#fic: bodies fashioned out of dirt and dust | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

honeymoonjin · 5 years ago

Text

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 taehyung x reader ft yoongi || 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 8.5k || 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆 smut

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 riddled with insomnia, you’d just about do anything to get a good night’s rest. enter sandman.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 masturbation (m), voyeurism, exhibitionism, public sex, mile high club, oral (m receiving), choking, deepthroating, cockwarming but in her throat, throat bulge, way more male oral than i’ve ever written oop, dom!taehyung, sub!reader, dirty talk, unprotected sex, riding, tentacles, yes you did read that correctly user honeymoonjin is expanding her wares, buckets of cum, like really a ridiculous amount of it, is it somnophilia if they’re fucking in her dreams?, cum eating, rough nipple play, hair pulling, belly bulge, creampie

many thanks to @jamaisjoons for the gorgeous banner, she really outsold xx many thanks as well to @honey-boyyoongi for beta reading and helping a lot on plot. i wouldn’t have finished this fic without her xx this fic is a part of the monster smash project at ksmutclub : )

It’s a shit fair.

You make sure to tell Yoongi this several times throughout the afternoon, more emphatically as the hours drag on, but he’s too focussed on giving heart-eyes to the young man tending the water pistol stall. The man, who has held an unbelievably cheery grin all night, at some point got caught in the stream of a kid with poor aim, and though it’s warm his shirt still hasn’t dried, leaving a rather promiscuous set of dark spots on his chest behind the translucent cotton. You think Yoongi might be drooling.

You’ve just about given up wandering around aimlessly waiting for your friend to get the courage to actually approach the guy, when a stall catches your attention. Unsurprising, considering how gaudy and kitschy it is. Heavy embroidered tapestries form a makeshift curtain across the entrance to the booth, and above rests a sign with neon striplighting that reads Enter Sandman. You bite your lip, ignoring Yoongi’s impatient tug on your arm. You don’t remember seeing it on any of your other turns around the small fairground, though you can’t imagine how you could’ve possibly missed it.

Without breaking your gaze, you address Yoongi. “I’m gonna check out some stalls.”

“Come on, you’re gonna ditch me in my time of need?” Yoongi’s voice is playfully lilting, the kind that lets you know it’s okay to leave while simultaneously promising that he’ll complain about your abandoning him later, probably at four in the morning when neither of you can get to sleep.

“Yup,” you mumble blankly, and shake off his grip, making your way across the slightly uneven dirt and trampled grass to reach the stall. You feel drawn, strangely, to the narrow dark triangle of shadow between the folds of the curtain. It’s only once you get nearer that you make out the patterns of the delicate stitching: swirls of gold thread weave around figures, horizontal or curled up, all in dull shades of brown and beige. Entranced, you reach out your fingers to follow the swirls of gold. The tapestry, instead of ending in edges over the entrance, is folded so that the pictures trail around the edge. Without thinking to politely announce your presence, you simply slip inside, feeling the late summer humidity lead to a shady coolness.

It’s dark inside, and silent. Nothing illuminates the small room except for a single candle on a table, a black tall taper, drops of wax running cleanly down the sides to stain the golden tablecloth. It’s luckily enough to just make out the reflective glint of the gold thread, and you follow the tapestry slowly as it runs all the way along the walls inside. Part of you feels this is futile, and you shouldn’t be poking around in an empty stall when the owner was out, but still you walk deeper into the booth, the texture of embroidery teasing the tips of your fingers.

At one point, closer to the back of the room, your shadow begins to block the candlelight, and you squint, barely making out the trail of golden swirls. An odd protrusion in the wall causes you to step back, losing the trail for a moment but picking it up, a bright gold patch, perfectly circular and shining like-

“What are you doing in my tent?”

You gasp and jump back, bumping your lower back on a wooden chair tucked into the table. A hand shoots out, latches tightly onto your wrist. You freeze, following the arm up a sleeve, and to a chest, black silk with a pendant dangling just below his collarbones, a single gold coin. Your eyes jump up, apology on your tongue, but you can’t force your mouth to move when you’re greeted with two gleaming eyes, trained solely on you.

No, not gleaming. Glowing.

You swallow hard as he blinks slowly, eyebrows narrowed and partially blocking what looks like swirling irises of molten gold, a depth that draws you in. “I- sorry,” you croak finally, feeling his grip around your wrist loosen, the delicate bones aching. “It did say ‘enter’.”

You can’t be sure in the dim lighting, but a slight flash of white makes you think he’s smirking at you. “My sign says ‘Enter Sandman’. Are you a sandman?”

You blink slowly. “No.”

“Hm, I didn’t think so. I am the sandman. And you are the trespasser.”

Your mind feels hazy, two beats too slow. “Do you want me to… leave, then?”

His hand lets go of yours completely. It leaves you feeling oddly unmoored. “You could leave,” he offers lightly, “but then you’d never get my help.”

You want to turn around, some illogical urge to make sure the exit is still free, that the fair is still in full swing outside. It feels so quiet in here. But you don’t want to turn your back on him. The hairs on the back of your neck are at full attention and your instincts are going haywire like a faulty compass, unsure what to feel. You swallow past the dryness in your throat. “Your help?”

The gilded glow of his eyes - some modern fashion contacts, no doubt - gently illuminate the dark eyelashes that frame them. They narrow at the corners, like he’s grinning at you. “My help,” he echoes. “You look tired, little girl. Can’t get to sleep?”

The blood in your veins runs cold. In the cool shade of the tent, goosebumps break out along your arms. “How did you know that? Are you meant to be a psychic or something?”

His tongue clicks in irritation. “I’m a sandman. I believe I told you that. I can promise you restful sleep every night. For a price.”

You scoff, the reality of the situation dawning on you. Cool shtick, you allow. The dude certainly had a good way of setting up atmosphere. “Let me guess, $29.99 plus tax? Or buy a whole week for a hundred? Thanks, but no thanks.”

You turn before he manages to reply. In fact, he remains still in the time it takes you to stumble around the table in the dark, making your way to the bright sliver of light streaming in through the folds of the tapestry. Your hand is on the rough fabric before you hear his honeyed voice again.

“My price isn’t currency,” he states simply.

Your hand remains frozen in the air. Damn you and your constant curiosity. “What is it, then?” you ask, twisting around. Now that your silhouette isn’t blocking the candlelight, you can make out a vague outline. He’s tall, but you already knew that from the height of his eyes. “Your price, I mean.”

He steps forward, just one foot dusting the exposed ground, but it’s enough to bring him closer to the light, enough for the dancing flame to shine upon his face.

With the lighting from below, heavy shadows are cast below his brows and his hairline, but you can see the warm bronze tone to his skin, and the fine bone structure below it. He’s still smirking, just the slightest quirk to his lips, and his chin is jutted forward smugly. He’s gorgeous.

You can’t help but swallow again as his piercing eyes stay fixed upon you, the slight pink of his tongue poking at the corner of his mouth as his grin widens. “Dream of me.”

You feel like you’re floating. You’re in a bathroom, looking in on a shower. Although the glass should be fully fogged up, with the rest of the room humid with steam, you can see through perfectly, to the naked form inside.

In real life, you would leave immediately, at the very least turn away, but in the hazy logic of your dream, you simply observe.

His head is against the wall, forehead pressed to the tile as water pelts down his tanned back. One hand props him up; the other is between his legs, fisting at an angry red erection. It drips precum with every jerk of his wrist, disappearing amongst the slightly soapy water that circles the drain. You can’t see his face with how the sodden bronzed locks of his hair cling to it.

