...can they really span universes?

Pairing: Pero/Whiskey/Oberyn/Din/Max/Maxwell/Dave/Catfish/Marcus/Ezra x fem!Reader (yes, ALL of those Pedro boys are in this fic at some point. I’m overly indulgent) Rating: M Warning: Harsh language, sexual innuendo, death mentions, violence, injured reader, a little bit of angst (for the spice), way too many pedro characters in one fic, no beta reading. Soulmates!AU Word count: 9,649 (lord help me)

a/n: This was inspired by a post that literally just mentioned our favorite soulmate trope that through any universe, two souls will find one another and I just think that’s really beautiful and NEEDED TO GET IT OUT OF MY BRAIN. So I hope you enjoy this!

Masterlist | Ao3

Twin Souls. Mirror souls. Soulmates. Twin flames. Almost every culture has their own rendition of this idea that each of us has another half that we are created with and separated from before we come into this life. Someone we are destined to find as surely as the river finds the sea. Some legends claim it was that we all originate with four arms, four legs, two heads, and one soul that shone brighter than the brightest of stars in the sky, and this drew jealousy from the gods who then wrent us in two. For others, it is destiny calling two individuals together, the universe declaring that two must become one. And even simpler still, some believe that it is no more than a chemical attraction. Something purely physical, biological, and nothing more. A perfect mate.

But what if?

What if it was more than that. So much more. What if two souls were always destined to find one another? Across time and space and universes? What if...

Lightning cracks the sky, momentarily illuminating the face of the man on horseback. His scowl, as always, is firmly in place, his brow creased in a mix of irritation and exasperation. The rain has his dark, curled hair slicked down against his skull and his tunic under his armor is soaked through, drawing the warmth rapidly from his skin. He had told William they should make camp, that the smell of rain on the wind meant for foul weather, and soon, but William had ignored the grumpy Spaniard, electing to press on. Not twenty minutes later, the heavens opened, drenching the small caravan as they continued on. William rode silently in front of Pero, and he could feel the glare from his companion boring holes into the back of his head. If looks could kill, he would be dead several times over.

"I see lights ahead!" Calls the lookout from up ahead, and a satisfied chatter rolls through the group of sellswords. Pero lifts his chin only slightly to look ahead, jaw clenched, eyes alert. He had seen enough in his days selling his sword to know what to look for, and a small village in the middle of nowhere was always a gamble.

As the small group rides up to the edge of the village, a few of the village's men wait to greet them, lanterns out to welcome them to the town. The group of sellswords dismount as William goes to speak with the man Pero can only assume is the village leader. After a few words, William turns with a smile, moving through the group to tell them they would be making camp here tonight, bunking with members of the small community. The welcoming committee leads each man off to a different house, and had it not been for the rain still steadily downpouring, a dull chatter would have filled the air as the guests were welcomed with more hospitality than many of them were used to.

"And you, my friend, will be staying with us!" The village leader approaches Pero with a smile. "Come, my daughter will help to get you dry. This cold will seep to your bones and you will fall ill. Come. Come." The friendly elder makes his way to a small, comfortable hut, a warm fire blazing in the center. The crackling of the logs is a welcome sound to Pero's ears, and the smell of something savory fills his nostrils. The men had been living on rations for days, and Pero Tovar was sick of the hardtack and salt pork he carried with him. The elder introduces him to his family; a wife, a young son, and you, his only daughter. As soon as his eyes land on you, Pero feels a warm sensation spread through his stomach, one he had never felt before, and he finds it difficult to tear his eyes from yours as the man of the house begins speaking again, telling him that their house is his for the night. He manages to utter out a word of gratitude before you approach him, taking his hand to lead him to get cleaned up.

"It is not often our village has visitors," you murmur softly as you help him to doff his armor. "Most pass us by without so much as a second glance." Your smile causes that heat in his stomach to spread upwards through his chest, and up his neck. Such a foreign feeling... "Perhaps it is fate that brought you here, to us. I must thank fate, if that is the case, for bringing such a handsome man to my home." You laugh softly and it is a sweeter sound than any music the Spaniard has ever heard, light and gentle as the bluebird's song on the spring breeze. Pero's heart throbs in his chest at the sound.

"Sí, señorita. A thanks to fate for bringing me here." His eyes never leave your face and the tips of your ears turn red from the attention. His gaze was steady, with a hard edge of a man who had seen too much. After finishing doffing his armor, you help to ease him out of his wet tunic, and your heart stutters in your chest. Your gaze drifts from his torso back to his face, and your hand moves as if with a mind of its own, lifting to rest on his face. The soft pads of your fingers gently trace the scar over his eye. There was...something so familiar about him, but you had no idea what it was. Like you had seen this man before, someone who was him...yet not him. The thought confused you and you shook it from your head. That was impossible.

---

Your eyes snap open from the strange dream and you sit up in bed, rubbing your face. A man who looked so much like your Jack had been haunting your dreams for days now, and you had absolutely no idea what it could mean. Jack stirs beside you, letting out a soft groan as he stretches.

"Darlin'? You alright? It's awful early for you to be up." He glances over at the clock on the nightstand. 3:30 am, early was an understatement. His hand finds the small of your back, rubbing gentle circles against the skin there. You hum and nod your head.

"Just...weird dreams Jack. That's all." You turn your head and smile down at him and he makes a concerned sound at the back of his throat.

"Wanna talk about it, sweetheart?" Your heart melted at the concern, and you ease yourself back down, laying in his arms.

"It doesn't make much sense, really. You'll probably think I'm crazy." His arm holds you a little closer to him and he chuckles.

"Try me." A smile tugs at the corners of your lips and you take a deep breath.

"Well...if you say so. I've been dreaming of a person. It's...this guy. He looks so much like you, and he has a scar right here." You delicately trace the line of the scar from the mystery man in your dreams. "And his face is weathered and serious. He's always scowling. I have no idea but it's like it's you but it isn't you. But it's more like... a faded memory than a dream. It's crazy, I know." Jack is quiet as he listens to you, his fingers still tracing delicate patterns on your skin.

"I...don't think you're crazy, sweetheart." You blink, honestly shocked as you look up at him. He's staring up at the ceiling, a contemplative look on his face. "I've had dreams like that too. Ones of you. Or, well, a girl who looks almost exactly like you." Propping yourself up on your elbow, you look down at him, that handsome, lopsided smile on his face.

"You're not pulling my leg to appease me, are you?"

"Now darlin', when have I ever done that to you?" He had a point. His silver tongue worked magic in many ways, but spinning lies to appease you was not one of those ways. Your brow creases as you lose yourself in your thoughts of what this could mean until a whip-calloused finger smooths the lines between your brows. "You ever heard 'a soulmates, sweetness?" The question strikes you as rather odd, something out of a fairy tale, but you nod. "I'm thinkin' that may be our answer." His arm wraps around you and he pulls you back against him. "Lovers truly meant to be." Gentle lips press light kisses to your forehead, his moustache tickling the skin and drawing a giggle from you.

"Do you really think that, Jack? That we've met before?"

"Well it would explain how we fell in with one another quicker than a jackrabbit with a fox on its tail. Now, I know my charm is absolutely irresistible, but I don't think I can take all the credit here." He grins and you can't help the laugh that bubbles from your throat, smacking his chest lightly. You had to admit...it made sense. In some weird, metaphysical sense that you weren't quite sure you completely believed. But Jack believed it, and that was enough for you. It also meant you could stop feeling guilty about these dreams of this mysterious Spaniard.

"So this dream girl. What's she like?" You ask, snuggling into Jack's embrace. He shakes his head and laughs.

"What, you jealous of yourself, gorgeous? C'mon now, you get to ride this cowboy any time you like, ain't no need to be jealous of a dream of you." You gasp and smack his chest, cheeks flushing red as you hide against his chest. He chuckles and lavishes a few gentle kisses to the top of your head, snuggling down in bed with you.

"Jack?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

"I love you too, doll. Now close those pretty eyes of yours and get some sleep."

And you did just that, slowly drifting off to dreamland.

---

"Hellloooooo!" Cara snapped her fingers in front of your face and you jumped, coming back to reality. "You know, you really freak me out when you do that." She leans back in her chair, a cup of spotchka in one hand, her lopsided smirk on her face. You cough, and scratch at the back of your neck.

"Yeah...sorry about that." She just shakes her head.

"Where do you go when you zone out like that? Takes me forever to bring you back around." You just shrug, staring down at your bowl of soup.

"Day dreams, I guess. I can't really describe them. I see faces though. Well, a couple of faces anyways. Two men who look shockingly similar and-" Cara cuts you off with a wave of her hand.

"Sweets, I don't need to hear about your depraved day dreams." Her coy grin in your direction causes your face to flush a bright red at the insinuation and you make a move to reply when she goes rigid in her chair, setting her cup down with a little more force than necessary. Your brow creases in confusion, even more so when she stands and grabs your hand, quickly and quietly leading you out back. "Stay here," she hisses, moving slowly around front, leaving you confused and alone. And hungry. You had been so busy day dreaming you didn't even get the chance to finish your soup. A frown pulls at the corners of your lips as you hop up on a box out back, kicking your legs as you wait for your friend.

The sounds of fighting reach your ears a few minutes later and you jump up, running towards the sound, skidding to a halt when you round the corner to see Cara fighting with a person decked out in some of the shiniest armor you had ever seen. You open your mouth to say something when a small green creature walks out of the cantina, a bowl of soup in his tiny hands. He looks up at you and tilts his head before turning to walk a little closer to your skirmishing friend. You follow as both the armored figure and Cara end up on the ground, a blaster pointed at Cara's head. You're about to run forward to try and yank the blaster away when the sound of slurping distracts you. Looking down, you see the little green thing slurping up his soup, watching with a borderline uninterested look. The helmeted figure and Cara turn to look at you both before looking back at each other.

"...Want some soup?" The helmeted man says through what was clearly a modulator.

That was your first encounter with Din Dajrin, and you had no clue that that one day would lead to you aboard the Razor Crest, babysitting the little green creature he had taken in, and fixing things around the ship as they broke. You had never seen his face, nor much of his skin save for when you were patching him up from a particularly rough hunt, but that was okay. Life on the Crest was comfortable, and even in the silence that Din preferred to keep, you felt at home. His presence was enough to calm you on your more anxious days. The two of you grew close quickly. Quicker than you or he had expected, and it wasn't long before he was gracing you with idle affections. Light caresses as he passes you, his hand lingering on yours for longer than necessary, gently tucking stray hairs back behind your ear as you talk to him. Each little thing never failed to bring heat to your cheeks.

It was at the anniversary of your first cycle together that Din asked you to marry him. He had taken the three of you to a peaceful, lush planet to ask you. Some place safe and reclusive, a place where neither of you had to worry about anything. He wanted you as a part of his little clan, and your heart nearly burst with affection as you rapidly shook your head, wiping away the tears. The tradition was simple, a marriage a sacred vow between the Mandolorian and their spouse. It was a promise to bind the two as one. A few simple words was all it took, and he was yours. He brought your hands to his helmet to let you lift it off, the moment unable to be any more perfect than this.

And that's when the blaster sounded. You freeze as your eyes go wide, slowly looking down to your chest where bright crimson starts to bleed through the material of your tunic. You look back up at him with glassy eyes and stumble forward into his grasp, only vaguely aware of more blaster fire, then total silence. Din lays you down on the soft grass, yanking his helmet off, and oh how you wish you could see his face clearly. You make out dark curls atop tan skin, dark eyes looking at you with such concern and fear, desperation...a look you couldn’t bring your eyes to focus enough to make out. Everything is fading so quickly. You can't hear his voice, only ringing. You were so sure he had a beautiful voice, it's a shame you wouldn't get to hear it free of modulation. Lifting your hand, you place it weakly against his cheek, sputtering out "I love you...find me in the next..." With that, the last of your strength leaves you, your hand dropping from his face as your head lolls to the side, eyes staring blankly off into the distance.

Din lets out a cry of anguish as he pulls your lifeless form against him, sobbing into your hair. How could fate be so cruel?

Ezra shoots up ramrod straight in bed, gasping for air like a man drowning. A cold sweat clings to his skin, an afterthought of the nightmare that disturbed his sleep once more. He rubs his face, taking a deep breath before looking over at his time keeper. Two standard hours before his alarm... The sigh that leaves his lips is deep and heavy as he swings his legs over the side of his cot. Might as well get an early start on the day. There was no going back after that awful dream, and he could use the couple extra hours anyways. Mining with only one hand, everything took twice as long and was done half as well, so the extra time would give him a little leg-up on the day. Heavens above, he could use another set of hands around here. With Cee off at school, he was all on his own, and it was getting damn lonely. Working his way into his suit with a little bit of difficulty, he made the resolution to put out an ad for help the next time he went to the Depot to drop off a shipment.

And so he spent the day, mining and singing and talking to himself. Anyone else who saw him would surely think this one-armed man was crazy, but little did they know that talking to himself is exactly what kept him sane. He could move up the Depot visit. Yeah, that's what he would do. He'd need to go in the next week anyways, so why not just do it now? He resolved to head on the next day to the Depot, and he'd put out that add for some help.

The next day's trek was blessedly uneventful. The cash-in post scoffed at what little aurelac he had accrued so far, and the tips of his ears turned pink in embarrassment. He mutters a thank you for the credits exchange, and makes his way to the bulletin board to put in his ad. A single figure is standing in front of the board, a pack slung over their shoulder, miner's tools hanging off their belt.

"Pardon me," he says softly, scooting by them without looking at their face to pin up his ad. He turns to head back to his buggy to return to work, hopeful he would hear something over his coms soon.

"Sir?" A gentle voice calls from behind him and he freezes in place, his heartbeat suddenly incredibly loud in his ears. He knew that voice. That was the voice that had been in his nightmares over and over again. Find me in the next... He slowly turns to look at who had called him to see you standing there, looking exactly as you did in his dreams. But alive...so much more alive. You smile up at him, gentle and warm, with a light of concern in your eyes, and he has to resist the urge to run to you and pull you into his arms. "I say...you look like you've seen a ghost! Are you alright?" Ezra's mouth opens and closes a few times, not unlike a fish before he's able to find his words again.

"Y..Yes, I'm alright. Not to worry, gem, it's just been a rather arduous day is all, and I'm beginning to feel the effects taking hold. Pardon my rudeness." A gentlemanly smile graces his lips as he extends his hand to you. "The name is Ezra. How might you be doing this fine day?" You chuckle and take his hand, shaking it firmly. What an odd fellow this was.

"It's a pleasure, Ezra. And the answer to this next question will set my mood for the day, I'm sure. You're in need of a helper at your dig site?" He nods enthusiastically.

"I most certainly am! What a matter of fortune that I happen to stumble upon someone ready and willing to assist me the very day I come to place my ad!"

"Ready and willing is right! I just arrived on the surface. Took a gamble someone would be needing my help, and it appears I've come out on top!" Your smile is infectious, and Ezra returns it, just as brilliantly. It lights up his eyes, you notice. Warm, chocolate brown eyes that glimmer with a playfulness that excites you.

"Perhaps you can impart some of that luck on to me as we begin this partnership." He leads you back to his buggy to take you back to camp, loading up on some extra supplies as well with his meager earnings that would be needed with an extra mouth to feed. "Might you be the lucky star that this poor man has been waiting for!" You can't help but chuckle at the eccentric miner. His manner of speaking was so strikingly different from anyone you had met before. Words rolled off his lips sweet as nectar, and the sound of his voice bordered on intoxicating.

"Make a wish, and we'll see." You laugh, flashing him a wink. The two of you spend the rest of the ride talking, swapping stories of your previous adventures. Ezra's charm has you instantly at ease. It felt comfortable and familiar to be near him, and you couldn't quite explain it.

As you return to his camp and make your way inside, helping to unload, you do your best to help ease some of Ezra's burden. It was clear he was trying to show that his lack of an arm was no deterrent for him, but you worried he would hurt himself in the process.

"Here, I've got it," You say softly, taking an oxygen tank from him as he stumbled a bit, nearly dropping the canister. He looks up at you with those soulful brown eyes and your heart stutters in your chest. He nods and lets you take it inside as he grabs the last few small things from the buggy, following you in. His helmet hisses as he takes it off, slowly peeling himself out of his suit, and you do the same, folding yours up in the corner before standing awkwardly in the center of the hab until he's done. Dropping the offending article in the middle of the tent, he sighs and plops down on his cot, patting next to him for you to join. Happily, you do so, crossing your legs under you.

"Forgive me, lucky star, for my lacking capabilities. I am not the man I once was..." He gestures to the stump of his right arm, a pained look in his eyes. You place your hand on his thigh and flash a reassuring smile.

"Ezra, there is nothing to forgive. I'm here to help in whatever way you may need me to. We're partners, and partners help each other." He glances at you sideways, a smile gracing his lips at the pain fades in his eyes.

"Lucky star, I feel you may be imparting some of your luck on to me already. What plans the universe may have for us is an adventure I'm eager to embark on." You laugh and nod, squeezing his thigh once before getting up to start making your side of the hab.

And so the days go on. Long days spent mining as much aurelac as possible while the light provided, before getting cleaned up for the night. Evenings were usually spent listening to one of Ezra's fantastic tales, or listening to him read a book from his small collection. More and more you found yourself leaning against him, your eyelids heavy with sleep as his honey rich voice drawled on. It reverberated in his chest in a way that soothed you more than anything else had in the galaxy. But the good days were over too soon as mining season came to a close on the Green, and you found yourself facing Ezra in the Depot, the two of you ready to depart for your next jobs. The ache in your heart was unlike anything you had ever felt, having grown so fond of the loquacious miner.

You opened your mouth to say goodbye, to just rip the band-aid off, when he spoke over you.

"Come with me." The sentence was near a plea as he reached out to take your hand. Your eyes opened wide at his words, your mouth falling slightly open.

"W..what?"

"Come with my, my lucky little star... I can't imagine a life without you at this point, the comfort you bring me is beyond anything even the most luxurious of lifestyles could bring me." He squeezes your hand again. "Come with me...please..." You knew you couldn't, you knew you needed to head to your next journey, but the thought of doing so felt so wrong, as though your heart might explode if you tried...so you nod, and Ezra's eyes light up with a joy the likes of which you had never seen. He tugs your hand and pulls you to him, embracing you as best he can with his one arm, and nuzzles into your hair. You wrap your own arms around him to return the hug, sinking into the embrace that could only be described as feeling...right. You almost missed it as he whispered against your hair, "I found you..." You lean back, confusion in your eyes as you look up at him.