Although the showerhead seems to be spraying full power, his pleasure-filled groans are what fill your ears. The way they trail off shakily every time he twists his wrist just below the tip, the gruff curses under his breath. You listen and watch as he falls apart from his own ministrations, the muscles in his buttocks clenching as he begins to thrust into his hand, panting slightly.

Like hearing from underwater, you slowly becoming aware of a murmur that the man chants, louder and faster each time, as his hand speeds up. Your mind runs slower than treacle, but you do your best to focus.

“Y/n! Y/n, fuck, yes! God, right there, I’m not gonna last, fuck!”

You mentally recoil, though your body simply continues to watch, honed in on the way his whole body undulates, chasing the pleasure with every fibre of his being. He moans your name, panting onto the slippery tile. He’s close; you can tell by the way his hips shudder.

With a shout, he spills himself onto the floor of the shower, spurts of it catching and running down the wall, pooling at the bottom before washing away. He jerks himself languidly until the last drop runs down over his knuckles, and then lets out a satisfied exhale, using his toes to wipe away the last of it, before straightening up again, rinsing his face in the stream.

“Fuck, Y/n,” he says one last time with a relieved sigh, “mm, thank you.”

Finally, he stretches out an arm blindly to reach for the metal nozzle, cutting the flow of water short. He tips his head back, pressing at his scalp to wring out some of the water, and you catch your first real glimpse of his face. A face you recognise very well. As you stare at the man you had met in the tent, the details of the bathroom blur away, fading into wisps of steam. His eyes, glowing gold, are the last two pinpricks of detail before the dream dissolves into nothingness.

You wake up with a jolt, the sheets underneath you sticky with sweat. It was real. You dismiss the thought with a shake of your head the moment it occurs to you. If anything, it was probably just your mind playing on what had happened as a way of processing it. But then again, you had slept the night through for the first time in almost a year. Speaking of...

Sitting up and stretching languidly, you curse upon viewing your alarm clock. You’d slept through your first class. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” you mutter in resignation, frowning when you become aware of a prickling sensation in your eye.

You rub at it, only to hiss when a sharp stinging sensation attacks the sensitive nerves. Blinking away the tears that spring up, you kick off your blankets, jogging barefoot to the bathroom to inspect it in the mirror.

Leaning in close enough that your breath creates little foggy patches on the glass, you make out some substance clogging up the inner corner of your right eye. There’s some on the left too, though not as much, and you use a wet wipe to carefully brush it out.

In confusion, you pull away the wipe and inspect the grit that’s come away. Like something you might find at a luxurious beach (though you haven’t been to one since you were a kid) a clump of golden sand sits on the moistened fabric, finer and more delicate than caster sugar. The colour reminds you of the hair of the man in your dream, of the man you met the day before. What the fuck? With a deep breath, you force yourself to clear out the rest of the sand from your eyes and clear the worry from your head.

“What sand tent?”

You stare at Yoongi in something mildly related to disgust as he shovels an ungodly amount of beef wrapped in a lettuce leaf into his mouth, dark dipping sauce gathering at the corners of his mouth. “A sandman tent. You know, the big neon sign? It was right beside the little homemade fudge stall.”

He chews noisily, brows furrowed in thought. “The one old Jeanie set up? That was right at the end of the row, Y/n, there wasn’t anything past that.” You go to protest, but Yoongi makes a sound of disagreement. “Seriously, Y/n, there wasn’t. I remember because she was complaining to me about the organisers trying to hide her stall since she’s taking all their business. I went there for some of her earl grey fudge but that certainly wasn’t the tea I ended up getting.”

You roll your eyes at his joke, but your heart isn’t in it. “I went in the tent, though. There was a dude there and everything. He said he’d give me a good night’s sleep if I dreamed of him, and I said sure, and for the first time in fucking ages I actually managed to sleep properly.”

Yoongi’s chopsticks hover over the beef sizzling on the barbecue. “Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Dream of him,” Yoongi clarifies.

You think back to the sight of him in the shower, streams of clear water washing away the cream he spilled on the floor, of the way his eyes pierced into you right as you woke up. Your cheeks heat at the lewd imagery. Normally your memory of dreams faded over the day - at least, when you were a kid they did. But every detail seems branded in your mind in full definition. Ducking your head, you reach out for a strip of cooked meat and avoid your friend’s gaze.

“Oh my god, you did! Was he hot?”

“Yoongi!”

“What? If he was, I wanna go track him down and get a dream. Why does all the cool shit happen to you?”

You sigh, though a reluctant smile tugs at your lips. You can never stay mad at him and he knows it. “Shut up and eat your damn lettuce wraps,” you mutter petulantly.

Over the lunch spent with Yoongi, you find the thought of the mysterious man slip from your mind, instead feeling reenergised from your good rest and cheered up from the good food and company.

You dream of him again the next night. Not a bathroom this time; an airplane. At the start, it feels like reality, only slightly more...fluid. The strange quality of a dream where everything is simultaneously crystal clear and blurred.

He’s beside you, the middle seat as you take the window. Outside, clouds melt into blue sky and in the cabin there are faceless individuals filling the seats.

“You dirty girl,” the sandman whispers, a hand on the inside of your knee. “You’re soaked for me.”

You widen your eyes and look down. The moment you see the dark patch forming in the crotch of your pants, a wave of arousal hits you as if it’s on a delay. “Yeah,” you breathe in awe. “Want you.”

His eyes sparkle behind thick lashes. “Oh, do you really?”

You bite your lip. “Please.” For a moment he looks remarkably casual, commonplace. He tilts his head at you and leans back, drawing your attention to his dress shirt and tie, and perfectly ironed pants, but when you drop his gaze to look over them, you gasp.

His shirt is unbuttoned all the way, gaping open to reveal his unclothed chest. The tie dangles down his bare skin, guiding your eyes to his crotch, where his pants are lewdly spread open, zipper parted to reveal the waistband of his underwear. A delicate trail of golden hairs dip from below his belly button to underneath the fabric, and without thinking, your hand stretches out towards it, fingering the edge of the waistband.

Rather than speak, you give him a questioning glance, but what greets you makes you suck in a breath. Just like the first time you met, he’s radiant; godlike. His hair is a silken warm blonde, gentle waves that frame his delicately arched brows. And his eyes. When you meet his gaze, his irises glint and shift, a brilliant gold that swirls around dilated pupils. This is the first time you’ve seen him properly in the light.

He narrows them slightly in amusement, drinking in your reaction. With a barely-there background of the airplane cabin, general shapes and blurs, the man sitting beside you is in startling clarity. Everything seems to revolve around him, a fixation you can’t shake. “Please,” you mumble again unconsciously, hand slipping below the elastic of his underwear.

He’s hard as a rock, though his face shows no desperation, only mild amusement with the way you lick your lips. As you massage him indulgently, you can’t help but recall the sight of him in the shower. Would his cock be the same in this dream?

“Watch out,” he warns, before breaking your gaze to face the aisle. Belatedly, you hear a squeaky wheel, a trundle cart being pushed down towards you. As the figure of an air hostess slips into view, you attempt to quickly retract your hand, though it seems your brain and body aren’t on the same track anymore. Even as you mentally strain with the want to take your hand out of his pants, it refuses to cooperate, wrapping your fingers fully around his length, running your thumb over his head.

He chuckles lowly, head tipped back luxuriously on the head rest, devoid of any shame. The air hostess is talking to the two of you, but your cheeks burn and you can’t bear to look at her. The sandman calmly orders a hot tea, only pausing to groan in relief when your rogue hand slips him out of his pants and into the cool air of the cabin. He’s making conversation with her, discussing landing times and stopovers, and your eyes fill with embarrassed tears as you feel yourself bending down, dipping your head to take him in your mouth.

Unlike any men you’d been with before, he tastes slightly sweet, a flavour that satisfies your tastebuds. The moment your tongue dips out to swipe up the bead of precum that’s gathered, it’s like your humiliation melts away, and even though you feel yourself regaining control of your hand, you continue to pump the base of his cock, lapping up as much of the moreish taste of him as you can.

“Now that’s a good girl,” his honeyed voice soothes, a reassuring palm brushing your hair out of your face gently, “just give in to me.”

You moan around the head of his cock and suck him down deeper. As you lower your head more, it seems your perverted dream-logic has taken away your gag reflex, and soon you’re removing your hand, nose pressing against his hip bone. He lets out a low, purring groan, and you grip the flesh of his thigh through his pants in response. You can feel him in your throat as you begin to bob your head, but instead of feeling like you’re being suffocated, you just feel deliciously full. A wave of wet heat rushes between your legs as you picture how it would feel to be that full somewhere else.

“Yes,” he sighs, “god, it’s been so fucking long, don’t you dare stop.” You pull off him with a pop quickly to look up, expecting the air hostess to have moved on by now, your dream sequence having gone down a different path, but she stands there, perfectly put-together and professional as she stares down at you. Behind her, you notice with a jolt that everyone in their seats have turned to look at you; countless generic faces that blend into nothing the moment you look away.

“They’re all watching,” you comment with a raw throat, though arousal at the thought of it slides through you like a hot knife, feeling your pants cling to you, impossibly soaked.

His smile is radiant and the gold in his eyes darkens to burnished bronze. With a hand on the back of your neck, he guides you back down. “Then give them a show.” He moans low in his throat when you take him in your mouth again, tongueing at the veins that run along the underside. His fingers slip around the other side of your neck, pushing down on your voicebox. You can feel the way his constriction traps his cock in your throat. You can’t breathe, but it is no longer necessary, your heart thrumming gently in your chest even without oxygen to pump it.

He presses down more firmly, an iron grip around your throat that closes your throat around his length. “I wonder…” he muses. With a dark laugh that sounds almost inhuman, the man pulls slowly, lifting you off him until only the tip sits on the back of your palate, barely inside your throat. Though you don’t understand what’s going on, or how your mind has gotten so depraved to picture this, your clit throbs in your panties and you remain obediently in his grasp, waiting for his next move. “Mm, so you are going to be a good girl for me.” You feel pressure around your throat again, though this time he’s pushing you back down. With your throat cinched inside his grip, his cock pushes at the cartilage, completely blocking your airway. Your eyes water, but somehow you remain still, the only part of you moving being your head as he uses your throat as a cocksleeve, pushing you down until your lips touch the skin around the base of his cock.

He isn’t overly vocal, but his indulgent grunts and moans seem amplified in your ears. He moves faster once you continue to take it, fucking up into you every time he plunges you down. He reaches his end quickly this way, and when he flattens his other palm over your scalp and holds you there, a warm release sliding down your throat, sweet like condensed milk, so much that it bubbles up and pools in your cheeks, spilling down your chin.

When he finally releases you, you come up, sucking in a shuddering breath. The spectators are still there, though it looks like the scene around you is melting, falling in on itself. The lines between things become blurred, colours on their faces merging into dull greens and browns, like mixed paint. With a horrified gaze, you watch the morphing shapes begin to clap slowly, applauding your performance.

“I guess they liked it,” he plainly remarks. You turn to face him again, but his forehead is creased, eyes clenched shut in focus. “Fuck, that was so… I can’t hold it, shit-!”

The moment he swears, all detail begins to fall away faster than before, the vibrant gold of his hair and tanned skin blending away into a black nothingness with the rest of the plane, and you gasp, cracking your eyes open with the sound of applause still ringing in your ears, slowly sounding out into the buzzing phone on your bedside table. You fling your arm out from the warm covers, batting it around until you can turn off the alarm, and let out a groan.

Your eyes feel dry and crusty, like you’ve been sleeping for days, and when you rub at them the same gritty sensation from the night before stings the inner corners. You pull your fingers away and squint at what’s resting on the pads of your fingertips, unsurprised when you’re greeted with those fine grains of perfectly golden sand. Tearing up at the irritation, you gingerly remove as much as you can, swallowing the dryness in your throat. A small price to pay for decent rest, you promise yourself, though a slight curl of doubt rests stubbornly in the back of your mind.

That night, as you drift off blissfully early in the evening, you’re ready. Upon admitting to Yoongi that they were sex dreams - your friend was beyond jealous - he had managed to convince you that you were cursed by the mysterious stranger, that he was a witch or an incubus. His plan, which you are determined to execute tonight, involves confronting the man himself - “Don’t forget to ask him if he’ll give sex dreams upon request!” - and demanding that he releases you from the curse.

Though you were still a little sceptical that it was anything more than an overactive subconscious, you feel assured going to sleep that at least you know what to do should he return.

And return he does.

Not a bathroom this time, nor a plane. In fact, it’s an environment completely foreign to you, all the more hinting at the fact that this maybe isn’t just your mind conjuring strange scenarios. Like the other two times, you feel hazy and sluggish, and it takes you a while to distinguish the scene around you.

You become slowly aware of lush carpet fibres beneath your feet, the gentle hum of an air conditioning unit, almost totally drowned out by unintelligible murmuring, a television left on.

He is in the room with you, on a couch. Head tilted to the side, locks of thick gold rumpled and messy. Bare feet up on the coffee table and black sweatpants riding low, exposing a narrow strip of tanned flesh below his t-shirt, he looks unbelievably… domestic.

You swallow hard, steeling your nerve. “Hey.”

He remains unresponsive, eyes locked on the television. No, not completely unresponsive; the corner of his lip quirks just slightly. You tamp down a rising streak of irritation.

“Hey,” you repeat emphatically.

With a sigh, the young man reaches out for the remote that rests on the arm of the couch, muting the television. He flattens you with an unimpressed look. “Yes?”

“What are you doing in my dreams?” The question seems unbelievably childish once you say it, so you cross your arms petulantly. This does not help.

He quirks an eyebrow, grin widening to reveal his teeth. “Enjoying myself,” he answers simply.

You huff. “Your stupid tent thing at the fair, was it even real?”

“Did it feel real to you? Did I feel real?” When you simply press your lips closer together in annoyance, he drops the cockiness, leveling an impatient stare at you. “You gave me permission to be here, I hope you remember. Words have power, Y/n.”

You frown at him, unsettled. “I never told you my name.”

He barks out a condescending laugh. “And I never told you mine, but you know it, don’t you?”

You run your tongue over the edges of your teeth as you ponder this. His name comes to you like a fact once-forgotten. The moment you think it, you know wholeheartedly it’s right. “Taehyung. But- How do I know that?”

His eyebrow twitches down, like he’s tiring of your lack of understanding. “Because I’m in here, Y/n,” he hisses, pointing a finger to his temple. “I’m deep inside you, inside your subconscious. I can access every thought in that pretty little head of yours and you can’t do a single thing about it because you were the one that let me in.”

You balk at the fiery steel that has entered his expression, the molten gold in his iris darkening as a sneer stretches across his face. You swallow away your nerves, though your chest continues to flutter uncertainly. As if Taehyung is the focal point of this plane, which you suppose he is, colours and textures shift around him, blurring into shapeless swirls at the edges of your vision. Even as he sits in front of you in startling clarity, just as malevolent in sweatpants and a tee as he was standing over you in the dark of the tent, you find your eyes unable to move off of him. You clear your throat, tears pricking. “I didn’t know what I was agreeing to,” you defend weakly.