"...Found me?" You whisper and he smiles, dropping the embrace to take your hand and lead you toward his shuttle.

"If you would indulge me in some time to tell you a story, I can explain everything, lucky little star."

---

Your bare feet hit the pavement with loud slaps, legs propelling you forwards as fast as you could. Your lungs burned in your chest as you panted for air, not daring to look back over your shoulder for who you knew was following you. How had you managed to be so stupid, so careless? How could you have managed to get yourself involved in this?

"Get back here!" He yelled, his deep voice causing another shot of adrenaline to course through your bloodstream. He was going to kill you. Oh God, he was going to kill you! Tears stream down your face as you run, ducking into every alleyway you could, trying to elude him, but he had been doing this too long. He was good at covering his tracks, and you were a loose end he couldn't afford. You being alive jeopardized his life with his family.

You turn down another alley and your heart plummets when you are met with a stone wall, skidding to a halt in front of it. You hear his heavy footfalls behind you and you turn, falling to your knees. Maybe...maybe if you beg, he'll spare you?

Dave rounds the corner, and you hear the soft click of the safety of his silenced handgun. He stalks forward like a lion stalks an antelope and you have never in your life felt so small.

"You're a fast little she-devil, I'll give you that. It was a good chase." He stands in front of you as you begin to beg, pleading for your life. You'd move away, you'd forget everything. You'd change your name and cut contact with everyone, please just don't pull the trigger. "No can do, sweetheart. Can't risk it." He brings the gun up level with your forehead as you look up into his eyes, begging still, trembling with terror. For a moment, you see a light of recognition in his eyes, a light that looks so familiar it makes your heart ache. Visions of a space suit, an angry scar, a metal suit, and a cowboy hat all flash through your mind in rapid succession as the light registered somewhere deep in your subconscious.

Then, with the sound of a gunshot, everything vanishes.

---

"NO PLEASE STOP!" You shriek in your sleep, thrashing around in your shared bed, waking the man beside you. He startles, sitting up and pulling you upright, shaking you gently to try and wake you from your night terror. You had been having them more and more recently, and he was starting to get really concerned. Terrified eyes snap open, tears starting to streak down your face as you caught his eyes and immediately begin trying to get away from him, your body still full of adrenaline. "Let me go!" You screamed, fighting to get away from those eyes. Those damn eyes were exactly the same.

"Shhh shhh, cariña, calm down it was just a night terror, you're safe." That voice...that voice wasn't the same. That voice was so much kinder and softer than the one in your dream and you grow still in his arms, nervously looking back at the one holding you. Your terrified stare was met with the warmest chocolate eyes you had ever seen, full of nothing but love and concern for you as he held you.

"F-Frankie...?" you ask, barely above a whisper, and he nods. You tremble in his hold as you choke out a sob, falling into his embrace. "I-I'm s-s-sorry Frank-kie! I-It was s-so b-bad this t-time," you managed to choke out between sobs. Frankie’s gentle fingers run through your hair in an attempt to soothe you as he coos gently to you, swaying back and forth with you. His sleep shirt was clutched in your fists as you sobbed against him.

"It's alright cariña, I'm here, I've got you and you're safe. Nothing is going to get you, I promise." His voice is deep and rich, sleep still painting the edges of it as he holds you and whispers soothing words to you. How lucky could you be to have a man like Francisco Morales to call your own? He was so patient with you, even when these night terrors plagued you seemingly non-stop.

As your sobs turn to sniffles, he carefully looks down at you. "Was it the same dream, amor?" he asks softly, nervous to startle you, and you nod weakly.

"Being chased and cornered by a man with a gun...who looked like a sleazy businessman version of you... But his eyes were hard and angry and his voice was so cold." You look up at him with still watery eyes and he delicately wipes your cheek of any errant tears. "I hate this."

"I know, sweetheart, I know. I'm sorry, I would do anything to help those dreams stop." His hold tightens around you. He was angry. Angry he couldn't protect you from this. Angry that for some reason your mind was using his face to torture you. Angry that you could get no respite from these horrible visions in your mind. With closed eyes, he nuzzles into your hair, placing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. Your eyes slip closed as you slowly relax into Frankie's hold, your heart rate slowing to a more normal rate as the flood of adrenaline clears your bloodstream, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Frankie coaxes you to bed again, holding you as close to him as he can, hoping his presence will somehow help to deter the nightmares.

In the morning, you wake to the smell of bacon and the feeling of an empty bed. You sit up and stretch before rubbing your eyes and yawning. Damn, your head and eyes hurt from the crying last night. Stupid nightmare... With a shake of your head, you move to get up to go get some medicine when you notice two Tylenol and a glass of water sitting on the nightstand. A smile tugs at the corners of your lips, knowing Frankie had left them out for you, and you take them, deciding to stay in bed a few more minutes and wait for Frankie. Your decision pays off when the door opens and Frankie walks in, a bed tray with pancakes, bacon, and a tall glass of chocolate milk in his hands.

"Morning amor. How are you feeling? I made your favorite blueberry pancakes." The smile that graces your lips he returns as he sets the tray across your lap before tucking a loose strand of hair back in place behind your ear, joining you on the bed.

"I'm alright as I can be. Tired of these stupid night terrors...I feel like I haven't slept in days." Leaning over, you press a quick kiss to his cheek before picking up a fork, digging in. The moan that leaves your lips borders on sinful as you taste the pancakes. Frankie's cooking always did amaze you. He chuckles as he leans back against the headboard, watching you.

"I'm glad you like the food." You nod with a smile and continue eating, content with the silence for now. That is, until a burning question bubbles to the forefront of your thoughts. "Frankie...have...have you ever had a dream...about a girl who looked like me?" The question comes softly from your lips, as if you are nervous to even ask it. It seemed so silly hearing it out loud.

"No, I can't say I have...but the day I met you, I could have sworn I had met you before. But there was no possible way that could have been." His voice is contemplative, and when you turn to look at him He's looking off to nowhere, lost in thought.

"What do you mean you could have sworn you've met me before?" He blinks a few times and looks back at you, shrugging.

"Everything about you was familiar. Your eyes, your laugh, your smile. Hell, even the way you stood, one hip cocked and your hand resting on it...It was all just so familiar, like I had met you a long time ago. Weird, I know."

"I'm the one having dreams about a guy who looks like a douche bag version of you trying to kill me, and you think familiarity is weird?" A pink tint creeps up his cheeks as he sputters out a reply.

"W-well when you put it that way..." You chuckle and shake your head, chasing a blueberry around your plate with your fork.

"Maybe...we have met before...just not...here." If he didn't think you were crazy before, he certainly would now.

"What, like a soulmate? A past life?" You nod, not looking up. You didn't want to see him looking at you like you were crazy. "Now that's an idea...it would explain a lot, wouldn't it?" Another nod, and his hand reaches around to lift your chin, turning your face to him. A gentle smile graces his beautiful face and you can't help but return it. "If that's the case, then I'm glad I found you again, soulmate." The giggle that escapes your lips only helps to widen his smile before he presses a chaste kiss to your lips.

You had heard great things of the Prince of Dorne. The Red Viper, Oberyn Martell. He was as fearsome as he was gentle. Ruthless as he was loving. His skills with poisons and fighting spears were unmatched, as was his sexual appetite. Or so you had heard. King's Landing was always full of whispers and rumors, so much so that it was hard to know just what was fact, and what was fiction. Not that it mattered, the rumors never affected you. You kept your head down, and did as you were told, assisting the Lanisters whenever need be. It was the best way to stay out of trouble, and to ensure your head stayed rightfully upon your shoulders.

But why all of the hubbub about Prince Oberyn all of a sudden? Have you missed an announcement? Cersei would have your head on a pike before the candles melted through if you embarrassed her by forgetting to outfit a chamber. A cold sweat breaks out over your skin and your heart races in your chest at the thought, your feet carrying you swiftly down the halls in search of Tyrion. He would know what was going on.

You find the man talking with his guard, and clear your throat softly as you approach, hands folded respectfully in front of you. Their conversation drops as Tyrion looks to you with a smile.

"Forgive my interruption, but I have heard many more whispers today than usual of The Red Viper of Dorne... Have...Have I missed a notice to prepare an extra chamber...?" Tyrion shakes his head and comes over to place a hand over your folded ones.

"Fear not, you've missed nothing. The chambers were already prepared for his visit." The tension melts from your shoulders and you nod, bowing your head before standing upright again.

"Thank you for informing me. I shall return to my duties then. Good day." You turn quickly as Tyrion bids you farewell, resuming your duties as needed.

The fight was the only thing anyone in the halls discussed. Oberyn was to champion for Tyrion in trial by combat with The Mountain. The whole of King's Landing was to attend to spectate, including the workers through the castle. It had been a long time since the walls buzzed with such energy, and you followed along quietly to the viewing stand reserved for the chambermaids. Perhaps you would now see if the words of the great Red Viper of Dorne were true. You watch with baited breath as he strides into the arena, his armor light, a fighting spear in his grip that he twirls with such grace it takes your breath away. His smile is confident, bordering on cocky, and you feel a twinge of fear for him. He was so small...The Mountain would crush him.

The fight was certainly something to behold, and for a moment, it seemed as though Oberyn's dexterity would win him the match. Till the tables turned... It was a gruesome sight, The Mountain was known well for his utter brutality. The cries of pain from the prince under his grip tore at your heart, and when his skull finally gave, painting the arena red, something inside you broke. Tears streamed down your cheeks, your hand covering your gaping mouth as your heart ached in your chest.

You had never met this man, and yet at the witnessing of his death, it felt as if you had lost a part of yourself.

"An intern? A FUCKING intern? What the fuck do I need with an intern?!" Maxwell stood from his desk, pacing behind it, a hand in his pocket while the other rubbed at his face. "I’m so close, SO CLOSE, to having the world in the palm of my hand, and you want me to take on AN INTERN?!" He snapped at the poor secretary who stood in the center of the room, trembling in her high heels.

"M-Mr. Lord...A-appearances are everything, sir, and I believe taking on an intern would brighten your appearance in the public eye even more so. She would be none the wiser, and you could use her to take care of your less important operations, sir." The secretary quivered under Maxwell's gaze as he stopped to stare at her, eyes hard as flint. Slowly, so slowly, a predatory smile works its way across his face, and he stalks forward, lifting the secretary's chin.

"You are an absolute genius, where would I be without you?" He shoves her head away and she stumbles back a step before catching herself. "Bring her on. Get her set up on payroll, benefits, whatever she needs, then send her here to talk with me." The secretary nods, scribbling down notes on a piece of paper before looking back up to her boss who has taken to looking out the window of his high rise office. "Well don't just stand there, chop chop!" She shoos her from the room and she leaves in a rush, heels clicking down the hall as she goes to find you.

The lobby of the Lord building was absolutely massive, and appropriately ornate for what you knew of Maxwell's image. Nervous fingers played across your pencil skirt, smoothing down the nonexistent wrinkles in the material as you waited for the secretary you had met to return with her answer. The sound of heels clicking down the hallway draws your attention and a cordial smile graces your lips as the secretary returns.

"Good news!" she claims in an overly excited tone. "Welcome to the company! Mr. Lord has agreed to take you on as his intern. I'll take your information and get you set up with payroll while you come to meet the man behind it all." You nod, fishing a manila envelope of all of your information out of your shoulder bag, handing it over. "Excellent. Now, follow me. A few pointers," she says matter of factly. "Speak only when spoken to and NEVER interrupt. Mr. Lord hates being interrupted. You'll refer to him as Mr. Lord or Sir unless instructed otherwise. Keep your answer short and to the point. Are we clear?" You swallow thickly, suddenly astronomically more nervous than you were just a moment ago.

"Crystal."

"Excellent." She takes you to a large set of double wooden doors, knocking with three quick raps before opening the door. "Mr. Lord, here she is." The secretary ushers you in, placing you in the center where she stood trembling only minutes before, stepping off to the side as Maxwell strides up to you, circling around you as he sizes you up.

"Not bad," he muses. "Not bad at all." His gaze was searing, causing your blood to race in your veins. You were pretty, he had to admit, and that would definitely be a bonus if you were going to be around him every damn day. Something familiar tugged at the back of his mind. Your eyes or your jawline, maybe, but he quickly chased that thought away. "So, you're going to be my new intern!" He claps his hands together. "Your work starts now. Follow me." He places a hand on your shoulder, leading you to what you assumed was where you were going to be sitting for the rest of this internship.

You blink and stumble for a moment, a firm yet chilling grip catching you to right you.

"Careful there doll. Can't have you ruining that pretty face of yours cause you tried to kiss the carpet." Max laughed that ultra-fake, condescending laugh he had, letting you go as you righted yourself. Adjusting your pencil skirt, you nod and take a deep breath. This was all way too familiar. The outfit, the internship, the guide through the office to a desk by your boss'. It was hands down the worst case of deja vu you have EVER had.

"Mr. Phillips-"

"Call me Max, doll. You're my new intern, and I'd like to think of you and I more as friends than as boss and employee." He grins at you and you shiver at the sight of his fangs.

"...Max. Uhm...does...does any of this seem a little too familiar to you? Like you've been here before?" His look back at you with a look that makes you wish you could just melt into the carpet and disappear.

"I'm here every day, what are you talking about?"

"N-no I mean like, do you ever get deja vu? Because I'm having it bad right now." That trademark grin spreads across Max's face again as he seats you at your desk, perching himself up on the front of it so he's looking down at you.

"My whole unlife is deja vu, dollface. It's round two for me." That damn smile never leaves his lips as he watches you put your papers in the drawers of your desk. "Any other silly little questions, or should I just let you get started on your first day?" The tips of your ears were on fire and you shook your head.

"Nothing else, Max. Thank you, I'll get to work." He claps and nods, hopping off your desk.

"Alright, doll. You'll have a set of reports for editing in your inbox. Have them formatted, printed, and on my desk before you head out today." You nod, starting up your desktop as he makes his way from your now shared office. This...was going to be a long internship.

Max makes his way down the hall, that fake, used car salesman smile falling from his lips as soon as he is out of eye-shot. He stalks down the hall to his own personal bathroom, shutting the door with a little more force than necessary.

"Fuck!" The acoustics of the tiled room cause his voice to reverberate, sharp in his ears. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" He white knuckles the edge of the sink, the porcelain cracking under his hands. It was her. It was FUCKING her! Of all the people who could come to intern at this company, it had to be his soulmate. Because of course it did! Why would the universe decide anything else?! The frustrated vampire closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. She didn't know, everything was going to be fine. Can't have a soulmate when you don't have a soul. Checkmate, universe. Yeah, that was what he would do, he’d ignore it. Problems always went away when you ignored them, right?

Wrong.

"I need to stop watching vamp movies before bed," Javier Peña groans, sitting up from his bed. "Fucking dreaming about them now.." He continues to grumble to himself as he gets ready for the day. It was going to be a long one. The DEA had caught a lead on Escobar, and were running a raid this afternoon. He needed to be on his game today, this could be the chance they needed to finally get that bastard. He slips his gun into the waistband of his jeans, grabs his leather jacket, and heads to work.

Hostages. Of course they had fucking hostages.

"This complicates things," Steve whispers from behind him.

"No shit," the exasperated DEA agent snaps back, eyes scanning the entrance to the building. They had no idea how many Escobar's men had in there, and they needed to get them all out. Javier was tired of seeing innocents die, caught up in something because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. "I'm going around back," Javi hisses, ducking around Steve to find the back entrance. "You stay here with the team. First gunshot, you move. Be smart, clear every room, move fast." Steve nods, taking Javi’s place as Javi slinks along the back perimeter.

He was right, there was a back entrance. He presses his ear to the door, trying to make out any sound and was met with only silence. Gun ready in one hand, he slowly opens the door, thanking whatever god existed that most of Escobar's men were idiots. They had forgotten to arm the back door. He moves along the wall to the hallway, noting two doors on the left, one on the right on the way to the main lobby. His heart pounds in his ears as he moves as quickly and quietly as possible, choosing the one door on the right first, seeing it open. He ducks in, gun sweeping over the room, but all he sees is you there, bound and gagged with duct tape. Your face was a mess, one eye blackened and dried blood from your nose crusted on the tape. Weary, broken eyes meet Javi's and his heart stutters. He had to get you out of here, and he was going to.

As you look at him, your eyes widened at the shadow moving down the hall. Noticing, Javi presses himself just to the side of the doorway, waiting for the man to make his way into the room before firing off two quick shots to his head. The man slumped to the ground, lifeless as the house descended into chaos. Javi grabs you, dragging you gracelessly to the corner where he can better protect you. The action draws a soft whimper from you, fresh tears running down your cheeks.

Gunfire, screaming in both Spanish and English, crashing and banging...it was all too much for you and you began sobbing, quaking in absolute terror. Javier held you to him gently, his large hand holding your head against his chest.

"Calma, calma. Estás segura. Soy aquí," he whispers softly against your hair, eyes trained on the door still.

"Peña! It's clear! We got them all, where are you?" Steve. Thank god.

"First room on your left. Bring me the first aid kit!" You look up at agent Peña with glassy eyes, bloodshot from crying and he starts to peel the duct tape away from your mouth as gently as he can. "It's alright, you're safe now." His voice is gruff, but he speaks so gently to you. You can't stop the trembling in your limbs, the adrenaline running its course.

"I got the ki- holy shit what did they do to her?!" Steve joins Javi by your side, helping to undo the tape binding your arms and legs.

"Beat the shit out of her it looks like," Javi pulls an alcohol swab from the kit, tearing it open to wipe off a nasty looking cut along your brow and you hiss, pulling back at the sting. "Easy, chica. I know it hurts, I'm sorry." The whimper that leaves your lips has Javi nearly seeing red. Those bastards...

"Let's get her out of here. We need to get her to a hospital." Steve is already standing up, pulling out his phone.

"No! No, please no hospitals!" The words come out as a rasp, your throat feeling like sandpaper.

"Lady, you're beat to hell, we need to get you some medical attention." He argues, but the look in your eyes is desperate as you turn your gaze back to the DEA agent who saved you.

"Please, please no hospitals...I can't do it."

"Peña..." Javier cuts him off with a shake of his head.