He laughs, one short bark that contains no real humor. “Yes, you did. I said ‘dream of me’ and you agreed. You just thought I was some fake scam artist, didn’t you?” With one swift movement, he stands up, and you falter back when you realise just how tall he is. He steps forward once, twice, three steps and his chest almost touches yours. While the swirling sands in his eyes normally jumped and flickered teasingly, now they churn in tight circles, belying his intent. You’re reminded of a shark circling in bloody water. “Well, Y/n,” Taehyung taunts, “do you believe me now?”

Though you tremble, you force yourself to push your chest forward and your chin up. “I believe you,” you allow, voice wavering only a little bit. “So, what are you?”

His lips tighten, eyes lifting to the ceiling in exasperation. You jump when you feel his hand brush your elbow, clasping your upper arm loosely. “Y/n, little Y/n,” he chastises, “stop asking questions that you already know the answer too. How terribly boring.”

You want to shake your arm out of his grip, but his touch is hot, like the heavy warmth of a fire, and you can’t help but want more of it. Judging by the way his fingertips tease at the sensitive skin of your shoulder, he knows it too. “Fine, you’re a sandman. What the fuck does that even mean?”

He sighs shortly, head tipping back down to catch your gaze. His arm drops, and you tremble at the cold air, feeling oddly put-out. “Sit down,” he commands simply. Without waiting for a response, he turns his back to you and flops his body onto the couch, kicking his feet back up onto the coffee table, eyes lazily following the characters on the muted television.

You bite your tongue, doing as he says. It’s strange; you’re barely aware of your own body in the dream, can barely feel the texture of the couch underneath you, yet every nerve in your body is hyper-fixated on the tingling remaining warmth from his hand on your shoulder. You feel yourself wanting to lean in to him in the hopes that he’ll put his hands on you again. You can’t help but wonder if it feels that electric if he touched you somewhere else.

Fuck. Snap out of it. “I’ve sat down now. Can you actually be serious and answer my questions?”

Like a switch is flipped, his grin drops and his eyebrows flatten. “Fine,” he allows in a chastising tone, “let’s be serious.” You watch in amazement as the scenery around you drops away. Like melting wax, the television, walls, coffee table, everything but the couch the two of you are on morph and fade away. “This is my terrain now,” he states calmly, “I choose what you see, what you experience, what you feel. So if I were you I wouldn’t be so rude to me.”

Your jaw moves for a few moments before you can voice anything. “Why are you doing this?”

His eyes flicker, though the mischievous glint is gone. “I’m a sandman,” he explains simply. “I only exist in this dream realm. I can only interact with things in the dream realm. Out there, in your world, I have no sensation, no feeling. But if I can get a naive little human like you to give me access into your mind, then your dreams are my playground. And I fully intend to play.”

With a dry mouth, you clear your throat. “Fine,” you say, “you can do whatever the fuck you want in my dreams but leave me out of it.”

The smirk returns to his face, lips pulling back to reveal teeth. He runs his tongue over them as he sits forward, placing a hand on your knee, fingers wrapping around. You try not to jerk at the sudden touch, the burst of heat. “No can do, sweet thing. You see, if I did something without you around it wouldn’t exactly be your dream, would it? And besides,” he breaks off, grip tightening around your leg as he leans in to press his cheek against yours, teasingly nipping at the skin of your earlobe before he murmurs, “where’s the fun in that?”

Your bed mocks you. This morning, wanting a clean slate, you had washed all the sheets and now it lies before you perfectly neat and pristine, just begging for you to hop in.

But you refuse. You won’t be falling asleep tonight. If Taehyung thinks he’s in control during your dreams, then fine. You just won’t dream.

“I thought you’d be making the most of your newfound ability to sleep,” Yoongi comments curiously, feet kicking at the edge of the mattress. You knew you wouldn’t be able to resist the exhaustion that pulled at your eyelids without reinforcements, so you had called in your favorite insomniac to keep you company.

Swaying aimlessly back and forth on your desk chair, you shrug. “I haven’t hung out with you in ages, I felt like a good, old-fashioned sleepover.”

He narrows his eyes at you, though it’s not particularly intimidating. “I’ve never once slept over at your house, idiot. What’s the real reason?”

You avoid his gaze, studiously focusing on picking a movie on Netflix. “Fine, then. I wanted the goss on that fair boy. You got his number, right? But you never told me how it went.”

Mission successful. Yoongi lights up, suspicion forgotten. “Hoseok! His name is Hoseok, and he’s amazing. We actually… went out for coffee the other day.”

Your eyebrows lift, shutting down your laptop lid to fully give your attention to the boy across from you. “Like a date?” Yoongi grins and nods enthusiastically. “You casanova, you! What’s he like?”

Yoongi’s eyes flicker strangely in the dim evening glow that peeks through your curtains. “He’s great,” he gushes, “friendly, and bubbly, and has the most beautiful smile. But… actually, I guess you could say there’s something I need to tell you.”

You frown. “What? What’s up?”

He pouts, kicking his heels more insistently against the edge of the mattress. “The date was really nice, and Hoseok is really nice, but I couldn’t stop thinking that… that maybe I just liked him because he was like you.”

Your face freezes in an expression of pure confusion. “Huh? What do you mean?”

Yoongi ducks his head. “I’ve been trying to deny it for years. I figured you saw me as a friend and nothing else, and I thought if maybe I focused more on guys instead of girls I could separate myself enough from the image of you, but clearly that isn’t going so well for me.” He laughs, bitterly, and you’re overcome with the urge to rush forward and hug him. Nevertheless, you stay rooted in your spot.

“Yoongi, what are you saying?”

He shrugs, body hunching over like it always does when he’s shy. “Hoseok is nice, but he’s not you. And I think it’s time that stop lying to myself.” He looks up, then, eyes soft. “I think I’m in love with you, Y/n.”

Your lips are parted, jaw slightly slack in shock. “...okay,” you state eventually. Well, this is one way to stay awake. “So, uh, I don’t- What do we do now?”

Scratching behind his ear nervously, Yoongi bites his lip. “Maybe I… Can I kiss you?” When you don’t respond, he shuffles forward a little on the bed so that his feet rest on the ground. “Just once, to see if you feel anything. And if you don’t, we never have to bring it up again.”

You sigh out a rushing breath. “Okay. Yeah, okay.” Fighting the erratic pounding of your heart, you stand up on shaky legs and sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder and nose to nose.

Now that you’re right in front of him, something foreign rises up in your chest. It feels like he’s the only person in the world, like you can’t look away from the tender look in his eyes. You can practically feel the warmth of his skin through the thin cotton of his shirt. He leans forward, and you reflexively suck in a shallow breath, eyelids fluttering shut.

His lips are featherlight when they first brush against yours. You feel a palm come up to cup your cheek, and his fingers tentatively fiddle with your hair. Like you’re magnetised, you lean in, and that small sign of reciprocation is enough for him.

Yoongi deepens the kiss, mouth slanting to get a better angle as he urgently moves his lips against you, tongue dipping out to swipe at the seam of your lips, encouraging you to open up to him. You gasp when his teeth nip gently, tugging the sensitive skin before letting it go with a kitten lick to soothe the bite marks. You’ve never felt this alive before, and it’s a wonder to you that until now you had never looked at Yoongi this way. Now it almost feels like he’s pure, euphoric oxygen and you’ll die if you break away for a second.

His hand has dipped into your hair, gently pressing the back of your head to hold you against him, and his other arm insistently grips your hip, encouraging you to get even closer. A searing bolt of need rips through you, and you swing a leg up, straddling him. He’s hard beneath you, and the feeling of him makes you groan, gingerly grinding your hips.

His tongue is in your mouth now, flicking against yours and sucking it back into his mouth like he wants to envelop you in his embrace. His fingers tighten in your hair, gripping a handful. You whimper, hips still working against him.