"I'll take her back to my place and take care of her. She can stay there for now. Her place probably isn't safe right now anyways if they managed to get her." No hospitals...they weren't going to take you to the hospital. Relief washes over you and your limbs suddenly felt so heavy.

"Thank you..." You barely make out before your body gives out and you slump against Javi. His arms wrap around you after checking for a pulse, and he stands, scooping you up bridal style in his arm. He carries you out to his car, sitting you in the front seat and strapping you in, Steve arguing the whole way.

"Look, she said no hospitals, so we aren't going to the hospital. If things get worse, I'll take her, but for now, I'm taking her back to mine. You stay here and get the paperwork done. I'll call if anything changes." Steve opened his mouth to argue, but Javi was already in the truck, taking you to his little apartment on the quiet side of town.

It was surely a strange sight, the DEA agent carrying in your battered body to his apartment, and it raises the eyebrow of Old Woman Angela who gracefully still decides to mind her own business. Safe within the confines of his home, Javi carries you to his bed, laying you down gently before ridding you of your shoes in an attempt to grant you at least a little comfort.

"Let's get you cleaned up, querida." His words are soft and gentle, more so than he's used with anyone in a long time. Delicately, he wipes your face with a clean, damp cloth to rid you of the grime and blood that had built up, using caution around your deeply blackened eye. The sight of you so battered made his heart ache. He was used to violence, he was used to death. It followed him everywhere in this line of work. So why, then, was this hitting him so much harder than any of the others. Why did he feel this overwhelming need to protect you, to keep you safe from all the world's atrocities? He shakes his head and mutters to himself in Spanish as he moves to sanitizing and dressing your wounds. Once you were as cared for as he could make you, he sits, watching your sleeping form. The subtle rise and fall of your chest as you sleep gives him at least a little comfort. His hand moves as if of its own will, taking yours gently. They're so soft, and they fit so perfectly in his, almost like your hands were made to be held in his. It felt so right, so natural. And that was something Javier Peña had never felt before, not like this. In your sleep, so gently he almost thinks he imagined it, you squeeze his hand tighter.

Javier Peña didn't even know your name, but in his heart he knew one thing.

You were home.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" you call from your place on the couch, head dangling off, your feet where your head should be.

"Absolutely," came the gentle voice from the kitchen.

"And what about soulmates?"

"Those too. Why do you ask?" Marcus peeks his head out and chuckles when he sees you once again refusing to use furniture correctly.

"I dunno, just a thought I've been having recently. Like, how do people know when they've found their soulmate? It's not like we have a countdown timer that tells us."

"Well," your boyfriend comes to join you on the couch and you immediately right yourself to lay with your head in his lap, his fingers moving to play with your hair. "It's one of those things you just know. Like, they walk into the room and all you can see is them. Their voice and laugh makes you feel like you're floating, and every time you see them a warmth spreads through you from the tip of your head all the way to your toes. And the feel of their skin is the most right thing in the world, like anywhere you go, so long as you're with them, you're home." His gentle smile down at you does just that, filling you with that warmth it always does. "Some people even say they have dreams of past lives where they've met their soulmates before."

"Have you?"

"I have." His voice is so assured, it takes you by surprise, and you must have worn that look on your face because Marcus laughs before tapping your nose.

"...Tell me about her. Or him, I guess." Curiosity was eating you alive. Who was Marcus' soulmate? Were you keeping him from them? Your heart sank at the thought that maybe...maybe he belonged to someone else through some greater proclaimed destiny.

"She's been so many things and been on so many adventures, love. She's flown through the expanses of space so many times, fought monsters and mined for rare jewels. She's aided weary warriors who were passing through her tiny village. She's survived terrifying experiences with drug lords and she's worked as a top agent in intelligence organizations. She's wept for a lover she never knew, and she's been mourned by more than she will ever know." You watch his face with a child-like wonder, and when he finishes he looks at you, that glimmer you love so much still present in his eyes. "Have you ever had similar dreams?"

The question catches you by surprise and you find yourself contemplating. You had never really remembered dreams, but a few did stick out to you. "I remember...space. And the man I was with was cold and metal, but his voice was gentle. And I remember...I remember working in offices with men in suits I could never afford, but who bought me nice things to say the words they could never get to come out. And...a scar. I remember a scar." Wandering fingers reach up to trace over Marcus' eye. "I remember my first thought when I saw you was 'Didn't he have a scar?' But the thought was so out of place, I had no idea what to do with it. I had never met you before! So I...forgot it." All through your talking, Marcus' smile has just grown wider, as if he's waiting for you to catch one of his jokes.

When it all clicks into place, you sit up, your mouth slightly open as memories flood your mind's eyes. A wet and weary warrior, a charming cowboy, a fearsome hunter covered in metal, a talkative gentleman whose every sentence was poetry, a ruthless killer, a soft pilot with a heat of gold, a grand prince gone too soon, a pompous billionaire, a sarcastic frat boy, and a gentle DEA agent all flashing through your mind in rapid succession. Your eyes tear up with the memories that are yours but at the same time aren't, and you reach up to cup his face. Words die on the tip of your tongue as you struggle to force them out.

Marcus takes the burden from you, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your lips. It's heavy, full of so many memories, so many moments, so many lifetimes. It's so magnificent it sucks the air from your lungs and you break away to gasp for breath as Marcus presses his forehead to yours.

"Y...You're my...soulmate..." The words are barely a breath, but he hears them all the same and nods, pecking your lips once more as he gathers you into his arms. You melt into the grasp, more comfortable here than anywhere else on earth.

"Yes, my love. And no matter the lifetime, no matter the universe, no matter the struggle...The forces that be will always bring me to you. Always wait for me."

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

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chaosciara · 4 years ago

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where the arch meets

I have not read King of Scars so I do not know anything about the plot therefore some information about Nikolai could be outdated. This is also the first time I've ever written for this fandom so hopefully I did the characters justice. My friend and I watched S&B and were talking about ships and I said I wanted to see Kaz and Nikolai together which then prompted whatever the hell happened here, please enjoy!

CW: mentions of blood, mentions of gambling

There are no spoilers for the S&B show

masterlist; my links

[image has alt text]

Kaz stares out the window, a glum look on his usually stoic face. Ketterdam was alive, unusual joy spinning itself in the streets as the city busies itself for the arrival of the one and only King Nikolai Lantsov. The festivities of the "Peacekeeper" as he had been so lovingly named, had started three long days ago. Every day that Kaz wakes up to popping streamers, and the litany of ballads associated with the King's ever growing list accomplishments, is a day his stolen peace gets ripped from beneath him. He's not even sure why the King is so popular. He can't say he was anywhere near impressed enough at their brief meeting to warrant the five different ballads about those hazel eyes alone. Kaz looks down at the papers littering his desk, crow club books and bank statements for his various 'assets', communications between the various councils in Ravka and Ketterdam, and the most recent letter from Inej, smelling of the sea.

Their friendship is something of a mystery to the world but between them she is the rock that kept him steady. Even now, with her sailing the high seas content to her freedom, he can feel the unwavering quiet of her. Briefly, he wishes she were here. She would make him laugh, tell him to stop being so glum about the brown-eyed, blonde haired king if he insisted on doing nothing about it. He wouldn't let his amusement at her teasing show, but later in the safety of his room, this room, he'd let a rare smile show. He misses their quiet friendship most of all. But she is happy on her ship with her crew and he has shit to do. He always has shit to do.

The thought, stark and unwelcome, snaps him back to the present. A scowl replaces his faraway look as he shuts the window to the new round of baudy tunes drifting up and straight into the headache knocking at his skull. He sits back down harder than he intended, and winces at the pain that lances down his back and into his leg. He can hear Nina, chastising him for not putting on the salve, for not resting. But he doesn't have the time. He can't do something as normal as rest. He has a city to run. Or at least the underbelly of a city to run.

The statements stare at him but the numbers swirl like melting ice-cream in a bowl, and he wants to throw the pages in the fire in frustration. But he has never acted on emotion, and he will not start now. So he pushes away from his desk, cane already cool under his fingertips, and makes his way to the floors of the crow club.

The passage muffles the sounds of chips cluttering on a table, and glasses set down hard on the wood, and shouting when someone wins, loses, almost gets decked for supposed cheating. But as soon as he steps past the doors, nodding at the two guards he'd posted at this entrance, all of that chaos surrounds him. There is no hush as he steps into the room, no blanket of fear or anger or anything. They don't even know he is there. They won't until he makes himself known. Spending years with his Wraith had taught him some things, even with the click of his cane. He looks to the corner expecting to spot Jesper; his heart, as it had done every day since they had all parted ways, clenched upon seeing the empty space where his sharpshooter was supposed to be. The disappointment doesn't stop his eyes from travelling to the table closest to the kitchens— or as the Nina lovingly called it, the muck hut— where Wylan was usually hunched over notebooks or losing to just about everyone, except maybe Inej, in a game of cards.

He misses them. He'd never tell them, would never let it so much as flash across his face, but he couldn't stop his heart from the same onslaught. He felt it every day. Every time he looked to his window and Inej wasn't perched atop it. Every time he walked to the gambling tables and Jesper wasn't leaning over it, brown eyes shining with hope. Every time he wandered the corridors of the club hearing Wylan's flute. When he decides to put salve on it's because he hears Nina's voice, sees her frown, as she tries so hard to heal them. He even misses Matthias but that is a road he doesn't allow himself to go down. A failure he cannot yet acknowledge. His trip down memory lane ends abruptly when a man with a hood over his eyes, shadowing his face, steps up to him.

"You Kaz, Kaz Brekker?" The voice is rough, almost too rough, but the lilting accent is familiar. Before he can place it the man is talking again.

"I want to speak with you, about a deal."

Kaz tilts his head, resting gloved hands on his cane as he takes the figure in. "Liar."

The man sputters jerking back, and just briefly he catches a glimpse of golden skin and something shiny pinned to his coat. "It's urgent!" The man's voice is not so rough, and that accent, charming in a way, bleeds through more and more.

"I'm not available for deals." It is not true, but he wants to see how they'll react, what they're capable of if he says no.

"You'll like this one." The roughness has been replaced by arrogance. And the world opens wide for Kaz.

"Come," He turns, already limping towards the doors and his rooms beyond. "Don't say anything until we're behind closed doors"

It takes them exactly one minute and twelve seconds to get to his study. As soon as he hears the door click behind him, he lifts his cane and with brutal precision he rips through the clasp at the man's chest and watches the coat land in a heap on his wooden floor. Letting the crows head of his cane fall back into his hand he finally looks up. "What are you doing here King?" The question holds more exhaustion than he's willing to admit.

"What?" The King of Ravka grins, beautiful and bright and full of arrogance, "You aren't happy to see me?"

And Kaz wants to tell him no and piss off and leave me alone, but his heart is pounding and there is blood rushing between his ears and he doesn't really remember what breathing does, how it works. Because this is the first time he's ever seen Nikolai. When they met all those years ago he was Sturmhond, the privateer. Since then Kaz has only seen posters, and art. But none of them, not a single one, has ever done the king justice. He is........ he is magic.

"Oh come on," The blonde is laughing. It sounds like water. It sounds like peace. "You can't expect me to act like a stranger after all the letters we've sent." Yes, the letters. The updates King Nikolai had requested about Ketterdam, about the barrel, about the illegal smuggling of grisha to work as slaves. Those letters. "What?" The King looks at him speculatively, amusement sparking in his hazel eyes— they suit him so much better than the green of Sturmhond. "Volcra got your tongue?"

“Didn't know you would be in town," Kaz manages to grind out. He hopes it sounds like irritation and not infatuation.

"The six million posters and seven ballads about my adventures aboard the Kingfisher were not notice enough?" That grin is back. It is ruining him. "Oh dear, next time I'll be sure to add floating parades to the mix."

"That's tomorrow." He glowers. He doesn't think the blonde could get anymore insufferable. He is wrong.

"Do you have plans to attend then?"

He ignores the question, the tease. "What are you doing here Lantsov?"

"I'm here for the festival Mr, Brekker."

"I mean here." He motions to the room, to him. "What are you doing in the Barrel, in my club—" He wants to say 'in my room'. He catches himself.

"I came," Nikolai steps a little closer. There's still do much distance between them, practically an ocean, but Kaz can feel the tension wrapping around his lungs. He wants out. He wants closer. He wants, he wants, he wants....... "To visit a friend Mr Brekker. I don't exchange letters detailing my failed attempt at diving through the sky with just anyone." Oh saints he's going to die. He's never going to survive this. His face is a brick wall, a crack where his frown breaks through.

"You are a busy man King, busier even, than i am." He wants to applaud himself for the steadiness of his voice. "I doubt that you had time to just pop by. So what do you want, Nikolai?"

There is a flash of something in those beautiful eyes, and he wants to chase it to the ends of the earth. "Must we always have an ulterior motive?" The voice is quiet, but it is filled with curiosity and emotions Kaz doesn't have the ability to unpack. "Is it not good enough that I wanted to see you Kaz."

The Underboss of Ketterdam becomes a rain, becomes wind, and earth, and gold. He sits down on his desk, uninterested in the groan of the wood as it tries to carry his weight. Nikolai looks at him, soft and open, all that charm hidden- packed away for a moment far removed from this one. Somehow the distance has shrunk between them until there is only two steps, maybe three before their bodies can collide. He knows Nikolai would not come closer, but some part of him wants the king to try. Wants to see what would happen. He shoves that part so far down it got to hell before him.

"Say something," The blonde whispers.

"How long till they realize you've snuck off?" The bark of laughter that escapes the king is like jurda straight into his bloodstream.

"We have an hour tops."

"Let's go." He throws a new hood, midnight blue and embellished with golden thread, at him. It's his own. He doesn't have time to find another. Nikolai puts it on, fastening the small gold clasp at his front, and Kaz has to remind himself to breathe when he sees how beautiful those colours are against that golden skin. It looks a thousand times better on Nikolai than it ever had in him.

"Where are we off to then?" The blonde asks, his familiar charm steady through his features once more. "You're not intending to kidnap me and sell me to the highest bidder are you?" Before he can even start to ignore the question Nikolai is carrying on. "I have to tell you I won't make a very high bid. I seem to have botched myself a little when I turned into one of the Darkling's little pets. I think my di—"

"Shut up will you," He snaps, black eyes scanning the club as they walk through it.

"A little tense Mr Brekker," He can hear the grin. He doesn't know whether he wants to slap it or stare at it. He keeps walking.

They're outside and it's just started to drizzle and he has the brief thought that maybe he shouldn't be making the king of Ravka gallivant in the rain. But then he catches a glimpse of Nikolai's expression, full of wonder and glinting with excitement and he can't turn back even if he wants to.

"Kaz," Saints he loves the way the blonde says his name. "I really think it's better if I know where we're going, sake of safety and all that."

"We're going to the docks."

"You're not intending to drown me, are you?" There is no concern hidden behind the question, only delighted amusement.

"If I had intended to be rid of you Nikolai," Kaz turns his head, stares at the man, "I would have done it the second you walked into my club."

"Even though you didn't know it was me?"

It's his turn to smirk, and he revels in it. "I know everyone that comes into my club, King." The title reverberates in his throat. He catches the flash in the royal's eye.

"Why are you taking us to the docks?"

"I want to show you something, privateer." The strangled noise he hears in answer makes him force down the smile threatening to erupt.

The rain is at that awkward stage where it's more than a drizzle but less than a downpour. The kind that seeps into your clothes, makes your bones wet before you can even feel it on your skin. But they're almost there, he can see their destination clear in front of him. They are quiet, a rare thing for Nikolai he thinks, as they walk. Every now and then he glances to his companion who is always staring at the world in wonder. Like every corner produces a new kind of thrill. Like he'll be able to collect them all and bottle them for his journey home.

"Why are you staring at my pretty face?" The subject of his hidden amazement asks. "You've never been one to appreciate beauty Mr Brekker. If you did you'd have commented on my lovely violet wax seals at least once." He fights the urge to roll his eyes at that. The wax seals were the least interesting thing about the letters. He usually ripped them open like a mad man, clawing for the content inside and reading it as if it were going to disappear before he could get to the, 'fondly, Nikolai Lantsov' at the end.

"I have more interest in the contents inside."

At that the King does roll his eyes, "Oh yes, the ever so interesting reports about dock lookouts and safe grisha arrivals."

"It's my business."

"Mhm" Is all the blonde has to say.

They step onto the docks, and the tap of his cane, louder, more prominent on the wood, rings slightly in his ears. It's a comforting sound. One he has come to rely on to keep him steady. Especially when there's a king walking in stride with him, a king who kind of looks like the sun just before it disappears over the horizon. A king who scents his letters with lavender because he wants people to know calmness. A king who has never touched him but always stands close enough that he can feel the heat of him.

He recognizes the marker that tells him they're in the right place and then he motions for Nikolai to stay behind him. "Its small so we'll have to be close together." He says quietly.

"Are you okay with that?" The question is so gentle, so full of worry it almost buckles his knees.

"I'll manage."

"Kaz," He sounds hesitant, he sounds worried. "You don't have to force yourself to do something for me."

"I'm not, now come on before it disappears." And then they're stepping into an alcove only slightly bigger than a coffin and they're so close and there's so little air. But still Nikolai is not touching him and the leather of Kaz's gloves is warm against his skin. There is no part if him exposed to the elements, except his face. He takes one breath, takes two. The king is looking at him with concern, it is swimming in his features.

"Look up." Together they tilt their heads, and as the weak sunlight, bogged by rain, sinks to the floor the gems buried in the stones of the roof above them come ablaze. Crimson reds, and sapphire blues, and forest greens, and golden yellows. The light fractures and morphs and dances around them, like coloured stars.

He had discovered this wonder in a burning rage, trailing blood down the docks. He'd beaten up a man who betrayed their gang- dirty work for the boss- but half way down the docks he'd thought he was being followed and he slipped into this little alcove. He comes back every chance he gets.

"This is—" For once King Nikolai Lantsov is speechless. "How did you even find such a thing?" The hood had fallen off his head when he looked up so every angle of his face is on sharp display. The miserable lighting only made him more golden as if he was defying the weather simply by existing. And the gemstones reflected in his eyes, turning them every shade of rare rainbow. One of three Kaz had ever seen in Ketterdam.

He just raises a brow. "We should be getting back, I'm sure they've already sounded the alarm."

The blonde snorts, "They're used to it by now."

"Oh you sneak off to visit all your friends?" They step out carefully, making sure not to disturb the structure or get caught in the act.

"Feeling less special?"

"Wondering if maybe you should pay your guards more."

They bicker all the way back, about everything, trading wit and meaningless insults in equal measure. Kaz insists on dropping Nikolai off at his lodgings and Nikolai insists he doesn't have to despite leading them towards the building he's staying in. When they finally arrive, it is with a sense of longing for more that settles between them. More time, more laughter, more traded quips, just more.

"Goodbye Mr Brekker." The King bows his head.

"Nikolai." He nods.

"Come visit me in Ravka soon." It's the line he prints in every letter, no matter how far apart their replies are, or how many other things they have going on. Kaz never acknowledges it. He won't put that kind of hope into them. He must stay here. He must work.

But today, with happiness bubbling under his skin, he cant help but let loose a small smile and a dangerous promise. "I'll try."

And fading under the bustle of people is a small golden plaque on the floor of the alcove. "To those we love, and love unconditionally." A bigger promise, one that has lasted through time itself.

"That's all we can do Kaz," Nikolai smiles. "We try."

#Kaz x Nikolai #Nikolai x Kaz #Kaz Brekker/Nikolai Lantsov #grishaverse #The grisha trilogy #six of crows duology #shadow & bone #six of crows #Kaz Brekker #Nikolai Lantsov #TLYJ writes #soc #s&b

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thewidowsghost · 3 years ago

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The Unknown Muggleborn - Chapter 11

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

3rd Person POV

This can't get any worse, (Y/n) thinks as Filch drags her down to Professor McGonagall's study on the first floor. What the (H/C) haired girl didn't know, was that Harry and Hermione - still under the Invisibity Cloak - had followed the two.

There's no reason on earth that Professor McGonagall will accept being out of bed and creeping around the school in the dead of night, let alone being up the tallest Astronomy Tower, which was out-of-bounds except for classes, (Y/n) thinks miserably.

When Professor McGonagall appears, she looked more likely to breathe fire than Norbert as she towers over (Y/n).

"I would never have believed it of you. Mr. Filch says you were up in the Astronomy Tower. It's one o'clock in the morning. Explain yourself," McGonagall orders.

(Y/n) sits still, her emerald eyes flicking sadly for a moment, and Harry and Hermione exchange a look under the Cloak. Then - to Harry and Hermione's astonishment - (Y/n) speaks.

"I was helping Hagrid," (Y/n) says softly, and McGonagall's expression changes to something (Y/n) couldn't read. "Hagrid had a baby dragon. I didn't want him to get in trouble, so I sent a letter to someone who cares for dragons so they would take him. I just had to get the dragon to the Astronomy Tower."

"Miss (L/n), though you had good intentions for helping a friend, it was unacceptable to be walking around the school at night, especially these days, it's very dangerous - a hundred points will be taken from Gryffindor."

(Y/n)'s face seems to fall even more and Harry and Hermione exchange another look from under the cloak.

"Now, get back to bed," McGonagall says, her voice softening at the expression on (Y/n)'s face.

(Y/n) nods and walks out of the office and silently up to Gryffindor Tower, Harry and Hermione close behind their friend.

The Portrait Hole opens and (Y/n) walks straight up the stairs to her dorm.

Marvel looks up at her companion, and curls up with her friend.

(Y/n) didn't sleep all night, dreading the dawn. What would happen when the rest of Gryffindor found out what she had done?

At first, Gryffindors passing the giant hourglasses that recorded the House points the next day thought there'd been a mistake. How could they suddenly be a hundred points fewer than yesterday?

And then the story starts to spread: (Y/n) (L/n), friend to the famous Harry Potter, their hero of two Quidditch matches, had lost them all the house points, in one night.

From being one of the most popular and admired people at the school, (Y/n) was suddenly one of the most hated. Even the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs turned on her, because everyone had been longing to see Slytherin lose the House Cup. Everywhere (Y/n) went, people point and don't bother to lower their voices as they insult her. Slytherins, on the other hand, clap as she walks past them, whistling and cheering, "Thanks (L/n), we owe you one."

Only Ron, Harry, Hermione and the Weasley Twins stood by her.

"They'll all forget this in a few weeks," Ron says soothingly on morning at breakfast as every sends (Y/n) hostile glares. "Fred and George have lost loads of points in all the time they've been here, and people still like them."

"But they haven't lost a hundred points in one go, though, have they?" asks (Y/n) miserably as someone loudly asks Harry why he was friends with the 'rubbish Gryffindor Mudblood.'

"Well - no," Ron admits.

It is a bit late to repair the damage, but Harry swore to himself not to meddle in things that weren't his business from no on, coming to the conclusion that (Y/n) receiving all the hate was his fault for forgetting the cloak at the top of the tower. He'd had it with sneaking around and spying.

(Y/n) felt so ashamed of herself that she had went to Oliver Wood and offered to resign from the Quidditch team.

"Resign?" Wood thunders. "What good'll that do? How are we going to get any points back if we can't win at Quidditch?"

But even Quidditch had lost its fun. The rest of the team - excluding Harry, George, and Fred - wouldn't speak to her, and if they had to speak about her, they called her 'the Seeker.'

Hermione was suffering too, just because she was (Y/n)'s sister, and no one would speak to her, either. Hermione and (Y/n) had stopped drawing attention to themselves in class, keeping their heads down and working in silence.

(Y/n) was actually glad that the exams weren't far away. All the studying she is doing keeping her away from her misery. (Y/n), Harry, Ron, and Hermione keep to themselves, working late into the night, trying to remember the ingredients in complicated potions, learn charms and spells by heart, memorize the dates of magical discoveries and goblin rebellions . . .

Then, about a week before the exams were due to start, Harry's new resolution not to interfere in anything that didn't concern him was put to an unexpected test. Walking back from the library on his own one afternoon, he hears somebody whimpering from a classroom up ahead. As he draws closer,he hears Quirrell's voice.

"No — no — not again, please —"

It sounds as though someone is threatening him. Harry moves closer.

"All right — all right —" he hears Quirrell sob.

Next second, Quirrell comes hurrying out of the classroom straightening his turban. He is pale and looks as though he was about to cry. He strides out of sight; Harry didn't think Quirrell had even noticed him. He waits until Quirrell's footsteps had disappeared, then peers into the classroom. It is empty, but a door stands ajar at the other end. Harry is halfway toward it before he remembers what he'd promised himself about not meddling.

All the same, he'd have gambled twelve Sorcerer's Stones that Snape had just left the room, and from what Harry had just heard, Snape would be walking with a new spring in his step — Quirrell seemed to have given in at last.

Harry goes back to the library, where Hermione is testing Ron on Astronomy, (Y/n) buried in her extra complicated - at least to Harry and Ron - Potions notes, Harry tells them what he'd heard.

"Snape's done it, then!" says Ron. "If Quirrell's told time how to break his Anti-Dark Force spell -"

"There's still Fluffy though," Hermione reasons.

"Maybe Snape's found out how to get past him without asking Hagrid," Harry says, looking around at the thousands of books surrounding them.

"I bet there's a book somewhere in here telling you how to get past a three-headed dog," Ron adds. "So what do we do, Harry?" The light of adventure is kindling again in Ron's eyes, but Hermione answers before Harry can.

"Go to Dumbledore. That's what we should have done ages ago. If we try anything ourselves we'll be thrown out for sure."

"But we've got no proof!" says Harry. "Quirrell's too scared to back us up. Snape's only got to say he doesn't know how the troll got in at Halloween and that he was nowhere near the third floor — who do you think they'll believe, him or us? It's not exactly a secret we hate him, Dumbledore'll think we made it up to get him sacked. Filch wouldn't help us if his life depended on it, he's too friendly with Snape, and the more students get thrown out, the better, he'll think. And don't forget, we're not supposed to know about the Stone or Fluffy. That'll take a lot of explaining."

Hermione looks convinced, but Ron doesn't.

"If we just do a bit of poking around -"

"No," (Y/n) speaks for what seems to be the first time in a week, "we've done enough poking around."

The following morning, a note is delivered to (Y/n) at the breakfast table:

Your detention will take place at eleven o'clock tonight.Meet Mr. Filch in the entrance hall.

Professor M. McGonagall

(Y/n) had forgotten she still had a detention to do in the furor over the points she'd lost.

At eleven o'clock that night, (Y/n) says goodbye to Harry, Ron, and Hermione and goes down to the entrance hall. Filch was already there - and so was Malfoy. (Y/n) had almost forgotten that Malfoy had gotten a detention, too.

"Follow me," says Filch, lighting a lamp and leading them outside. "I bet you'll think twice about breaking a school rule again, won't you, eh?" he says, leering at them. "Oh yes . . . hard work and pain are the best teachers if you ask me. . . . It's just a pity they let the old punishments die out . . . hang you by your wrists from the ceiling for a few days, I've got the chains still in my office, keep 'em well oiled in case they're ever needed. . . .Right, off we go, and don't think of running off, now, it'll be worse for you if you do."

They march off across the dark grounds. (Y/n) wonders what their punishment is going to be. It must be something really horrible, or Filch wouldn't be sounding so delighted. The moon is bright, but clouds scudding across it keep throwing them into darkness. Ahead, (Y/n) can see the lighted windows of Hagrid's hut. Then they hear a distant shout.

"Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started."

(Y/n)'s heart rises; if they are going to be working with Hagrid, it wouldn't be so bad. Her relief must have shown on her face, because Filch says, "I suppose you think you'll be enjoying yourself with that oaf? Well, think again, girl — it's into the forest you're going and I'm much mistaken if you'll all come out in one piece.

At this, Malfoy stops dead in his tracks."The forest?" he repeats, and he doesn't sound as cool as usual. "We can't go in there at night - there's all sorts of things in there - werewolves, I heard."

"That's your problem, isn't it?" says Filch, his voice cracking with glee."Should've thought of them werewolves before you got in trouble, shouldn't you?"

Hagrid comes striding towards them out of the dark, Fang at his heel. He is carrying his large crossbow, and a quiver of arrows hangs over his shoulder. "Abou' time," he says. "I bin waitin' fer half an hour already. All right, (Y/n)?"

"I shouldn't be too friendly to them, Hagrid," says Filch coldly, "they're here to be punished, after all."

"That's why yer late, is it?" says Hagrid, frowning at Filch. "Bin lecturin' them, eh? 'Snot your place ter do that. Yeh've done yer bit, I'll take over from here."

"I'll be back at dawn," says Filch, "for what's left of them," he adds nastily, and he turns and starts back toward the castle, his lamp bobbing away in the darkness.

Malfoy now turns to Hagrid. "I'm not going in that forest," he says, and (Y/n) feels a little pleased to hear the note of panic in his voice.

"Yeh are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts," says Hagrid fiercely. "Yeh've done wrong an' now yeh've got ter pay fer it."

"But this is servant stuff, it's not for students to do. I thought we'd be copying lines or something, if my father knew I was doing this, he'd —"

"— tell yer that's how it is at Hogwarts," Hagrid growls. "Copyin' lines!What good's that ter anyone? Yeh'll do summat useful or yeh'll get out. If yeh think yer father'd rather you were expelled, then get back off ter the castle an' pack. Go on!"

Malfoy doesn't move. He looks at Hagrid furiously, but then drops his gaze.

"Right then," says Hagrid, "now, listen carefully, 'cause it's dangerous what we're gonna do tonight, an' I don' want no one takin' risks. Follow me over here a moment."

He leads them to the very edge of the forest. Holding his lamp up high, he points down a narrow, winding earth track that disappears into the thick black trees. A light breeze lifts their hair as they look into the forest.

"Look there," said Hagrid, "see that stuff shinin' on the ground? Silvery stuff? That's unicorn blood. There's a unicorn in there bin hurt badly by summat. This is the second time in a week. I found one dead last Wednesday.We're gonna try an' find the poor thing. We might have ter put it out of its misery."

"And what if whatever hurt the unicorn finds us first?" asks Malfoy, unable to keep the fear out of his voice

"There's nothin' that lives in the forest that'll hurt yeh if yer with me or Fang," says Hagrid. "An' keep ter the path. Right, now, we're gonna split inter two parties an' follow the trail in diff'rent directions. There's blood allover the place, it must've bin staggerin' around since last night at least."

"So me and Mafoy'll go one way an' (Y/n) an' Fang'll go the other, I know yer good with spells and such (Y/n). Now, if any of us finds the unicorn, we'll send up green sparks, right? Get yer wands out an' practice now -that's it - an' if anyone gets in trouble, send up red sparks, an' we'll all come an' find yeh - so, be careful - let's go."

The forest is black and silent. A little way into it they reach a fork in the earthy path, and Malfoy and Hagrid take the left path while (Y/n) and Fang take the right.

(Y/n) lights up the tip of her wand, walking in silence, her eyes trained on the ground. Every now and then, a ray of moonlight through the branches above lights up a spot of silver-blue blood on the fallen leaves.

After about an hour, (Y/n) walks through the forest with Fang. They walk for about half-an-hour more, deeper and deeper into the forest, until the path becomes almost impossible to follow because the trees are so thick. (Y/n) thinks that the blood seems to be getting thicker. There are splashes on the roots of a tree, as though the poor creature had been thrashing around in pain close by. (Y/n) can see a clearing ahead, through the tangled branches of an ancient oak.

Something bright white is gleaming on the ground and (Y/n) inches closer.

That's definitely the unicorn, (Y/n) thinks, and it's dead. She had never seen anything so beautiful and sad. Its long, slender legs are sticking out at odd angles where it had fallen and its mane is spread pearly-white on the dark leaves.

(Y/n) takes one step towards it when a slithering sound makes her freeze where she stands. A bush on the edge of the clearing quivers . . . Then, out of the shadows, a hooded figure comes crawling across the ground like some stalking beast. (Y/n) and fang stand, transfixed. The cloaked figure reaches the unicorn, lowers its head over the wound in the animal's side, and begins to drink its blood.

Fang lets out a howl and bolts. The hooded figure raises its head and looks right at (Y/n) - unicorn blood dribbling down its front. It gets to its feet and comes swiftly towards (Y/n) and she scrambles back.

Then a pain like she'd never felt before seems to pierce her whole left side. It feels as thought her scar was on fire and she claps her hand to it.

Through the pain, she lifts her wand but then she hears hooves behind her, galloping, and something jumped clean over (Y/n), charging at the figure.

When (Y/n) looks up, the cloaked figure had gone, and a half human, half horse is standing over her. A centaur! (Y/n) realizes.

"Are you alright?" asks the centaur, pulling (Y/n) to her feet, though she hadn't remembered falling.

"Yes - thank you - what was that?"

The centaur doesn't answer. He had astonishingly blue eyes, like pale sapphires. He looks carefully at (Y/n) his eyes lingering at the collar of her shirt where half of her scar stands out, livid against (Y/n)'s skin.

"You are the (L/n) girl," he says. "You had better get back to Hagrid. The forest is not safe at this time - especially for you. Can you ride? It will be quicker this way. My name is Firenze," he adds as he lowers himself onto his front legs so (Y/n) can clamber onto his back, her wand still clutched in her right hand.

There is suddenly a sound of more galloping from the other side of the clearing. Two other centaurs come bursting through the trees, their flanks heaving and sweaty.

"Firenze!" one thunders. "What are you doing? You have a human on your back! Have you no shame? Are you a common mule?"

"Do you realize who this is Bane?" asks Firenze. "This is the (L/n) girl. The quicker she leaves this forest, the better."

"What have you been telling him?" growls Bane. "Remember, Firenze, we are sworn not to set ourselves against the heavens. Have we not read what is to come in the movements of the planets?"

The other centaur paws the ground nervously. "I'm sure Firenze though he was acting for the best," he says in a gloomy voice.

Bane kicks his back legs in anger. "For the best Ronan! What is that to do with us? Centaurs are concerned with what has been foretold! It is not our business to run around like donkeys after stray humans in our forest!"

Firenze suddenly rears on his hind legs in anger so that (Y/n) had to grab his shoulders to keep from sliding off the centaur's back. "Did you not see that unicorn?" Firenze bellows at Bane. "Do you not understand why it was killed? Or have the planets not let you in on that secret? I set myself against what is lurking in this forest, Bane, yes, with humans alongside me if I must.

And Firenze whisks around; with (Y/n) clutching on as best she can, they plunge off into the trees, leaving Ronan and Bane behind them.

(Y/n) didn't have a clue what was going on."Why's Bane so angry?" she asks. "What was that thing you saved me from, anyway?"

Firenze slows to a walk, warns (Y/n) to keep her head bowed in case of low-hanging branches, but does not answer her question. They make their way through the trees in silence for so long that (Y/n) began to think Firenze didn't want to talk to her anymore. They are passing through a particularly dense patch of trees, however, when Firenze suddenly stops.

"(Y/n) (L/n), do you know what unicorn blood is used for?"

"No," answers (Y/n), startled by the odd question. "We've only used the horn and tail hair in Potions."

"That is because it is monstrous thing, to slay a unicorn," says Firenze. "Only one who has nothing to lose, and everything to gain, would commit such a crime. The blood of a unicorn will keep you alive, even if you are an inch from death, but at a terrible price. You have slain something pure and defenseless to save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a cursed life,from the moment the blood touches your lips."

(Y/n) stares at the back of Firenze's head, which is dappled silver in the moonlight.

"But who'd be that -" then (Y/n) trails off, coming to a sudden realization. "Do you mean," (Y/n) asks, her voice shaking slightly, "that was -"

"(Y/n)! (Y/n), are you alright?" Malfoy, Fang, and Hagrid were running towards them down the path.

"I'm fine," (Y/n) answers, not even knowing what she was saying. "The unicorn's dead, Hagrid, it's in that clearing back there."

"This is where I leave you," Firenze murmurs as Hagrid hurries off to examine the unicorn. "You are safe now."

(Y/n) slides off the centaur's back.

"Good luck, (Y/n) (L/n)," says Firenze. "The planets have been read wrongly before now, even by centaurs. I hope this is one of those times."

The centaur turns and canters back into the depths of the forest, leaving (Y/n) shivering behind him. Malfoy studies (Y/n) curiously, wondering what had happened in the with the usually strong willed girl.

Ron, Hermione, and Harry and fallen asleep in the dark common room, waiting for (Y/n) to return. Ron shouts something about Quidditch fouls when (Y/n) shakes the three awake.

In a matter of seconds, though, all three them are wide-eyed as (Y/n) began to tell them what had happened in the forest.