“Yoongi,” you make out in a hushed tone, “that hurts.” You sigh in relief when the sharp tugging on your scalp relaxes, his palm soothing the sting. Relaxing against him, you moan into his mouth when you feel him slip his hand under your shirt and palm at your breast, seeking out an already-stiff nipple, no bra to obstruct him. He rubs it, rolling the peak between two fingers, and you feel wet heat gathering between your legs.

Out of nowhere, he roughly pinches and twists your nipple and your legs jerk in response to the pain, your instincts wanting you to back away from the harsh sensation, but before you can sit up off him he’s yanking on your hair again, twisting your neck back enough that you can feel the muscles twinge and your scalp burn. Your eyes fly open in shock, only for you to freeze.

Taehyung sits beneath you, dressed in the same shirt and basketball shorts that Yoongi was in, though his much broader chest makes the baggy fabric look fitted. He stares up at you with spit-slicked lips and blown pupils, almost completely enveloping the gold of his irises. With a shit-eating grin, he releases your nipple and pats it, chuckling under his breath when you twitch.

“Wha- What did you do with Yoongi?” you demand, as forcefully as you can while your legs are still around him.

He drops his gaze, sliding his hand over to your other breast, the fabric moving over his hand your only warning before he begins to flick your other nipple, every few seconds as you jump and try and twist away. Though he only has one hand in your hair, you feel completely anchored in place, like your arms and legs are too heavy to move even if you tried. “Yoongi is at home, my little human. Haven’t you worked it out yet?”

“You pretended to be him,” you guess, “he probably never came over, then.” He quirks his eyebrows once in affirmation, still teasing roughly at your chest, dragging a fingernail over and over the abused nerves of your nipple, the other one still aching. “But you said you couldn’t feel anything in my world. So what, you’re just doing this to fuck with me?”

A bewildered grin lights up his face. “My god, you’re dense,” he remarks in wonder. “Let me spell it out for you. Yoongi never came over because you never texted him earlier tonight. And you never texted him because you’ve been asleep since you got up onto your bed to put on the washed pillowcases. This is a dream, sweet thing. You’re in my world.”

“But-” You splutter for a few moments, glancing around at your room. Everything seems in perfect order. “This isn’t like the other ones, I… The dreams you create are always messy at the edges like an unfinished painting, but I can see everything fine now. This exactly what my room is like.”

“Convenient, then,” Taehyung teases, “that I can make dreams as realistic or rudimentary as I want.” The levity vanishes from his face, leaving behind a dark grin. “You’re out of your depth, Y/n. Stop assuming things just because you don’t know any better.”

His grip on your hair loosens as you do, realising shaking out of his hold is futile in a plane he completely controls. “Then how am I supposed to tell if something’s a dream or not?”

He leaves your nipple alone, hand dipping to fiddle with a pant hem of your pyjama shorts, calloused fingertips running lightly along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. His smile is brilliant, wider than you’d ever seen on him before. “That’s the beauty of it, little human. You can’t.”

You shiver as his hand disappears below the fabric of your shorts, rising up to brush against the front of your panties, thumbing at your clit through the cotton. You feel the tension leave your body, and though a part of you is terrified by this knowledge, a different side takes over. The side that’s indulging in the warm pleasure unfurling in your stomach as his uncharacteristically gentle touch stimulates you. The side that says, you already know you’re dreaming now. Fuck it.

Taehyung watches in bemusement as you relax above him giving in. Only once you sigh out in pleasure, hand resting on his shoulder for stability, does he remove his thumb from you just enough to grip onto the elastic waistband. He tugs, and you feel the strangest sensation of the fabric dissolving, being pulled off you from the side even though you never hear or feel a tear. By the time his hand emerges from your pant leg, the fabric is whole again, and he bunches it up in his hand, chucking it away from you. With your panties gone, the sewn hem in the crotch of your pyjama shorts drags against your clit, and you heave a shuddering breath, rocking your hips to chase the friction.

“Do you want a hint?”

You blink, staring down at Taehyung in confusion. The golden silk of his hair hangs low over his forehead, but you can’t mistake the glitter of his piercing gaze on you. “What?”

His hand leaves your hair, sliding down your back until it rests on your ass, gripping the flesh and pushing you down onto his crotch. “A hint,” he repeats, “for knowing if this is a dream.”

You stare down at him, eyes lidded. “What?” As you speak, you feel something begin to move beneath you. You frown, looking down, and suck in a horrified breath when you lean back and see his crotch. The tented erection from before is...shifting beneath the fabric of his shorts, creating a rippling effect. You watch it entranced, as one bump slides upwards towards the waistband, prodding at it, before it manages to slip underneath, peeking out to show something that glitters in the dim lighting…

“The real world doesn’t have this,” he reveals, leaning back slightly as a rounded, blunt end of a golden appendage draws out of his shorts, rising in the air between the two of you. It’s smooth, fleshy yet entirely inhuman. He grips your ass tighter and pulls you forward, the tentacle feeling surprisingly cool as it lays down, curling around your thigh. It clashes with the heat from his hands on you, and you feel yourself sighing out, basking in the contrasting sensations.

“Is that...your real form?” you ask tentatively, curiously reaching down to touch it. It’s firm yet moving, much like muscle, and when you run a finger down the tapering length of it, it flicks in the air, seeking more of your touch.

“I suppose,” Taehyung allows, “though when I can become anything I like, a real form doesn’t matter much.” He stares intensely at the tip of the appendage as it winds around, sliding underneath the fabric of your shorts just as his hand did earlier, though this time with your panties gone there’s nothing between him and your core, and you let out a surprised moan when you feel it begin to massage your clit, pressing its way lower to try and get between you and his crotch, seeking your entrance. Your mouth falls open, too shocked to react to anything except the pleasure, and the sandman hums in response. “You see? These things don’t exist in your world. Your world is dull, basic, human. In here, anything is possible. This doesn’t have to be a fight, Y/n. Give in to me.”

You sigh out, your stomach thick with pleasure, and you nod slowly, lifting your hips to leave some room for the golden tentacle, which doesn’t hesitate before pressing deep inside you, more and more of the tentacle slipping out of his trousers and up into your cunt until you feel a pressure deep inside, the tip poking at your cervix.

Your legs are jelly and your fingers are iron tight on his shoulders as you moan, the sound broken up by choked gasps. “So...deep,” you pant out, mind unable to string together anything more than that, but Taehyung doesn’t seem to mind, as his brows are knitted together in pleasure too, huffing out groaned breaths in a beautiful baritone.

“God, it’s been so fucking long, you have no idea,” he curses deep in his throat. He closes his eyes in concentration, and you feel the thick muscle shift inside you, recending from your wet heat like waves in low tide, before slamming back up into you, striking your g-spot with a change in angle. You keen, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder, wishing you were out of the restricting fabric of your shirt and shorts already, wishing you could run your hands over his bare chest and shoulders, hot like a furnace even as his golden member cools you from the inside.

It’s a feeling you’ve never experienced. The cock inside you moves and writhes like it has a mind of its own, but it’s addictive; almost like the deft flicks of a tongue, the tentacle navigates you from the inside out, stimulating parts of you you didn’t even know could feel pleasure. You find yourself mindlessly grinding into it. Since it gets thicker the closer to the base it gets - though you still haven’t seen where that might be with how long it is - you rock yourself against it, your clit receiving delicious stimulation that has you almost drooling.