The green eyed girl couldn't sit down, she paces up and down in front of the fire, still shaking; Marvel's green eyes are following her owner she paces.

"Snape wants the Stone for Voldemort . . . and Voldemort's waiting in the forest . . . and all this time we thought Snape just wanted to get rich . . ." Harry rambles, his scar on his forehead prickling.

"Stop saying the name!" says Ron in a terrified whisper, as if he thought Voldemort could hear them.

"Firenze saved me, but he shouldn't have done so. . . . Bane was furious . . . he was talking about interfering with what the planets say is going to happen. . . . They must show that Voldemort's coming back. . . . Bane thinks Firenze should have let Voldemort kill me. . . . I suppose that's written in the stars as well," (Y/n) says.

"But why?!" asks Hermione, her voice shaking. "Why would he come after you?"

Everyone turns to (Y/n), as though she had an answer, and (Y/n) realized that she most definitely did.

The others watch as (Y/n) pulls down the collar of her shirt a little, and they stare at the scar - identical to Harry's - on her skin.

"A week before Christmas, I had a dream, well, not really a dream, more of a memory," (Y/n) begins, and tells her friends about the dream and Harry looks up into (Y/n)'s eyes.

"So you were on your way to my house?" Harry asks.

"Apparently," (Y/n) says.

"So all we've got to do now is wait for Snape to steal the Stone," Harry says feverishly, "then Voldemort will be able to come finish us off . . . Well, from what I heard, Bane'll be happy."

Hermione looks very frightened, but she had a word of comfort.

"Harry, (Y/n)," Hermione begins. "Everyone says Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was ever afraid of. With Dumbledore around, You-Know-Who won't touch you. Anyway, who says the centaurs are right? It sounds like fortune-telling to me, and Professor McGonagall says that's a very imprecise branch of magic."

The sky had turned light before they stop talking. They go to bed exhausted, their throats sore.

Word Count: 3751 words

#hermione granger x sister reader

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rpf-bat · 4 years ago

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When You Wanna Be A Movie Star

Pairing: Ray Toro x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Written for Gothtober 2020, Day 13. Prompt: “Stigmata.”

You’re a struggling actress, living in Los Angeles. When an audition doesn’t go the way you hoped, your friend Ray, tries to cheer you up, with a movie night. You tell him he can pick the film - and he immediately chooses Stigmata (1999).

You jumped up when the phone rang. The caller ID, told you it was the producer of the television series that you’d auditioned for last week.

“H-Hello?” you said hopefully, trying not to sound like you were out of breath, from running across the room.

“Hi, Y/N,” the Hollywood producer said jovially. “I just wanted to give you a courtesy call today, to let you know that we’ve selected another actress for the part.”

“.....Oh.” Your face fell.

“Thanks so much for answering our casting call, though,” the man said politely. “We’ll be sure to give you a call, next time we’re seeking new talent.”

“....Thanks,” you replied, tears welling up in your eyes, as you disconnected the call. You resisted the urge, to throw the phone across the room.

I didn’t get the part, you thought miserably. I worked so hard to get my audition monologue just right, and it still wasn’t enough.

You knew that if you stayed home tonight, you’d do nothing but cry about it. It was better to go out, and try and take your mind off it. Feeling in need of emotional support, you called your best friend, Ray.

You two had known each other, since your second year of film school. But, rather than graduate alongside you, Ray had dropped out, in order to go on the road with his band. His gamble had more than paid off - The Black Parade had recently been certified platinum.

Despite his newfound fame, Ray still always managed to make time for those that knew him before he got ‘big’. He picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said warmly. “How are you doing today?”

“Not so good, Toro,” you confessed. “Would it be alright with you, if I came over, and hung out tonight?”

“Sure, I didn’t have any plans,” Ray replied. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, it’s almost Halloween,” you pointed out. “How about a horror movie night? You can pick whichever movie you want, I don’t care.”

“In that case,” Ray suggested, “how about Stigmata?”

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

You showed up on his doorstep, later that night, a few bags of microwave popcorn in hand.

“Hi, Y/N,” Ray smiled, opening his door for you. “Thanks for bringing the snacks! Come on in.”

You walked into his spacious living room. His television was twice the size of yours. You couldn’t wait to see Patricia Arquette’s hands bleed in super-high-definition.

“Out of all the horror films you have on tape,” you asked, raising an eyebrow, “you really want to watch Stigmata?”

Compared to other titles in Ray’s vast collection, like Friday The 13th or Dawn Of The Dead, you thought that Stigmata was kind of obscure. It had done decently well at the box office, when it first came out, but critics had panned it.

“Well, I’ll always have a soft spot for Stigmata,” Ray confessed, “because you were in it.”

“I was barely in it,” you recalled. “I was just an extra, in the background. I didn’t even have any dialogue.”

“Still, it was your first role ever,” Ray remembered fondly. “You were so proud of yourself, when it first came out, you made everybody from school, go to the theater, and see it.”

“Yeah,” you laughed. You’d thought, at the time, that it would be the beginning of your success story. Instead, over half a decade later, you were still struggling to get gigs. You’d had no choice, but to supplement your income, with a stereotypical barista job.

It was Ray, who had actually become someone important.

He sat down on the couch, patting the seat beside him.

“Are you ready to get spooked?” he grinned. “I’ll go pop the popcorn, if you get the VCR started.”

“Sure,” you nodded, taking the VHS tape, from his outstretched hand. You were surprised that he still had a VCR. Over the last few years, DVD had quickly become the primary format for new film releases. Then again, Ray was an old-fashioned guy - most of the films he liked were classics.

You popped the tape into the VCR slot, and sat back down on the couch. He sat down beside you, a bowl of freshly popped corn in his hand. You dug your hand into the bowl, and dumped a handful of salty, buttery comfort food in your mouth, as Ray pressed play.

The film opened with Gabriel Bryne’s character, watching a statue of the Virgin Mary, cry tears of blood.

“Did you know he won a Razzie Award, for Worst Supporting Actor, for this film?” you scoffed.

“Aw, did he really?” Ray laughed. “Poor dude. He tried.”

“He was actually a decent guy,” you recalled. “He wasn’t too snooty, to talk to all the extras, who were filming this scene with him.”

“Oh, look, there you are!” Ray said excitedly. He hit the pause button, freezing the frame. Bryne’s character, Father Andrew, was walking through a bustling Brazilian marketplace. The you of six years ago, stood behind him, playing the role of a nameless shopper. You were looking down, scrutinizing a piece of fruit that was for sale.

“Yeah, blink, and you’ll miss me,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I was in this movie, for a whole thirty seconds.”

“Every time I watch this movie with the guys,” Ray confessed, “I point those thirty seconds out.”

“Do you really?” you blinked.

“Yeah,” Ray chuckled. “I’m like, look, there’s my friend! Isn’t she cool?”

“I’m not cool,” you frowned. “Ray, I’m not even cool enough, to get a part, on some stupid daytime soap opera.”

“Is that what you were upset about, when you called me earlier?” Ray realized, frowning.

“Yeah,” you sighed. “I thought I did really good, at my audition. But, I guess I blew it.”

“It’s okay,” Ray assured you, giving you a supportive pat on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll knock your next audition, out of the park.”

“No, I won’t!” you said glumly. “Ray, I’ve been trying to get famous for years now, and I’m no closer to my goal, than I was the day I started.”

“Fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, okay?” Ray grumbled. “Last week, I was super sick. Like, coughing up a lung….”

“Oh, no,” you interrupted, “are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine now,” Ray assured you. “My point was - I was feeling like absolute crap, and I just wanted to get some NyQuil, take it, and go to sleep. So, I’m standing in the cold and flu aisle, at the drugstore, and of course, this girl in a My Chemical Romance shirt comes up to me.”

“Yikes,” you groaned. “She wanted an autograph?”

“Yeah!” Ray nodded. “I was like - really? Right now?!”

“Did you tell her no?” you wondered.

“Nah, I signed her thing,” Ray confessed. “But, honestly, I hate getting recognized in public like that, when I’m just trying to go about my business.”

“You could have paid somebody to go to the store, and get the NyQuil for you,” you pointed out.

“I mean, I could afford to,” Ray admitted. “But, I really don’t want to do that. I just want to be….a normal guy. Like I used to be, when we lived in New Jersey together.”

“You’re not that guy anymore,” you frowned. “You’re the guitarist of one of the most popular bands on the planet.”

“I don’t care about popularity,” Ray shrugged. “I just like making music.”

“It’s not fair!” you snapped. “You have all this notoriety, and you don’t even want it! Meanwhile, I’ve always dreamed of becoming a Hollywood star - a household name. But, my biggest claim to fame, so far, is some shitty Pizza Hut commercial!”

“I...I actually really liked that commercial,” Ray said softly. “Every time I saw it on TV, it put a smile on my face.”

“Really?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “My line in it, wasn’t even that funny.”

“I didn’t like it because of the script,” Ray confessed. “I liked it, because seeing your face, made me happy.”

“What’s so special about my face?” you asked.

“Well…..it’s a very pretty face,” Ray mumbled, blushing.

“Wh-What?” you stammered, your ears turning red. “You think that I’m pretty?”

“I’ve always thought that, Y/N,” Ray whispered, his brown eyes, staring softly into yours. “I don’t love Stigmata, because of the script, or the cinematography, either. I don’t even care, that Billy Corgan did the soundtrack for it. I loved it, just because….I love you.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Could Ray actually return, the feelings you’d been keeping secret?

“You mean, you love me….like you love all your friends?” you guessed, trying not to get your hopes up.

“No,” Ray shook his head, looking away from you, shyly. “Y/N… I mean, I love you, like a man loves a woman. I want you. Like...how Frankie wanted Father Andrew, in the second act of the movie.”

“Doesn’t he reject her advances, because he’s a priest?” you asked, recalling the film’s plot.

“.....Are you gonna reject mine, too?” Ray breathed, eyes downcast.

“No,” you shook your head. “I sure as hell didn’t take any vow of celibacy, Toro. I want you right back.”

You leaned over on the couch, and kissed him. He tasted salty, like popcorn. But, his touch, as he gently pulled you closer, was oh so sweet.

“....I’ve wanted you all along,” Ray confessed, gently kissing you a second time. “I just didn’t know how to ask you, to be mine.”

“Well, if you’re asking me now,” you smiled, pushing him backwards, into the couch cushions, “then I’m yours.”

#ray toro x reader #ray toro imagine #gothtober #eh this was short and sweet #but if I'd taken this prompt and written another Priest!Gerard horror fic I would have goten compared to Unholyverse instantly

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abizarreyodelingincident · 5 years ago

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Ridiculous Optimization: The Art of Finding the Right Tool for the Wrong Situation

Chapter Five: THE INFINITY WARDROBE

Three dances.

He could do this.

He hated that he had to do this, but he could. The taste of alcohol on his tongue, its burn at the back of his throat... they were tempting, but he knew better than to rely on them. He never tasted any that he hadn't seen served himself, and in a function such as this one, it meant he had only ever carried a single glass throughout.

His lips pinched together, remember the last time he'd forgotten to keep a close eye on his drinks.

A cold grip closed over his guts. Nope. He shouldn't go there. Not the right time. Every notable noble in the kingdom was watching his every move.

Warriors had busied himself teaching his brothers how to best deal with the nobility at his Queen's gala for the past two days. He could say he was proud of Hyrule's and Wind's progress in particular. Neither had had much manners or interest in them before and not one lady had fainted from their crude or frank behaviors. He also had to admire Four's control in accepting the few pinches on the cheeks he got for being so fun-sized.

I'll give him a bigger part in our next plans of attack. That's a ton of resentment to vent. Whatever monster we face next will be very dead.

“And I was just telling our dear Hero Link here how-” Lady Farosi bragged to Lord this and Lady that and Warriors carefully agreed at all the right places.

He used to like these things. Used to be proud of his role.

'It's you! All this time, the deaths, the battles, it was all because she wanted you !'

Three dances. He had given the first one to Zelda, of course. No one could ever protest that choice of partner. The Queen and her knight. The most important figures in the War of Eras. A splendid couple, though he could not tell if Zelda felt any attraction towards him, the way he...

Warriors shook his head, made an excuse and stauntered to the buffet table, under which he thought he'd seen Legend hide. Two more dances. Then I'm free to leave. Hide in the stables. Play a game with the guards or maybe pay back Twilight for our last match.

He offered Sky a smile when his brother offered him a plate with some meat skewers and a piece of cheese. His stomach protested the very idea of food at the moment, but he appreciated the thoughtfulness. He forced himself to nibble on some of the cheese. It gave him an excuse not to talk to Lady Lanayrou. To dodge her attempt at linking their arms.

Second dance will be soon.

He scanned the crowd for a proper candidate that wouldn't be draping themselves all over him.

General Impa met his gaze over the crowd of mingling nobles, and his desperation must have shown on his face for she scowled something fierce at him. Right. Sheika. Security detail. Not the kind of person that should be on the dance floor.

With a sigh, Warriors resigned himself to letting whichever lady found him first have first right at a dance with him. Hopefully they'd listened if he said-

“Hey,” said a slightly off woman's voice, “do you think you could show me the steps?”

Warriors froze.

A slim, pale Hylian in a turquoise gerudo outfit stared patiently at him. Scars peeked out from under a tasteful veil that hid their chin, mouth and nose, leaving only startling blue eyes. He knew both the veil and the eyes.

Oh.

His gaze flickered down to the extensive network of spider web scars on the sides of the Hylian's torso. The outfit left little to the imagination. It was on full display.

For a second, he struggled to breath, realizing the extent of his brother's action. Warriors needed to apologize so damn much!

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes and he hurried to blink them away, taking the offer with as much gratitude as he could show his brother. Together, they reached the dance floor, and Warriors barely noticed the few times his feet were stepped on. At this point, Wild could stab him and he'd be thankful. Just swaying to the rhythm of the music and making jokes at the expense of the obnoxious people around them was one of the best dances he ever went through.

And then, someone reminded him just where he was.

“Who's this pasty ruin?” Lady Dynral loudly whispered behind her hand fan.

Twilight, who had just previously been attempting to convince a fair maiden that he was mute, tragically incapable of dancing and awaited in a backwater hut where he'd forgotten to turn off the stove, froze.

(It was no secret that Twilight couldn't quite pull off the neutral look of disappointment patented by the old man. It was a decent attempt, but they all had earned the original too often for the off-brand version to work.)

(What he could however pull off was the deadly stillness of a predator stalking a prey that had been just too loud. Eyes that promised death. Eventually.)

The chill alone made hair rise on the back of Warriors' neck and he was barely in the general vicinity of the lady. Now that was some killer instinct. The blatant bloodlust made his chest pang with nostalgia.

Goddesses he'd take another war over this...

However, seeing Lady Dynral's face drain of blood like this filled him with a singular vindictive happiness.

“Never seen Lady Dynral flee a function this fast before,” Warriors chuckled, twirling Wild at the tip of his arm for another round. “Our farmer's got your honor' back, huh?”

The veil hid Wild's face, but not the curious look in his eyes, nor the faint tilt of his head. “He cares about you too,” he said, softly. “We all do, Warriors.”

Warriors couldn't speak with such a soft feeling warming his chest. Wild's fingers squeezed his hands, then let him go. The others all gave him subtle thumbs up throughout the crowd, encouraging him to stay strong in the face of this battle. Dozens of skirmishes flashed behind his eyes, memories where he stood back to back with them, brothers-in-arms before the forces of evil.

(Sky found him another plate, which he did eat this time. Twilight patted him in the back strong enough to make him stumble into a lord, and wasn't that a shame. 'Ah, my mightily sorries, your lordness!' and Hylia alone knew how he hadn't burst out laughing at that one. Wind subtly hinted at the possibility of skedaddling mid dance if things were needed. 'I can fake illness like you wouldn't believe, War'.')

Third dance. And he had to admit, it looked like it wouldn't be so bad. Wild's assurance and the others' support made it feel smaller than before. He only needed to dance one more time, and he had had fun at a function for once...

Warriors almost felt serene when the bards on stage began plucking at their instruments' strings.

“Announcing... ” one of the guards near the door suddenly shouted, grinding the activities to a halt, “Princess Lore-al of Koholint!”

“What the f-?!” Wind's attempted swearing mercifully was stopped short by Sky's hand covering his mouth. No one even looked their way.

But Warriors deeply understood the sentiment.

The dress was impressive. Cut from the finest fabric, maybe enchanted silk, white with golden accents, and a gentle pink layer in the style of old royalty. Twenty or so rings, gold, silver and platinum, adorned the newcomers' fingers. Some inserted with gemstones, other carved with hylian runes.

Warriors really wanted to know where he'd gotten the tiara. He could have sworn...

Unlike Wild, Legend hadn't bothered with hiding his face. Or transforming it with make-up. He seemingly relied entirely on his natural twinkitude. And the lack of his ever present scowl that softened his looks considerably.

Amazingly, the haughty, confident expression on Legend's face wouldn't have been out of place amongst royalty. His absolute lack of shame as the rest of the ballroom stared did more for his credibility than an actual magic spell would have.

Warriors felt he ought to laugh, but he was too shell-shocked to do so.

Legend strutted, on high heels, right up to him, finally deigning to meet his eyes as if they were meeting for the first time.

“May I have the honor of this dance, Brave Hero?” Legend offered his hand, which Warriors contemplated like he would the head of a particularly vicious and hungry dodongo.

A long series of excuses came to mind, ranging from needing to go iron his wolf and thinking he heard Ganon call his name somewhere. Wild was one thing. Legend though? The veteran gambling addict would extract so many favors out of this...

Of course, Legend had to raise an eyebrow like he was challenging him to a game of cuccos and Warriors' entire being tossed caution to the wind in a resounding, mental fuck it .

With all the assurance of a chosen hero of Courage, he snatched a tulip from some of the nearby decoration, bit down on the stem and winked. “The honor shall be mine, Princess Lore-al.”

The musicians noticeable hesitated before starting to play again, and Warriors would have bet that his Queen had subtly instructed them to go on as normal.

The lascivious beat of a tango resonated around them. Legend's smirk widened, his eyelashes batting. “A red rupee you can't lift me one-handed over your head, Brave Hero.”

Despite himself, Warriors grinned. “You're on, Princess.”

BONUS

“So... where was the old man tonight?” Wind asked as they made their way back to their suite in the guest wing of the castle. “Couldn't find him.”