Taehyung’s tanned skin is glistening with perspiration and the glow of his irises is so dark it’s almost amber below his lids. With his hands gripping your ass and hips tightly, he lifts you up onto your knees again so that he can begin to rut his hips up into you, the tentacle splitting you open with every thrust. You tremble and buckle but you’re somehow kept aloft, top half leaning heavily on his chest as the stretch and the deep warmth of pleasure bring you closer to the edge.

On this angle, your clit no longer grinds against the gleaming gold of his slick-covered cock, but Taehyung’s thumb blissfully finds it and you cry out in relief as he quickly rubs it, speeding up your high. “‘m close,” you moan out deliriously, feeling desperation at your impending orgasm shorten your breath.

“Thank god,” the sandman breathes, his face increasing as he grunts with exertion, “I need to fill this perfect pussy of yours up already.”

Your mouth drops open as the constant stimulation paired with his words pitch you over the edge. Your orgasm takes you by storm, seizing up and shuddering violently on top of him. When you clench around him, Taehyung swears throatily and lowers you down again, both hands firmly planted on your ass as he grinds deeply into your core, reaching his own end.

You’re slowly on the come-down of your powerful orgasm as he begins to spill into you, and you hiss at the sudden warmth filling you up. Streaks and streaks are milked from him, and when you finally get the energy to sit up a little and look down, your eyes widen.

Your stomach is a little rounder than normal, a bulge just below your belly button that you can see as your shirt’s ridden up. And below that, your pyjama shorts, absolutely soaked with cum. Your hands grip his shoulders as you feel him continuing to move inside you as the fabric turns dark with moisture, until you see it flood past, wetting your thighs with deep bronzed gold, rich and gleaming. When he finally twitches and goes still, the thick substance has begun to slide down your knees and stain the bed, an exorbitant amount of it that spills more and more every time you shift.

In wonder, you lower a hand and tentatively swipe your fingers through it, marveling at the way it reflects the light and glosses thickly, dripping down to your wrist. Unable to resist the curiosity, you wrap your lips around the tip of your pointer finger and suck, letting the taste of him fill your mouth. Immediately, you hum as the rich taste of dark chocolate fills your mouth, at odds wth the metallic colour. You raise your gaze to Taehyung, who’s propped back on his elbows, staring up at you with his cock still buried deeply inside. His eyes are dark, pupils blown even wider than before as you systematically lick off each finger, being sure to flick your tongue between them before catching the drip that runs halfway down your forearm, indulging in the deep flavor.

“Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me,” Taehyung swears, groaning when you lean forward to press your mouth to his, sharing his taste between your lips.

You let your tongues lazily dance around each other for a few languid moments before he curses and breaks off.

“I can’t hold it,” he admits, and you look around to see the walls and furniture in your room crystallising and morphing together, losing detail until the colour begins to melt away, the black void slowly creeping inwards. “I don’t want this to end already, fuck.”

You place one last kiss upon his swollen lips. “Don’t worry,” you remark with a playful grin, “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

7K notes · View notes

amjustagirl · 4 years ago

Text

Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven.

Wordcount: 3.6k

Masterlist link here

AO3 Link here

Genre / Pairing: Romance, Akaashi / Reader

Summary:

Loosely based on the anime filme ‘Your Name’, also known as Kimi No Nawa.

Akaashi Keiji catches glimpses of another life in his dreams. He dreams of fields of endless gold, of constellation of stars that light up the night sky. He hears the echo of birdsong in her laughter, her songs to the gods in the wind.

Author’s note: This fic is a little different from my usual work, so I’m a little nervous about publishing it. If you do like it, would love if you leave a comment / reblog / anything!

Pro tip: Italics denote scenes in Akaashi’s dreams / past.

If you’d like to be included in the taglist, do drop me a msg/ask!

He is seventeen again.

Practice is hard especially with his new captaincy, with first years to train and a mountain of paperwork to clear, but even as each jolt of the train home settles exhaustion further into his bones, he’s more concerned at the sustained silence from her. His phone is empty of her text messages - no funny stories, no silly jokes, no pictures of sun drenched flower fields - but he tells himself she’s fine, she’s probably occupied herself with something vaguely illegal that she’ll tell him later about and laugh away his disapproval.

He’s in the middle of dinner when his father turns on the television to watch the news. It’s just background noise, newscasters droning on about which dignitary is visiting Tokyo this week, how the stock markets are doing, when monsoon storms are forecasted to sweep across Japan, but his interest is piqued when the newscasters mention ‘the tragedy of latchkey kids - the death of a schoolgirl in a rural Hokkaido town’.

It can’t be, he thinks, swiveling around in his seat to stare at the screen. It can’t be, he thinks, in frozen shock, as the screen shows a familiar wooden house in flames, broadcast live on national TV.

‘The police are investigating this tragedy as an unsolved murder -’

(It can)

‘The victim was seventeen years old -’

(It is)

‘Calling for any witnesses to step forward -’

(She’s dead)

‘Keiji, what wrong?’ he faintly hears his mother ask, and he looks down. His chopsticks lie slack in his hand, the other hand clenched and trembling so hard he’s knocked his bowl over, rice spilling onto the dinner table.

‘Sorry - I don’t feel so good’, he mutters, stumbling his way into the bathroom, his stomach retching at the horror tearing down his throat like acid. Even as he clutches the cold porcelain with shaking hands to empty his stomach of its contents, his gut burns from the realization that she’s gone - there’s nothing he can do about it.

Wait a minute.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, sprinting to his bedroom to snatch up his omamori, before bursting out of the door, deaf to his parents’ worried shouts. He doesn’t stop running, doesn’t even stop to take a breath until he’s leapt up all twenty six steps to the shrine where he first prayed to the gods to grant his wish for more time, a wish binding their souls together in a fated knot.

(Except that’s not true anymore, because she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead - unless he can use their bind to twist fate and bring her back from the dead)

His hands are numb when he claps them together, his head spinning as he bows, fingers barely able to grasp as he scrawls another prayer on the ema, hanging the wooden plaque on the wishing tree.

‘You’ve already upended my life by tangling it up with hers. Please - please grant my wish and I’ll give up anything, including what’s dearest to me’, he silently pleads, closing his eyes in prayer.

But the gods stay silent. The shrine remains still.

The shrine attendant chases him out when it’s closing time, and he fends off his parents’ concerned looks by feeding them a lie about forgetting to help one of his teammates with homework, shutting himself in the room.

But the problem is he can’t seem to fall asleep, not when the image of a white sheet draped over her cold body is branded into the back of his eyelids. Not when he can still hear the echo of her laughter as she teases him about his old fashioned book recommendations that she still ends up reading curled up under a tree. Not when his soul has traced the constellation on her back, the crescent dimple in her right cheek -

Damn it all - he needs to fall asleep to have any chance of waking up in her body in her yesterday or is it her today - he’s not sure, doesn’t dare look at the clock for fear of chasing sleep further away, why can’t he fall asleep - he’s done this countless times before, waking up in her body in her yesterday while she wakes up in his today which resets when he then wakes up in his own body tomorrow -

Time flutters through his fingers like fallen petals scattering in the wind and he can tell from the growing sliver of light through his curtains that it’s almost daybreak - so he stumbles desperately into the bathroom to break into his mother’s medicine cabinet, swallowing twice the recommended dosage. It’s dangerous he knows, but he can’t bring himself to even think twice about it.

A prayer is still on his lips when his eyes finally drift shut and sleep finally overtakes him.

He cracks his eyes open.

Ah, he’s in her living room. She must have just reached home from school because the irori only emits thin ribbons of smoke, flames licking the kindling in the heath. But that doesn’t explain why he’s lying face down in the dust -

Then a dull pain hits him. Copper pools in his mouth. Hot liquid drips down his forehead.

He curses the gods for their sick sense of humour.

‘What are you doing here, Keiji?’ he hears her whimper. ‘You aren’t supposed to be here, he’s going to end up killing us both.’

‘Let’s not jump ahead of ourselves. Tell me what happened’, he answers, trying his best to inject a commanding tone to cover up the fear seeping into his words.

‘Hana-chan must have told her father I managed to get records of whatever awful shit he’s been doing to her, because he was waiting for me when I came home from school. I refused to give the recordings to him and tried to bite his hand and I guess he lost his temper…’

‘We need to have a conversation about your lack of self-preservation when we get out of this mess’ he points out, terror building up in his throat when he’s suddenly aware of the way his arms are twisted behind his back, cloth rope binding his wrists together in place. But before he can even try to struggle against the binds, he’s pinned in place by a knee on his back.

‘Awake already, little girl? I would’ve thought you would stay asleep a little longer considering how much you bleed from a silly little smack on the head.’ Nakamura chuckles, threading his cold fingers into his hair, and with a swift flick of his wrist, slams his face back against the floor.

Crack.

Akaashi gasps for air, dazed at the pain that blooms across his face.

‘You’re not as pretty as my little Hana-chan, but it would be a pity to smash your face in. So are you going to tell me where you’ve hidden your dirty little recordings, little thief?’ Nakamura coos, and Akaashi can feel the hair at the back of his neck rise in alarm.

‘Don’t give in to him’, she shrieks, her panic echoing in his mind. But Akaashi’s in the driver’s seat this time, and he’ll be damned if he lets her die on his watch - not when he already knows the pain of losing her once before.

Think, Akaashi. You have a brain, think!

‘It’s on my phone in my bedroom’, he mumbles thickly, keeping his voice weak. ‘You can go get it yourself.’

Nakamura relinquishes his grasp on his hair, brushing the dirt from his pants onto him. ‘I’m glad you have some sense at least, little lady. But if I find you’ve been wasting my time, I’ll make sure no one even recognises your face by the time I’m done with you’.

Akaashi waits for his footsteps to fade.

Then he rolls his body across the flow, tipping himself straight into the irori. This probably ranks as one of the most reckless things he’s ever done in his entire life, but it’s not as if he has many options with both his hands and feet bound. It’s also possible he’s been infected by her particular strain of insanity. It’s the only way he can think of to break loose from his bonds, using the flames to singe through the rope binds, but it hurts to place naked flame directly on bare flesh, blisters forming and popping and he bites down on his lip so hard it bleeds because oh gods it hurts, it hurts, it hurts –

Thank the gods it works, he’s able to wriggle free - not a moment too soon because he can hear the door to her bedroom crash open. Between the daze from the concussion and blood loss, he’s not going to be able to outrun Nakamura to get to safety, especially not when he’s in her body, what the hell is he going to do –

‘Store room’, he hears her gasp.

He grits his teeth as he crawls out of the heath, mentally calculating the distance to the back of the kitchen, divided by the blistering pain in his hands and feet.

’Move, Keiji!’ She shrieks, the thud of heavy footfalls resounding through the house ominously.

Adrenaline and terror floods his blood. It’s barely enough to fuel his sprint to the storeroom. He doesn’t dare to look back when Nakamura snarls - ‘what the fuck are you doing, you piece of shit’, only stops to breathe when the lock clicks in place. But he doesn’t get a moment’s reprieve, the door shuddering with the weight of a deranged man’s rage.

‘It would be easy for me to burn the house down with you in it. No one would question any foul play if a wooden house goes up in flames. Or would you prefer it if I wait for little Toya-chan to get home and bash his little head in? It’s your choice, bitch.’

‘What should we do?’ he asks her desperately.

‘You’re going to think I’m crazy... ’

‘Let’s not waste time on foregone conclusions, thanks.’

‘Right. Remember how I told you fire is life?’

It’s a testament to how well he knows her that he knows exactly what she means. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’ He breathes, horrified.

‘Do you have any other ideas?’ she retorts.

But she’s right, they’re essentially stranded on a flaming shipwreck, there’s nowhere else for them to run. Cursing the gods over and over again for their twisted sense of humour, Akaashi scrabbles around the store room, grabbing the ingredients to light this powder keg of an escape plan.

‘Ready?’

‘Ready when you are.’

‘Okay’ he says, taking a deep breath in a futile attempt to keep his anxiety at bay. ‘Okay’ he repeats, loud enough for Nakamura to hear him through the door. ‘I’ll unlock the door if you leave Toya alone’.

‘Smart girl.’ He can hear the menacing chill in the older man’s voice, but there’s no time to second guess his decision as he unlocks the door. He lets Nakamura make the first move, lets him yank the door open, and with the benefit of years of setting experience (thank you, Bokuto-san), he flicks his wrist to send a perfect arc of an entire bottle’s worth of liquid petrol splattering against Nakamura’s front.

‘Stand back or I’ll set you on fire’ he threatens, holding her ridiculous pink lighter like a weapon as Nakamura splutters in shock.

But the man only shakes off his surprise with a menacing laugh, slowly straightening into his full height, leaning against the door. ‘You don’t have it in you, little girl, you’re just like my Hana-chan. She used to put up a fight, always trying to scratch my eyes out but now she’s learnt that little girls should be good and docile - ‘

He can feel the brewing firestorm of rage from her. It’s not unwarranted, not when he’s seen through her eyes the abuse Hana’s suffered at his hands and in a spurt of impulsivity that shocks even himself, he surges forward to grab the man’s shirt, the naked flame from the lighter mere millimeters away from his face. ‘How dare you, disgusting pig - she’s your flesh and blood’, he spits.

Nakamura grins, deranged. ‘Exactly. She’s mine to use, and you’re going to regret ever trying to get in my way.’ He slams his head against Akaashi’s already broken nose (or rather - her nose) and - oh gods pain bursts across his face and he trips, falling onto his back. Nakamura doesn’t waste any time, climbing on top of him, fingers digging into his throat.

‘Let go of me’, he rasps, his vision starting to blur. Nakamura only tightens his grip, nails digging into the tender flesh of his neck.

But even with air being choked out of his lungs, her refrain ‘fire is life’ smolders in his mind. The gods must feel some pity for him today because Nakamura is so intent on going for his throat that he’s left his hands unchecked, so he closes his eyes in prayer and desperation, twisting his face as far away from his target as possible and presses his thumb on the lever on her lighter -

Everything goes up in flames.

Nakamura screams, stumbling away, and the sound should spark a sense of cruel satisfaction if blinding pain exploding in his face weren’t a more immediate concern. There’s fire everywhere, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts - but he already knows what hell feels like, this is nothing compared to the nightmare of her dying, so he gathers the last of his strength to fight against the ash suffocating the oxygen from his lungs, stumbles out of the backdoor to drop and roll in the mud until the flames on his clothes recede.

He’s alive. She’ll survive.

But it's at a high cost - the white hot pain of blistering burns all over his - well, her body slamming into him like a freight train when adrenaline recedes. Gasping in pain, he welcomes the gathering darkness at the edges of his vision. He tries not to think of the survival rate of burn victims, nor the risk of infection should medical treatment not be administered soon enough - this is as far as he can possibly go. He lies on his back, completely depleted.

The grass rustles. The wind blows.

Toya stands over him, eyes wide. ‘Nee-chan, what’s going on?’

Oh. Thank the gods.

‘Toya. You have to run and get help, ok?’ he manages to rasp before darkness finally devours him, swallows him whole.

He opens his eyes and finds himself back in the forest shrine.

It takes him a split second to gather his bearings before he leaps to his feet, his lungs still burning from the taint of smoke, his mouth still acrid with the bitter taste of ash, and he doesn’t know if either of them are alive or heaven forbid - if he failed and she’s dead –

‘Keiji, you idiot!’ He hears her shriek as he’s tackled from behind, crashing face first into the forest floor.