Hyrule frowned. “Wait, seriously? You didn't notice him? He was really obvious.”

Wind exchanged a glance with Sky and both came to the same conclusion. “What?”

“He was standing next to some of the really snobbish nobles all night. Just looming. Like when he's really pissed at our collective stupidity. They kept glancing around like they were wondering.”

The Links exchanged glances, mulling their recollections of the evening and arrived to a collective conclusion.

“Bullshit.”

Hyrule gave them an uncertain look.

“Was it the mask?” he mumbled, suddenly unsure. “You guys noticed the freaky grayish purple mask, at least? Like, it hid his entire face, but that was still clearly him, body type and stance and all.”

They turned toward Twilight, who shrugged. “Magic?”

They agreed, Hyrule especially. “Magic.”

A few steps later, Wind broke the silence again.

“... So the old man spent the evening just putting the fear of evil spirits in the nobility?”

Warriors snickered.

“Sounds like him, alright,” Twilight drawled.

DOUBLE BONUS

“You know...” Sky mused, his hands stilling over the piece of wood he was carving. “Maybe I should just ask Zelda to make it Hylian law to never hold balls.”

Four frowned and looked at Time. “Wouldn't that unraveled, you know, the fabric of time and space?”

Time shrugged, looking quite relaxed sitting by an old tree.

“Oh, right,” Sky mumbled, now hesitant.

Warriors fell on his knees. “I'd give you my firstborn, Sky! Please!”

Legend huffed. “Well, now he's gonna have to make those officials.”

Four put a hand on his forehead. “Does that count as a paradox? How many of those have we caused actually?”

“I meant Sky being straddled with Warriors' spawn, but sure. Tons of 'em.”

“HEY!”

#Linked Universe #Linkeduniverse #Lu Warriors #Lu Wild #Lu Legend #RO:ART

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apprenticeofcups · 5 years ago

Note

Your writing is a blessing, I swear! Can you do the main 6's reactions when they find out that mc is like...Rich af? They got that old money fam. But they're really humble and frugal and didn't think it needed to be mentioned but it kinda came out one day? Love you!! ♥️♥️♥️

❤❤❤

💰Main 6 + Old-Money MC

Asra

Honestly, Asra’s world is so far-removed from money

He cares more about the legacy you come from, the history and traditions associated with old family money

And he gives them a very hard side-eye, whatever they are

Any time he has to interact with your family, he mentions later how much he appreciates that you’re your own person, that your legacy doesn’t influence how you live your life

Appreciates when you buy him things, but he appreciates it more when you use your wealth to give back to the community

He’ll never pressure you to do it, but if you do - buying shoes for street kids, helping neighboring shops fix their roofs, hiring a grocery service for the elderly couple on the corner - he gets choked-up

Julian

“Ah, see, I knew there was something...refined about you...I could smell it”

Technically, he and Portia come from money, too, but that all got washed away long ago, wink wonk

He’s somehow mastered the art of being just not-broke enough to survive, and honestly doesn’t know what he’d do with money if he had it; all those doubloons and foreign currencies he totes around are strictly for gambling

Your family would never know it to look at him, though - he knows how to talk “old money”, and he has the manner and posture for high society, when he wants to

Reluctant to let you help out with things, financially - he has “arrangements” for the clinic’s rent, the supplies he needs for medicines, etc., and he doesn’t like being debt to anyone

He rarely charges for his services, especially in South End - if people insist on paying him, he’d rather take a home-cooked meal or a pie than their cash

Nadia

Finally

Her family is old, storied, and absolutely loaded, and of course she’s not complaining, but it’s nice to have someone she gets along with who had a similar upbringing

Almost all her friends are orphaned, freelancing, unlicensed in one thing or another, and struggling to make rent - even her ex-husband is essentially a feral dog who found a winning lottery ticket in a dumpster pizza box. That’s not Satrinava-rich

How awful was finishing-school, am I right?

Couldn’t give a shit less how much money you have, or what you use it for, but she’s fascinated by your relationship with it, and your history with your family

Likes swapping stories about obnoxious family traditions and weird legacies

Muriel

He...doesn’t really know what to say about it

He’s very self-sufficient, to the point he finds or makes anything he needs, and if there’s something he’d have to buy, he just...goes without

Nervous about the family aspect of your money - he doesn’t think anyone’s family would be stoked to meet the boyfriend, when the boyfriend is him, but a super-rich, super-old, upper-echelon family most of all

Gets embarrassed when you buy him things, and insists on returning the favor - you bought him a new axe, he knitted you a scarf

Teases you about growing up spoiled

Anytime there’s a woodsy thing you don’t know how to do, he tells you it’s alright, you can teach him about salad forks when you get back to the hut

Portia

Seriously??

Forget about her Palace duties - she’s playing hooky, and you’re taking her shopping

Adores your family, and you’re surprised how easily she fits in with the atmosphere - ‘til she reminds you her parents were merchants, and she grew up with a brother who already had etiquette programmed into him by the time they were orphaned

She’s incredibly frugal, herself, so you have a whole financial-planning meeting every month

Yes, you could live off your trust fund, and she’d never have to work again - but she likes working, and if you two keep living in the cottage rent-free, in five years, you can buy a house in your favorite part of town

Maybe even invest in property, or start your own business

Lucio

Lucio is rich. But he’s new money, (more or less) self-made - all the glitz, none of the history (or poise)

He loves old money - he married old money. And he hates old money

Old money used to hire him to fight on their behalf; old money called him a barbarian and a savage while he buddied up to the previous Count, then immediately started sucking up when he became old money’s boss

So he likes to stunt on old money

He’s absolutely incorrigible around your family, making little comments about how he worked (read: sleazed and dealt) his way up from eighteen-year-old jackass to running his own county, how he handles everything himself, how he still knows where all his money comes from

Shows it off as much as he can - he’s not just showering you with flowers and clothes, he’s buying you a boat and a beach house to sail it to

First, I drink the coffee - then I write the things ☕

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the--sad--hatter · 6 years ago

Text

Name Calling (19)

FANDOM - MARVEL MCU

PAIRING - BUCKY X READER (female reader, no physical descriptions)

WARNINGS - ALL OF THEM, SMUT, VIOLENCE ANGST

DESCRIPTION - In which the ongoing and bloody war of words between you and Bucky turns in your favor when a disgruntled one night stand of his lets slip a secret when you run into her in the elevator… Now you have all the ammunition you need to destroy your enemy but you don’t plan on killing him quickly. Oh no, Bucky Barnes was going to suffer and you were going to enjoy every second. You just didn’t count on how much you would enjoy it.

Current Word Count - 55,448

MASTERLIST

Chapter Nineteen - Fury’s Shadow

“Shadow come in, are you in position?”

“You really couldn’t come up with a better codename?” You whispered through gritted teeth.

“It’s better than some of the other options Fury originally suggested.” Maria Hill told you through the comms unit.

“Oh when this is finished you and I are going to get a drink and you are going to tell me all about it.” You insisted.

“Finish this successfully Shadow and I will buy you a drink my damn self and tell you what you want to know.” Fury barked.

“You know, you’re not really my type.” You sassed.

You heards Fury’s deep sigh over the line and smirked. You slowly and carefully crept along the branch you were perched on to get a better view of the lavish mansion you were watching. It was gaudy and modern and tasteless. You silently remarked the irony of you being in a position to judge mansions but no matter where you had come from, you were Tony Starks daughter now. You knew the difference between sophisticated and tacky.

The grandiose building was the home of one Benjamin Newlands who had a biological uncle and father in law on the UN council. He had fingers in lots of pies apparently, everything from weapons dealing to property development. There was a third world country that was being attacked by it’s neighbours. Newlands wasn’t the one supplying weapons to the enemy but he did have documents ready to go that would allow him to buy up the land.

If a large portion of the population were to tragically die from a terrible airborne virus, the war would be over. His competition in the arms dealing trade would lose business and he would swoop in and buy up the land, making him appear as a charitable philanthropist who would vow to revitalise the country.

And if anyone ever identified the virus as man made, nobody would trace it back to him. He had kept it incredibly close to home. In his home actually. This ridiculously large mansion had several floors dedicated to a laboratory. The handful of scientists working on it rarely left the building and they and Newlands were the only people who knew what was going on. All that secrecy would protect him when the virus was released but it was also his undoing.

With a few well placed explosives you would literally blow the whole operation sky high. All information about the research that had gone into the virus was stored in the mansion and nowhere else. The scientists who knew about it were all in the building, minus the single scientist who had developed a conscience and blown the whistle. All you had to do was sneak in, steal the virus and destroy the mansion. It was neat, efficient and brutal.

The only reason you even had to go inside at all was they needed a sample of the virus on the off chance Newlands had more in another location. Fury and Hill wanted to pre-emptively reverse engineer a cure.

Right on schedule, two armed guards walked in your direction. There was no security camera’s in this spot but here were heat signature readers all over the property at ground level. You would have to time this perfectly. As they walked under your branch for the fourth time since you’d started watching you made your move.

Stepping off the branch you landed lithely on one of the guards shoulders, wrapping your thighs around his throat and twisted your body round, landing upright on the ground a split second after his neck snapped. All the security guard watching the monitors would see is a slight fluctuation in the readings as your living body replaced his dead one. As soon as you landed you struck out, your fist connecting with the second guards throat and stopping him calling out to alert anybody. As he immediately clawed at his throat you grabbed him by the front of his uniform and threw him bodily into the trunk of the tree you had been perched in. His head connected with the bark and his eyes rolled back in his head as he slithered down to the ground. You quickly tied him up, leaving his heat signature intact.

“This is Shadow, I’m in. Going dark” You announced quietly into the comms.

You were met by silence. Good. Fury and Hill wouldn’t speak to you again unless it was absolutely necessary, letting you complete your mission without any distractions. You walked slowly and at a steady pace, mirroring the speed the guards had walked at but you kept to the shadows as you walked towards the mansion.

The jet black tactical suit you were wearing with it’s wide hood completely covered your body, making it easy to blend into the darkness. The black breathable cloth piece of materiel wrapped around the lower half of your face made it so the only part of you uncovered was your eyes. Between the hood covering your hair and the scarf over your mouth, you were unidentifiable. You were as you had aptly been dubbed by Fury, a shadow.

You made it to one of the side doors to the main building and after listening through it to make sure nobody was on the other side you swiped the key card you’d swiped from the dead guard and stepped through. It was just as gaudy looking on the inside and this was just the corridor. You mentally brought up the floorplans you had studied and started counting doors along the corridor. Sixth door on the left, sounds of one person breathing inside. Pulling a wicked sharp blade that was part of a set Natasha had gifted you from your belt you swung the door open and flung the knife straight into the back of the guards head.

Now you had the freedom to move around the mansion as you desired. You quickly stuffed the body under a desk and wiped the blood away. With a quick glance at the monitor you noted the positions of the remaining four external guards. You had to take the ones outside the building down first lest they escape when you detonated the disc bombs you had strapped to your belt. You rapidly ran through various mental scenarios and decided the quickest course of action would be to take them out at the same time. Which meant you needed a vantage point from which you could see them all simultaneously. The roof would give you the scope you needed but Hawkeye you were not. You were good with a gun but not perfect.

You needed to move fast before someone noticed the missing guards and sounded the alarm but if you missed even a single shot you’d give away your presence. Either option had risks. You had to make sure you didn’t miss, it was the only way forward.

Climbing out of the window you quickly devised a route up the side of the building. You climbed onto the top ledge of the ground floor window and bending your knees, you jumped. You fingers grabbed the ledge of the window above and you climbed up, repeating yourself. You made it up every floor of the building and onto the roof in under a minute.

Scaling the roof tiles you kept your body low, letting the darkness provide cover so nobody looking up would see your figure moving around. In the centre of the roof your enhanced eyes picked up the six guards, moving in pairs. You pulled the Smith & Wesson’s M&P22 Compact Suppressor Pistol Clint had given you from it’s shoulder holster.

Two guards, back to back on the left side of the perimeter were your first targets. You had maybe three seconds maximum between shots before one noticed the other had been shot. You knelt on one knee, giving you a better centre of gravity and keeping your body steady, and with both hands on the pistol you carefully aimed. You breathed in deeply and on the exhale fired. There was a soft inaudible pop and you saw your targets head snap to the side as the bullet hit it’s mark. You moved the barrel a few centimetres to the side and pulled the trigger again. Both bodies crumbled to the ground with holes in their skulls. Two down, four to go.

The next two you aimed for were walking around the back garden, if you could call it a garden. It was more like a park. This set would be trickier because they were moving and they were both in each others eyeline. Before doubt could settle in you forced yourself to keep going and aimed. The first shot landed perfectly, between the eyes of the guard. The second shot, half a second later into her partner went too low, hitting him in the throat. Shit. You quickly fired again and thankfully managed to hit him in the head and he went down on the ground next to the woman. Four down, two to go.

The last two were the most difficult yet. Two men, sat inside a small hut near the front gate. You had clear line of sight on one of them through the window but all you could see of the other was the back of his shoulder. You didn’t have time to wait for him to move. You took a massive gamble and fired at the ground beside the hut. Just as you’d hoped, the sound of the bullet hitting the ground outside caused your illusive target to lean his head out of the door and you didn’t hesitate to fire at the now exposed target. His body slumped through the open door and you swung the gun back round to shot his partner who was reaching for his radio. Your bullet smashed through the window and into the snitch’s temple, taking him down before he had even unclipped the radio. All targets eliminated.

You breathed a sigh of relief, now all you had to do was sneak around the heavily protected mansion, past all the guards inside, plant several small explosives at the weak points in the structure, break into the lab, steal a highly dangerous virus, sneak back out and detonate the explosives. Easy.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

There was a rare spring In Bucky’s step as he and Steve walked down the ramp of the quinjet and back into the compound. He felt like he’d achieved something monumental, sorting through his mess of emotions. He needed to see her, to kiss her again. He wouldn’t tell her how he felt, not yet. It was too soon, she needed a chance to catch up to him. He needed to show her how he felt. Bucky needed to woo her, like he would have done back in the day. Only this wasn’t passing fancy, some pretty dame who had turned his head. This was a beautiful woman who had stolen his heart.

“Thank God you two are back.” Sam exclaimed, striding down the hall to meet them.

“What’s going on?” Steve asked, already snapping back into Captain mode.

“Seven hours ago all the systems in the compound dropped for sixty seconds. When they came back online, well guess who’d snuck out?” Sam asked.

“Tell me you’re kidding Wilson.” Bucky snarled.

“Nope, she really did just up and leave again. Tony and Bruce went straight after her. Romanov and Barton are trying to get Fury to help with the search. We have no leads. She didn’t leave a note or clue. She just disappeared.” Sam said, disgruntlement and worry in his tone.

“If the systems were down how do you know she left of her own free will, how do we know she wasn’t taken.” Steve said, asking the question Bucky was afraid to.

“Just as the systems came back online one of the camera’s on the very edge of the perimeter caught a second of footage of her. She waved at the camera. Waved. At. The. Camera.” Sam explained.

Bucky turned to Steve.

“I’m going to murder her. I’m going to hunt her down and murder her then drag her back here and lock her in one of the cells.” Bucky told him.

“Oh I’m going to help you.” Sam offered helpfully.

“Calm down, we don’t know that anything bad has happened. She could have just gone for a walk.” Steve supplied reasonably.

“For seven hours?” Sam shrieked.

“Maybe she needed space. It can’t be easy being under lock and key, constantly under supervision. We can’t automatically assume something is wrong.” Steve argued.

“Yeah, it’s not like she has at least two evil organizations hunting her down.” Bucky snapped.

“Well what did Tony say?” Steve asked Sam.

“Nothing, he and Bruce went flying away as soon as they realised she was gone. Tony will be going out of his mind with worry. Romanov is saying everything is under control and calling Fury every ten seconds.” Sam said.

“Alright, keep an eye on the internet. She’s pretty well known now so if anyone sees her they will most likely post about it online. Tony and Bruce are already out there so there’s not much we can do except hold down the fort and be ready to go if and when we are needed.” Steve instructed.

Bucky stormed away, unable to stand there any longer. He was furious, with her and himself. He’d got so caught up in his happy feelings he’d managed to forget just how utterly infuriating she could be. He needed nothing bad to be going on but at the same time, if he found out she had snuck away and sent them all into a panic just because she’d gone to get doughnuts or something ridiculous he really was going to kill her. Whatever reason she had for doing this, it had better be a good one.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

As you strangled a guard with a wire you reminded yourself you were doing this for a good reason. The lives of so many people who were already suffering were on the line. You’d seen the photo’s of the corpses of the test subjects of the virus. You were the only thing standing between those innocent people and an excruciating death.

The guard finally slumped over and you waited a few seconds to be sure he wasn’t faking before you released him. He thumped to the ground and you wiped the sweat off your brow. You had placed most of the explosives in the right places and made your way towards the labs where the security was tighter. You were currently in a large garage, filled with more expensive sports cars than even Tony owned. It was basically a hanger. You slipped one of the last two explosives under a shiny green Dodge Viper and stealthily made your way out of the garage and into the hall that led to the labs.

As you peeked around the corridor you realised there were several problems. There was a clear glass wall along the wall of the adjoining corridor that had glass doors along it leading to the labs. The corridor was guarded by two men on either side and a female guard in the middle. The walls separating the various labs were made of glass, leaving clear line of sight for all the scientists, technicians and assistants milling about. There was no possible way to sneak in undetected.

If you were willing to ditch your tac suit maybe you could find a lab coat and impersonate a lab assistant but that was risky for two reasons. One, the guards would likely know everyone who worked there by sight and you would stick out and two, you were Tony freaking Starks daughter…

Natasha would have gotten into the lab by now, easily. Stealth was her forte but it was not yours. You weren’t created to be subtle, you were created to be explosive. Where Natasha was a scalpel, you were a chainsaw. Both deadly, both lethally sharp but very different.

Natasha was an excellent role model to have but you weren’t her. You needed to stop thinking how she would do this mission and think how you could do it. It was time to be a chainsaw.

With your gun raised you stepped around the corridor and shot the first guard before he knew what was happening. You shot the woman next, knowing at least one of the two remaining guards was going to get a shot off at you and she the man was further away, his aim wouldn’t be as good. The woman fell to the ground and you leaned to the side, the bullet whizzing towards you hitting you in the shoulder rather than the chest. You didn’t even flinch at the pain, shooting the final guard in the heart like he’d tried to do to you.

The people inside the labs had definitely noticed the commotion if their screaming was any indication but just to be sure you shot out the glass wall of the middle lab, where the virus was. You kept your gun trained on the people inside as you stepped onto the shattered glass. With a careful eye on them you made your way over to the storage fridge where the various vials were stored. Out of the corner of your eye you quickly scanned the labels until you saw the one you needed. You slammed your elbow into the glass, smashing it and grabbed the vial carefully.

You saluted the terrified scientists and quickly hurried back out of the lab, stepping over the guards bodies in the hall. Someone finally sprang into action and an alarm sounded, the lights flashing red as the klaxon blared throughout the whole property.

Slipping the vial safely under your shirt you grimaced and did what you had known you would have to do the second you stepped around the corner and detonated the building while you were still inside it as you sprinted back down the corridor.

As the explosions simultaneously occurred in various rooms around the mansion the windows at the side of the garage shattered outwards as you drove through them, your thighs straddling the powerful motorbike you had just stolen/rescued. As you sped away you looked over your shoulder to see the gaudy, awful, over compensating monstrosity of a mansion crumble as the flames shot towards the heavens. In the movies the hero never looked back at the explosion but you did, you looked back and an exhilarated laugh burst from you as you sped away.

Three miles away there was a clearing and as you approached the cloaked quinjet shimmered and became visible. Without missing a beat you drove up the ramp and braked, screeching to a halt.

“Well Fury, you owe me a drink. Mission successfully executed.” You said with a grin.

“Missions not done until you’re back here. Where are you?” Fury asked.

“I’m in the quinjet.”

“Then care to explain why the tracking device in your comms says your six miles away?”

“Oh, sorry for the confusion. I’m in the Avengers quinjet.” You told him.

Tony grinned at you and ruffled your hair.

“Consider this payback for you hacking my security and trying to lead my daughter astray.” Tony called out to Fury through you comms.

Explaining the situation to Tony in less than five minutes before you ‘snuck’ out of the compound hadn’t been easy but you had managed. What Fury had been unaware of was the second comm unit you had on you that Tony, Bruce, Natasha and Clint had been using to listen to everything that had happened.

“Stark, younger Stark. You played me.” Fury said, he sounded tired and you almost felt sorry for him.

“Not exactly, I did what you asked. I completed the mission. But you want to reverse engineer a cure for this virus and I happen to know one of the smartest scientists in the world. Call this me taking initiative.” You told him while you carefully handed the deadly vial over to Bruce.

“What part of ‘secret’ mission was too difficult for you to understand Miss Stark?” Fury demanded.

“The part where I had to trust you. Because I don’t. Not with something as dangerous as you say this virus is. You were wrong about me, I don’t need my daddy’s permission but my dad is one of the greatest heroes on the planet and I do want him watching my back. So next time you think about trying to manipulate me remember this Mr Furious... I am not a pawn and I’ve spent too long being manipulated and controlled. I’m a Stark, I do whatever the hell I want.” You announced, pulling comm from your ear and flinging out the back of the quinjet.

“Let’s go home.” You told a proud Tony.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Bucky: *listening to 'Ain't No Sunshine' and gazing out the window. Bucky: *Sighs* Bucky: When will my girlfriend return from war? Steve: Should we do something? Sam: We should just kill him and put him out of our misery.

Natasha: Oh did I forget to mention she was fine? Oops.

@nerdandproud-86 @harrison-shot-first@chook007@thejourneyneverendsx@thelostallycat@inquisitor-selvala@the-corruptor @iovher@kendrawr-kitkat@phoenix-whiskey-tears @the–real-wombat@buckitybarnes@fairislesheets@angieptt@meganjonezzzz

@dugan365 @fluffeh-kitty@memanda17@krystallynx@theonelittleone

@piscesbarnes @free-as-fishes@tarastudiesalot@captainamericasbeard

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self-proclaimed-chaotic-good · 5 years ago

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As You Wish | Farm Boy!Bodhi Rook x Reader (1/2)

Trope Prompt: Time Travel

Words: 2064

Fandom: Rogue One (Star Wars)/Doctor Who Fusion

Summary: What was supposed to be an early summer weekend trip with the Doctor turned out to be an adventure that landed you in the middle of a field during the Indus Valley civilization where you meet a charming farm boy.

You bounded up the familiar blue police box and let yourself in. The Doctor looked up from her fiddling on the console and grinned at you.

“Morning. It is morning, right?” She greeted.

“Well, it’s close to evening, Doctor,” you said, checking your watch.

Her eyes widened. “Ah, I see. Well, how was school, (Y/n)? Dealt with any rowdy children? Had to put someone on time out?”

“I work at Cambridge,” you reminded her, “and no. But there is a new Astrophysics professor coming next week, which is exciting. I know everyone will miss Professor Draven, he was a pretty chill dude, but apparently the new professor had been one of Draven’s best students.”

“Those teachers can brandish their prestigious PhDs about, but experience and how they use their knowledge is what counts,” she said, waving her sonic screwdriver around.

“Is that a euphemism, Doctor?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. She waved you off. Maybe it was just you. Maybe it was from hanging out with Jyn, one of the assistant professors, too much. You skipped over to the console and leaned against it. “So where are we going today?”

The Doctor gave you a wide grin, swinging the console monitor towards you. “It’s getting a bit chilly here in London, so I thought somewhere warm would suffice. So how about India? We can go and meet the Buddha and check out the sights. Or maybe we can go to Petra?”

“Either one sounds great.”

The Doctor spun around the console, flipping switches and pulling levers. The TARDIS began to wheeze and rumble as it took off. You held onto the console tightly, watching the lights flash as the TARDIS shook.

You stumbled back as the TARDIS landed to your destination. You bounced on the balls of your feet as the Doctor parked her beloved machine then gestured for you to follow her out.

The summer sun hit your faces as the Doctor creaked the door open. She scrunched her face up and hummed looking around with squinting eyes. She raised a hand to shield them and stepped out. You stepped out and landed in a field of grass.

“Doctor, are we in someone’s farm?” you asked, spotting the wheatfields and livestock.

“Huh, I suppose we are,” she said, surveying the landscape. “But I believe I’ve got the right region. Just about.”

You frowned. “How can you tell? The distance between the Sun and the Earth? The distant dry areas beyond this fertile farmland that’s likely near a river? The sheep and chickens?”

“No, well, yes that, and look!” The Doctor pointed over at the farmers who had just now noticed them. “Long cotton woven garments and clothes wrapped around their head to shield from the sun using sturdy copper and stone tools.” She swung her finger towards a nearby settlement. “Mud bricks and straw roofs, the patterns on the pottery. I’d say Mid-East?”

“Ah. I see.”

One of the older men walked up to the two of you cautiously, his hoing stick held tightly in his hands. “Who are you? Why are you here?” he asked gruffly.

The Doctor smiled bowed her head slightly “I’m the Doctor and this is my friend, (Y/n).” You follow her lead and lowered your head as well. “We appeared to have taken a wrong turn in our travels,” she said, “Say, where exactly are we?”

He looked back at his fellow farmers who watched with curiosity then at you. “This is the village of Jedha, several miles away from the city.”

“The city of…?”

“Mohenjo-daro, of course.”

Your jaw dropped. The city of Mohenjo-daro? A major city of the Indus Valley civilization? The time could be between the twenty-sixth to the nineteenth century BCE. You’ve been volunteering at archaeological digs every summer but never had a chance to even see Mohenjo-daro. And here you were, in a farming village miles from the city.

“Forgive us for being so cautious, but you have arrived in such ill timing since strange things have been happening to our fields. If you are traveling to Mohenjo-daro, you may speak to our village elder and they can see to aid you for your journey. I,” He holds a hand to his chest, “am Sahim Rook. If you would follow me, please.”

You fell into step with the Doctor as Sahim walked you towards the village. You looked back and saw the others returning to their menial tasks, occasionally shooting curious glances at you and the Doctor. You did just land in the middle of their field.

“You said strange things have been happening here? Like what?” You asked him.

He hummed, scratching his graying beard in thought. “There seems to be creatures disturbing our animals and a sickness that would fall onto anyone who strays too far from the village. They become a different person, they get violent like they were possessed, then they become ill, near death.” He paused and turned to the two of you. “You say you are a doctor.”

“Right I am!” The Doctor said proudly.

“If you don’t mind, could you take a look at our patients?”

“Of course, it’s the least we could do.”

“Thank you.”

The village elder, Sahim’s mother, welcomed you and was delighted that the two travelers were willing to help in the mysterious illness. She led the two of you into a hut nearby filled with rows of straw beds covered in cotton sheets with the patients resting on each one.

“Sahim says that they were uncharacteristically violent when they returned to the village,” The Doctor said to the elder.

You scan the room, patients with droopy eyes, or coughing into bloody rags, or are still yet to wake. They shiver and scrunch their faces in pain, sweat soaking their body. It was horrible. What could do such a thing? Some sort of foreign disease recently introduced or a parasite? The thought it could have contributed to the decline of the Indus Valley civilization had crossed your mind, but it couldn’t be the main reason. Many theories suggest that settlements along the Indus river were affected by floods.

“Yes,” she said with a solemn nod. She swept her hand over the room and sighed. “They came back, vandalizing houses, disturbing the animals - some went as far as killed some, and wrecked some of the crops. When the sun began to rise, they would collapse with a high fever, sick to the point of bedridden. The others are understandably scared and worried. Other farms had been affected before us as well. It is devastating.”

“Leave it to us, Elder.”

The elder gestured towards a woman tending to a patient. She adjusted her delicate headwrap and stood. “This is Sassui, my daughter-in-law,” the elder said, “She has been working the hardest to nurse them back to health. Sassui, these are travelers that are making their way to Mohenjo-daro. They offered to help in any way they can before heading to the city.”

“I’m the Doctor and this is my friend, (Y/n),” the Doctor introduced us.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Sassui said softly. She had a small smile on her face, but it seemed forced. Dark circles under her eyes and her movements seemed to be sluggish. She had been working nonstop with barely any rest.

As if reading your thoughts, the elder said, “You need some rest, Sassui.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that my son hasn’t come back from trading in the market. I’m not sure what’s worse, that he had fallen victim to the sickness or he had fallen victim to gambling and spending money feverishly.”

The elder huffed. “That boy is going to get himself into trouble if he doesn’t sort himself out.” She then turned back to the Doctor. “Well, I’ll leave you in Sassui’s care.” With that, she left.

Sassui’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Shall we start with the first one?”

Luckily, some only needed herbal remedies and some rest to get their health back up. The rest needed something stronger.

You carried a bucket filled with dirty rags and plopped it down near their well. Sassui had asked you to soak them in water and get a separate bucket for the patients. You had just filled the first bucket when you heard galloping heading towards the village. You looked up and saw a young man, his face similar to Sahim with a dark beard outlining his jaw and black hair flowing down to his shoulders, riding on top of a camel with a satchel hanging at the back.

“Bodhi!” Sahim called out. The older man marched towards him and placed his fists at his hips. “It does not take this long to travel back to Jedha from the nearby city. Where are your cousins?”

The man, Bodhi, turned around and frowned. “Huh, could have sworn they were behind me,” he muttered. He hopped off his camel and tied them to the nearest post. “But, we did manage to sell a lot this week! Ah, there they are!”

His three cousins arrived much later, carrying the goods that they were able to buy at the market. They all headed over and tied up their mounts before unloading their satchels. “Hello, uncle,” they all greeted with a bow with their head before carrying their load over to the huts.

“See! And we used the money that we earned to buy the food and supplies that we need,” Bodhi said.

Sahim shook his head. “That much supplies are worth more than our goods could give us. What did you do?” Bodhi struggled to talk his way out of it under his father’s scrutinizing gaze.

“We sold all the goods and we got what we needed! What more do you want from me?” Bodhi snapped before carrying his satchel and storming away.

Sahim gave you an apologetic look before following after his son. You waited until they were both out of sight to continue your task for the second bucket. You busy trying to pull it back up from the well when a voice startled.

“Hey.” You let out an embarrassing squeak, dropping the pail down in the well again. You spun around and was met by two large brown eyes staring back at you in amusement. “Sorry about that. I’m Bodhi, by the way. My father says you arrived this morning.” He flashed you a bright contagious smile.

“I’m (Y/n),” you said, automatically sticking out your hand. He looked down at it and grabbed it tightly. You shook it and tried to let go, but he wouldn’t budge. “Um…”

Bodhi tilted his head to the side. “You’re very beautiful,” he said.

“Um.”

His eyes flickered to the well behind you. “I’ll help you with that. So you’re helping my mother with the sick, are you?”

“Yes. Me and my friend. Do you have an idea of how this could have happened?” you asked, watching him pull the pail back up.

“Well, many folks on my travels say that it’s demons. Spirits who’ve sinned before they died, coming back to spread sickness and anger. We call those the Pishacha.” He poured the water into the second bucket and lifted it up with ease. He gestured for you to lead the way.

“So, do you believe in those ghost stories?” you wondered, making your way back to the hut.

Bodhi shrugged. “Whatever it is, it’s costing the farm a lot of money. With less wheat and livestock to sell, means less money and not enough supplies to do repairs and care for the sick, let alone feed ourselves.”

“So, you try other ways to get more money,” you said.

Bodhi shot you a look. “Yes, exactly. You think differently of me now?”

“I never knew much about you to have an opinion in the first place,” you said truthfully, “But it sounds to me you still care about your family a lot. Enough to do risky things.”

You reached the hut when you noticed Bodhi wasn’t there. You turned around and saw Bodhi frozen in place with a curious look in his eyes, his arms hugging the bucket close to his chest. “Thank you,” he said softly, “You’ve been kind to me so far. Anything else you want me to do?”

“Well, help me finish up with these buckets and we’ll take it from there.”

“As you wish.”

#writersmonth2019 #Bodhi Rook x Reader #Bodhi Rook #Rogue One Imagine #Star wars imagine #Farmer boy!bodhi rook #Doctor Who imagine #Reader is the Doctor's companion #There were many wip ideas that I were able to get out and finish thanks to writer's month #This idea of reader meeting Bodhi in the past and... well spoilers #Anyways I've had this idea for a while and wondered I would be able to pull this off #Doctor Who #Riz Ahmed

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unfolded73 · 6 years ago

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Take Me Away with You (1/2) - millian ff

My take on Milah and Killian’s early days. This part ~5k words. Rated Explicit.

This fic includes descriptions of alcohol abuse, depression, and suicidal thoughts. It arose out of a desire to write about Milah's state of mind when she left Rumple and Bae, so she's in a very dark place. I’m also picturing Killian as the young man he would have been at this point and not quite the way Colin looked in flashbacks.

If you’re reading this on mobile, I apologize for the wacky line spacing. Feel free to go read on ao3 and then come back and reblog here. :)

~~~~~~~~~

“Take me away with you.” All it took were five simple words to change her life forever. Five words she spoke on impulse with no foresight, no planning. Five words that tilted the whole world on its axis, although no one knew that then. Least of all her.

~*~

Sometimes Milah tried to tell herself that she had loved Rumpelstiltskin once: that her love had died on the vine because of the shame he brought down on them and the financial hardship that followed. But in her more honest moments, even before Killian Jones awoke her frozen heart, she knew that wasn’t true. The fact was, she had probably never loved him. Liked him, yes. Thought he’d be a decent father, yes. Thought he’d provide an exit from the home where her father drank too much and hit her, well, that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? A woman desperate for escape can’t always be choosy about the mechanism of that escape. Rumpelstiltskin was her escape.

She’d never been someone who could keep her feelings from being written clearly across her face. She could barely keep them from spilling out of her mouth most of the time. Alone in their tiny hut, Rumpelstiltskin out trying to sell his wool or begging for scraps to keep them fed, she would put the baby down for a nap and then collapse on her own bed, her teeth clenched tight as if to try to trap in the words. But it wasn’t invective against her husband that she muttered into her pillow, tears leaking from her eyes.

“I hate myself,” she’d whisper in those moments, wishing she could wail it at the top of her lungs. Imagining finding a high cliff and hurling herself from the edge of it. “I hate myself.”

Then Rumple would come home with a meager few coins or a loaf of stale bread, and the self-loathing monster she carried would wheel around and lash out in his direction, perhaps just for a change of pace. “How can we go on living like this?” she’d ask. “How can you be so useless?”

Milah’s days dragged on as her baby grew into a boy, her box of paints and charcoals shoved in a corner for longer and longer stretches. Most of the time she felt like she was wading through treacle, constantly tired, returning to bed at even the slightest hint of illness. She had traced the wood grain of the wall next to her bed so many times with her fingernail that the softer wood was eroding. It left a slight indentation, giving the natural grain a three-dimensional structure. The artist in her appreciated it, even if it was evidence of her boredom and discontent.

Bae had the limitless energy of the young, and only his childlike innocence and wonder were capable of raising her from her mental stupor during that time. She would walk down to the pond with Baelfire’s small hand clutching her own and sit on the bank, watching as he stood in the shallows and tried to catch darting minnows in his fists. Those were the good days, when warm sunshine burned away the cobwebs from her brain, and she could recognize that she’d done at least one good thing in her life, bringing this child into the world. On days like those, she thought she might even want another baby, if only they could manage to scrape enough money together that another mouth to feed wouldn’t be too burdensome.

That was before Rumple sold away their potential second child, which was the beginning of the end. That was before she met Killian.

Even in the midst of her desperate worry about Baelfire’s illness, she felt a pull toward that charming man in black and red who defended her honor so easily, who gracefully took a seat next to her as he offered her a drink. He smelled of leather and rum, the warm tavern causing sweat to gather in the depression at the base of his throat. She didn’t think she’d seen anyone in her entire life, man or woman, who was as… beautiful as he was, for lack of a better word, and she found it genuinely startling. Perhaps she couldn’t forget her worries (and shouldn’t, not when her son’s life hung in the balance), but she was momentarily distracted from them by this man. This man who kissed the back of her hand for just a moment too long but politely withdrew when she told him she was married. When she closed her eyes that night, it was his blue eyes she saw as she drifted off to sleep.

It was weeks before saw him a second time.

Milah’s ears would perk up whenever there was a whisper in the market about pirates in port, but the men she saw in town were grizzled and dirty, missing teeth and limbs, a far cry from the handsome Captain Jones. Then the day came when she was carrying a load of washing -- menial work for a meager few pennies, but at least it would put some food on the table -- and she spotted him across the street. She dreaded that he would turn and look her way and see her laboring under her heavy burden of laundry: sweaty, disheveled, her hair a mess. Not that he should want to look upon her under the best of circumstances; she was too old and too plain for a man like that. Milah put her head down and walked faster. She resolved to stop looking for him and stop thinking about him.

Her resolve lasted about five hours.

Knowing he was probably still in port, that night she put on her nicest blouse and tamed her hair and walked down to the tavern, if for no other reason than to see his face again. There he was, laughing and drinking with his crew, but he continually scanned the room and he noticed her within a few minutes of her arrival. Clapping a crew member on the back, he approached with a wide smile. Milah’s heart galloped.

“I was hoping I’d see you again,” he said, standing just a bit closer to her than was proper, swaying from side to side on his booted feet.

“I didn’t think you’d remember.”

He seemed genuinely surprised at that, and as the flirtatious smirk fell away she was struck by how young he was. Younger than her, to be sure.

“Of course I remember, how could I not?”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She felt so plain next to him, the embroidery on his vest finer than anything she had ever owned, the dark lines under his eyes dramatic and sexy. Why did he notice her at all?

He swayed closer still. “I’ve thought of you often during my lonely nights at sea.” An eyebrow waggle completed the innuendo, and she found herself laughing. Milah couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

Milah shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

~*~

They met a few more times in the tavern after that, but there was nothing but a harmless flirtation between them at first. He taught her to cheat at dice and cards and to drink rum, always with a smile on his lips that made her think about what kissing him would feel like. When she was in the tavern with him, she felt like a different person. She felt like someone who was adept at holding the attention of a man. She almost felt happy.

But Killian’s visits to their port were separated by absences of days or weeks, and during those times the monster on her shoulder became bolder. Telling her how worthless she was every time she couldn’t muster the energy to play with Bae. Telling her that her drawings were a waste of time and energy and money, canvases an extravagance that she didn’t deserve. Converting her self-loathing into a fuel to feed the flames of her antipathy toward her husband, and then berating her when their arguments made Bae cry or shout at them to stop.

Liquor made the monster quiet down, she had learned. And it wasn’t like she had to spend any of her own meager coin in the tavern, not when a certain pirate was in port. A few drinks and she could feel the monster coiled around her shoulders drift off to sleep. The release was a kind of euphoria. She would gamble with the boys -- Killian always spotted her a stake and covered her debts if she lost, but let her keep her winnings if she didn’t -- until the table began to swim in her vision and she leaned too heavily against the Killian’s shoulder, unable to hold her head up any longer. Her memories of him seeing her home (not all the way to her door, of course, but close enough that he could ensure she got inside safely) were jagged and fractured with drunkenness, but she knew he never took any liberties, even when she stumbled and let her hand drag across the back of his leather pants.

She would pay for her behavior the next day, often too sick to get out of bed. Rumple would take Bae with him into town, perhaps to give her some peace but more likely so he wouldn’t see his mother retching into a bucket. And of course her monster would awaken, refreshed from its sleep, and tear into her for being a drunk and a layabout. The old images of jumping from a cliff would return, and Milah would lie still in her sweat-soaked bed, too empty to even weep.

~*~

“May I walk you home, Milah?” Killian’s elbow pointed in her direction. The tavern was closing, but somehow she was less inebriated than usual. Killian himself had filled up her senses, distracted her so completely with his charm and his flirting that for once she forgot to drink herself into senselessness.

“You can walk me anywhere else but home.”

He arched an eyebrow at her as if he was trying to parse her meaning.

“Take me to see your ship. I’ve never even seen your ship,” she said, desperate not to return to the dirty hovel where she lived. Not really thinking about the implications of her request.

He did as she asked, but she could sense the tension rolling off of him as they walked through the night to the harbor. The first thing she spotted were the masts with their furled sails against the backdrop of the night sky, a full moon impossibly bright behind them.

As they walked up the gangplank, she could make out brightly colored paint along the gunwale and on the hull, yellow and red and blue. “It’s beautiful,” Milah remarked.

“Aye, that she is.”

“Sorry, ‘she’s’ beautiful.”

He smiled at her, leading her up some stairs to the large wheel which she presumed he used to steer. She could imagine him out on the open ocean, his dark hair tousled by the wind as he gave orders to his crew and bore down on another vessel. She dragged her fingers over the wooden knobs of the wheel, picturing his long fingers gripping them. “Is it difficult, sailing?”

Killian shrugged. “There’s a lot to learn, I suppose. How to deploy each sail to get the most out of the prevailing winds, navigating using the stars, reading the weather… but I grew up on ships.”

He had never spoken to her of his childhood before, and she was suddenly desperate to learn more about his beginnings. “Was your father a… a pirate?”

“My father was too much of a coward to be a pirate,” he muttered, turning and lifting a hatch. “Come below, darling, and let’s have a nightcap.” He descended the steep steps before her, turning and reaching a hand up to assist her. Milah paused. She knew what nightcap was often code for. Milah might be a lot of things -- a drunk and a gambler and a poor excuse for a wife and mother -- but she wasn’t an adulterer. She could go now, and perhaps Killian would be disappointed, but she didn’t think he would hold it against her. He wasn’t that kind of man. She could go home where she belonged, with her husband and her son.

Taking his hand, she allowed Killian to help her down the stairs.

The chamber was dark but he quickly lit a lantern, revealing a fairly spacious room. There were cabinets filled with books and trinkets, a large table, and a bunk in the corner. The white walls reflected the lamp light in shades of yellow, giving the space a homey feel.

“This is nice. Larger than I imagined,” she said as he pulled a decanter of wine from a shelf.

“Well, I am the captain.”

Milah flinched. He was the captain, and a man like him could have his pick of women in every port. Likely did have his pick of women in every port. She flushed with embarrassment at her notion that he wanted to bed her. Perhaps he merely wanted to drink with her, his matronly friend whom he felt sorry for because she was destitute and lonely. Perhaps he was at a loss for what to do with her now that she was in his chamber, and was trying to figure out how to get rid of her without hurting her feelings.

Killian handed her a cup of wine and clinked his own cup against it. She sipped from the cup, feeling awkward, regretting that she’d come here. Regretting that she’d ever met Killian Jones. Killian was the only thing in her life that made her feel anything, but she wasn’t sure if her current discomfort was worth it.

“I’d best be getting home,” she said, and she watched Killian’s face fall.

“To your husband,” he said flatly.

“Yes.”

He walked over to the windows, looking out into the night. “Do you love him?”

“Does it matter?”

Killian turned and met her gaze. “Aye, it matters a great deal to me, love.”

She tried to ignore her pounding heart. “Why?”

Approaching her slowly, his lips quirked up in a half-smile. “Do you not wonder why I can’t seem to stop myself from returning to this port, Milah?”

She didn’t know how to answer, and she swallowed on a suddenly dry mouth.

He put his large hand on her arm. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop dreaming about you.” His eyelashes fluttered as he dropped his eyes to the floor. “If there’s no chance for me, then please just put me out of my misery now, love.”

She wasn’t sure who initiated the kiss. At first it was just an imperceptible lean toward him, a sway into close orbit, and then suddenly his mouth was on hers. It was a tiny thing, the touch of one human’s flesh to another’s, and it was everything, an explosion of sensation and emotion the likes of which she had never experienced.

“Stay with me tonight,” he whispered against her lips, and she was so fuzzy with desire that she couldn’t quite process what he was saying. Without even realizing how it happened she found herself seated on the edge of his bunk, her skirts bunched up as he stood between her legs, his mouth everywhere on her neck as his hands cupped her breasts.

Even as they undressed frantically between heated kisses, she was certain this couldn’t really be happening. It felt like a daydream. Surely this worldly young man couldn’t want her this way. And if he somehow had convinced himself that he did, the sight of her body with its blemishes and stretch marks would put him off.

Milah kept thinking this even as his naked body covered hers, his desire evident in the thrust of his cock against her. Only when he was inside her did it click in her head with sudden clarity. She was fucking another man.

He was beautiful above her, dark hair on sun-kissed skin, his toned muscles flexing and voice breaking on each push into her. It felt good, a gentle, diffuse pleasure, the not-quite-enough pleasure that sex had always been for her. She clung to his shoulders and watched as Killian lost himself in his body’s demands.

“Gods… Milah,” he gasped.

“Don’t come inside me,” she said. “You can’t--”

“Aye,” he grunted, seeming to understand. She brought one hand up above her head and braced herself on the wall as his hips pistoned into her again and again until the last possible moment when he pulled out quickly. Two pumps of his fist and he groaned, his seed landing harmlessly on her stomach.

The gentle kisses he pressed to her shoulder after he’d cleaned them up and settled at her side should have been comforting, but they just made her feel worse. She didn’t deserve such tenderness, not after breaking her marriage vows so completely.

“I need to go home,” she whispered.

“Not yet,” Killian said, his voice husky, his hand trailing over her skin and making her shiver. “Don’t go just yet.”

The simple affection made tears well behind her eyes, something that in and of itself was remarkable; she’d started to think herself incapable of the genuine emotion that could bring about tears.

Shaking her head, Milah rose from the bed and began to quickly pull her clothes back on. “I’m sorry.”

~*~

By the time Milah returned to town the next day, the masts of the Jolly Roger were gone from the harbor. As she moved through the streets, she felt as if everyone’s eyes were on her, that they all must be whispering that she’d become a pirate’s whore. Never mind that the fact that she drank and gambled with pirates was enough to make people whisper -- now that she was guilty of the crime she had likely been accused of some time ago, now she felt the full weight of their stares. A part of her wanted to turn and scream at anyone within earshot that yes, she’d fucked the pirate captain. And that being his whore was preferable to the life she’d been consigned to.

It was weeks before Killian returned, empty, grey weeks through which she sleep-walked. Milah would lie awake at night, closing her eyes only to find her thoughts plagued with what his mouth had tasted like, what the drag of his skin had felt like against hers. She started to believe that once he’d bedded her, Killian didn’t plan to return. Perhaps he only cared for her as much as a she had been a conquest, a wife and mother seduced away from her home and into his bed. Now he had no further use of her.

She became so convinced of this that when she heard whispers that his ship had returned, Milah didn’t bother to go to the tavern. The next morning, however, his cabin boy approached her on the street as she made her way to the market.

“Captain wants you to come to his cabin, missus.”

Milah’s heartbeat sped up, but at the same time she felt a flare of anger for being summoned as if she had nothing better to do than wait upon Captain Jones.

“I have errands to tend to,” she responded.

“Then come as soon as you are able, if it please you.”

She waited until dusk, late enough that she wouldn’t be seen boarding a pirate ship in broad daylight, but early enough that he wouldn’t be out carousing yet. The pirate standing watch at the gangplank allowed her to board with a nod and a relieved smile. Another escorted her below.

Killian swept her into his arms immediately. “Milah, my love, I missed you.”

She held herself tense, uncertain how to feel. “You did?”

“Aye.” He pulled away a fraction but continued to hold her. “We had to sail many leagues to find a worthy target this time. Finally I was able to run down a royal galleon. It took us days to follow it into the straits so that we could overtake them without being outmaneuvered. I wanted to return right away, but the winds were against us.” Shooting her a sheepish smile, he added, “Still, at least my ship’s coffers are full now. I’ve been returning to this port so often lately, I knew I had to find a rich prize on this outing or risk a mutiny.”

“Why have you? Been returning to this port so often lately?”

He reached up and stroked her cheek. “I think you know the answer to that, love.” Then his eyes widened. “Ah, I just remembered!” He let go of her and turned back to his shelves, unlocking a safe with a key he’d pulled from his pocket. He removed a small bundle with some reverence, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a pair of large, turquoise earrings. He held them out to her. “A gift for you.”

Milah gaped at them. “Those are worth more than everything else I own put together.”

“All the more reason I want you to have them. Wear them, or sell them if the money would do you more good than the jewelry.”

“Killian, I can’t accept a gift like this from you.”

“Of course you can.” He took her hand and turned it palm up, putting the earrings in her hand. “Take them. I want you to.” She met his eyes. “Why?”

“Because I thought you deserved something nice.” He gave her a self-deprecating smile. “Because I saw them and thought of you. Because I’m very fond of you, Milah.”

Closing her fist, she tucked the earrings into the pocket of her skirt. “Thank you.”

He took her in his arms again. “Can you stay a while?” he murmured, leaning in for a kiss.

The sex was much like before, and though she wanted it, wanted him, she found it no more satisfying than the first time. Milah knew there were women who claimed to enjoy sex as much as men, and she’d always thought that Rumple was the reason that she got more enjoyment from her own hand than she ever did from their coupling. Now she had to face the fact that she was the problem, that this was one more way that she was deficient. Either that or her pirate lover was no more adept than her husband.

Killian trailed a hand over her abdomen and Milah twitched, still keyed up and sensitive. He seemed oblivious to the way her body was still aching for release. “Can you stay the night this time?” he asked.

Milah imagined Bae waking up for a cup of water in the wee hours of the morning and finding her gone. She shook her head. “I can’t. My son…”

Giving her a sad smile, Killian murmured, “You’re a good mother.”

Pulling away, Milah shot him a look of disbelief. “Is that a joke? I’m a terrible mother. You can tell on account of the fact that I’m having an affair with a pirate.”

A quick, inappropriate grin flashed across his face before he could suppress it. “So that makes you a bad wife, perhaps, but I can tell you love your son.”

“Love isn’t enough.” She chuckled darkly. “My son would be better off if I were dead and gone, anyway.”

Now it was Killian’s turn to pull away. “Why would you say that?”

“Because, Killian! I’m worthless! I drink too much and I don’t--” She sat up and began to pull her clothes back on with hurried, jerky motions. “I don’t have the energy to do the most basic things for my family. And at least if I were gone, my son wouldn’t have to see Rumple and me fighting all the time. He’d be happier in the long run.”

“I’m sure that’s not true, Milah.”

She sighed heavily. “I assure you, it is.”

~*~

Milah followed Rumple and Bae back home from the tavern like a recalcitrant child. It had been a low blow by her husband, bringing Bae to the tavern to guilt her into coming home. She squeezed her eyes shut as a flood of shame coursed through her, stumbling slightly in the doorway of their pitiful, one-room hut. While Rumple put the boy to bed in his cot behind a simple partition, Milah flopped down on her bed. Misery and drink weighed her down like twin stones tied to her ankles. The room was too hot, the fire stoked too high, and sweat broke out on her face as she lay there, staring at the ceiling.

Milah reached up and touched the turquoise earrings that dangled from her earlobes. Any other husband would have asked her where she got them. Any other husband would have demanded to know what she’d done in exchange for such a gift. Any other husband, faced with evidence of a wife’s infidelity, would have struck her, but Rumple would never do that, even if it was what she deserved. That’s what her father had often told her.

When Rumple emerged from putting Bae to bed he brought up the ogre war again, asking in a soft voice if she truly wished he’d died. She felt a sudden surge of pity and something almost like affection for him. It wasn’t him that should have died, this sad, cowardly man who was so kind and patient with their son. She was the one who didn’t deserve to live in this world. She begged, not for the first time, for them to leave the village and start over. Perhaps the monster who plagued her wouldn’t follow her to a new place. She could remake herself into a better person, she thought desperately. Other people would respect them, and she could become the wife and mother she’d once imagined she could be. More importantly, the temptation of a certain pirate’s bed would be removed from her life.

Rumple refused her, as he had many times before, and said they could be a family here, in their home.

“At least try. If not for me… then for Bae,” he said.

As always, Rumple seemed to find the idea of venturing outside their village so terrifying that he’d rather they spend the rest of their lives as pariahs, as outcasts, barely able to scrape together enough coin to survive. Milah closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.

When Rumple had finally fallen asleep at her side, his soft snores filling her ears, Milah stole out of bed. She crept over to Baelfire’s cot, watching his small chest rise and fall in slumber, his innocent face relaxed. A tear rolled down her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Bae. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the mother you need.”

By the time she got down to the docks, the moon had set but dawn had yet to hint at its arrival, and the water in the harbor looked black as pitch. Milah took another swig from the bottle of cheap corn mash liquor she’d swiped on her way from a man passed out in an alley, continuing to stare down into the depths. She wondered how far it was to the bottom. She wondered if it would be better to step off the dock or to jump. She wondered if she could drink enough to dampen any instinct toward self preservation that might kick in once she was actually drowning.

She wondered if her body would float to the surface after, to be dragged out by the townsfolk and gossiped over.

“Milah?”

Swinging around at the sound of her name, she stumbled, her foot slipping on the wet boards.

“Whoa, love,” Killian said, darting forward and grabbing her arm. He pulled away from the edge of the water. “Take care before you fall in.”

“That was the idea,” she mumbled, jerking out of his grasp.

“What was the idea?”

She opened her mouth, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him what she’d been contemplating. Instead what she said was, “Take me away with you.”

“What?”

Milah clicked her teeth together, shocked at her own utterance. Any doubts she had about Killian’s feelings for her were subsumed by her desperation in the moment. “I said… I said, take me away with you. On your ship.”

“What about your son? Your husband?”

She laughed bitterly. “Do you really care about my husband?”

“Not particularly, but I thought you did.”

“I told you, they’re better off without me.” She wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince.

“Your son will miss you terribly, love.”

“Killian, if you don’t want me, just--”

“Of course I want you,” he said, frustration evident in the lines of his brow. “I’ve hardly wanted anything else since we first met. But love…” Conflicting emotions performed an impromptu battle across his face. “I lost my mother when I was very young. It was the first loss of many in my life, but in many ways it cuts the deepest. I don’t want to be responsible for another boy being left with a failure for a father, as much as a part of me is desperate to steal you away and have you all to myself.”

“My husband has a lot of flaws, but if there’s one thing I know, it’s that he loves our son. He’ll look after him. They’ll look after each other.” She felt tears well up and fall, and she swiped angrily at her cheeks. “If I stay, I’ll drag Bae down into the depths with me. My son will be forced to watch me wither away and die. How is that better?”

He studied her face for a moment and then nodded. “Come on, then. We’ll cast off tomorrow.”

Milah looked down at the black water once more. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the bottle of cheap liquor into the harbor, watching as it sank out of view.

Part 2

#millian #millian ff #milah #milah ff #tw: suicide #tw: alcholism #my fic

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