He’ll thank the gods again and again for the rest of his life because -she’s alive, she’s alive, she’s alive -

She throws herself into his lap, crying as she beats her fists against his chest. ‘You fool! You dummy! You scold me for being reckless, but what if you died when your soul was stuck in my body –‘

‘You’re alive’, he breathes in disbelief, cupping her face in his shaking hands, letting the warmth from her cheeks bleed into his skin.

She flushes, burying her head into the crook of his neck. ‘You’re not getting out of being scolded but yes, I think so’, she mumbles, her words muffled.

His heart grows cold. ‘What do you mean you think so?’

‘Where we are isn’t real - is it?’

She motions for him to be silent, to listen. There's the faint beeping of a hospital monitor, barely discernible over the whispering of leaves. ‘I think we’re in my mind for now. Or my consciousness, I’m not sure. I woke up to a bright light that beckoned me to follow it, but I saw you lying here and wanted to wait for you.’

Fear grips his heart, the spectre of black smoke and white sheets haunting him anew. ‘Don’t follow it’, he demands, latching on to her shoulders. ‘I’m not losing you again.’

‘I’m not going anywhere’, she promises with a smile, the sight quenching the fear in his heart. ‘I’m here, Keiji. I’m here. You said you wouldn’t let anything happen on your watch, remember?’

‘That was before you got yourself killed when I wasn’t looking’, he retorts dryly, though he’s unable to fully smother the smile blooming on his face.

‘It wasn’t my fault!’

‘I told you not to get caught in the first place!’

‘Yeah - but you came for me nonetheless’, she says, eyes sparkling. ‘You came for me, like Perseus saving Andromeda from her shackles, snatching her from the very jaws of the sea monster.’

He chuckles, amused that she remembers the stories he tells her. ‘Nakamura was definitely uglier than a sea monster, so I’m sure that’s an accurate comparison. ’

‘Stupid!’ she laughs, raising her hand to playfully smack him again when he catches her hand in his. He steals a moment to marvel at the constellations in her eyes, wondering if the stars in the sky are jealous of her light. He wants to bask in the spotlight of her warmth and songs and laughter forever and oh gods -

He’s in love with her.

The realisation strikes him like a hammer blow to the chest.

Has it already been a year that he’s spent mapping out the infinite breadth and depth of her soul? A year that he’s spent watching her wield her kindness like a sword and a shield. A year that fate has spent trying to smother her fearlessness to no avail - she still burns like an undying flame in the night sky. A year of unwritten poetry buried in spring flowers, stanzas of the wind echoing her songs to the gods. A year's worth of lessons in patience and exuberance and laughter, reminding him that life is a miracle to be treasured and not to be dismissed as a mere series of goals.

It is only now that he understands why his heart crumbled into dust, why his soul tore itself apart when he found out that she died - because he loves her, this silly scrap of a girl.

Her eyes widen as he tugs her forward to lean his forehead against hers. For once she’s at a loss for words.

I love you – he wants to whisper against the rosebud of her lips, wants to shout it loud enough for the whole forest – nay, for every speck of stardust in the galaxy to hear. His mouth moves to form the words, but suddenly his tongue grows thick, his mouth goes dry.

His heart stutters to a painful stop.

He can’t remember her name anymore.

He tries to say her name again, tries to spell out the syllables with his tongue but it’s no use, his mind remains stubbornly blank. It can’t be. He must have said her name a thousand times in this lifetime, recited each syllable like a sacred verse.

How could he have forgotten her name?

‘What’s wrong?’ She pulls away, noticing the horror taut on his face.

Beep.

He looks down at his hands. Flesh and bone start to fade to dust.

‘Keiji’, she calls, and he can hear the Kodama in the trees echo his name. Keiji, they call. Keiji, she calls again.

Beep.

‘I’m starting to forget you’, he whispers, heart breaking anew as despair dawns in her eyes.

‘No - ’ she cries, desperation in her voice, repeating his name again and again - Keiji, Keiji, Keiji and he wants to respond with her name, but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t -.

Beep.

His memories of her are golden hued and bathed in starlight, but slowly they all wash away into shades of grey. He tries his best to grasp onto them, but it’s hopeless -like trying to capture the sea with his bare hands.

Beep.

He thinks of her, dancing in grassy meadows, with moonbeams as her lone light.

Beep.

He thinks of her, singing to the gods in the shadow of the forest shrine.

Beep.

He thinks of her, brimming with laughter and joy and kindness and love - and gods -

Beep.

How is it even be possible to forget the birdsong in her laughter, the blossoms in her cheeks -

Beep.

‘Keiji! ’ She reaches desperately for him, tears spilling from her eyes.

Beep.

His time runs out. His soul starts to fade into the night.

Beep.

Her eyes shine bright, the constellations liquid silver in her eyes.

‘I’ll find you, Akaashi Keiji - even if it takes me a hundred lifetimes, even if I have to wait a thousand years. So you better be ready for me when I find you, because - because I love you - I love you, you fool.’

Beep.

It’s the last memory he forgets of her, her vow losing its light in the darkness of his mind.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He wakes up with a gasp.

He is twenty five again, lying on the forest floor with a halo of fireflies dancing above his head.

It’s been almost a whole decade since he was seventeen but finally - he remembers her.

Taglist

@animeflower26 @forgetou @kageyamakock @underrated-fruit-tarts-official @bongofrito

55 notes · View notes

samingtonwilson · 5 years ago

Text

A Bid on Bucky

Summary: You spend thousands of dollars at a bachelor auction for Bucky when you could’ve had him for free this entire time.

Pairing: bucky x reader

a/n: this fic is damning evidence that idiots in love is my favorite genre, your honor. i’ve more likely than not used this gif before but idc because im lov it

Tony Stark is a humanitarian— a fact you have neither forgotten, nor will he allow you to forget.

Oftentimes, he’ll remind you verbally and, other times, a visual reminder will be posted on the team’s social media accounts. The pictures of him at the elephant sanctuary he helped found in Thailand are your personal favorites.

If news of his latest cause is not filling the pages of The Times or showing up on CNN’s special segment of Billionaires Who Care with Christiane Amanpour, it’s being distributed via monthly text reminder of reasons to leave Tony’s special coffee alone— last month you were told, “His donations allowed the doors of Planned Parenthood to remain open in developing nations such as Burkina Faso, and all he asks for in return is that his teammates do not finish his goddamn coffee.”

Of course, because you all live for him sniffing out your mugs at morning meetings to discover the culprit, his reminders only lead to greater coffee theft as it, in turn, increases the redness in his face when he finds the morally corrupt heathenous criminal— who is usually Clint.

In true Tony Stark fashion, though, his favorite way to remind you all, and the rest of the world, is through a gala. A gala where champagne flows like water, money is no object, extravagance is to be expected, and, as a member of the team, attendance is mandatory.

At first, you hated the damn things. It’s not like you’ve ever cared about the private island one guest owns which another guest is so obviously jealous of, or if the deal to buy a chunk of land on the light side of the moon before that hippie Elon Musk usurps it all has successfully closed.

But now? Now that you’ve learned how to direct the money those snots brag ostentatiously about into causes you truly care for with a couple little sly techniques, you fucking love the things.

You and Natasha have a game, actually. Whose Shameless and Absolutely Disingenuous Flirting Will Lead to More Money Donated to (Insert Tony’s Latest Cause Here)?

Natasha is the current titleholder as Smelly Von Oil Tycoon’s wife shooed you away before you could close the million dollar deal and Cowboy Hat McFast Food Franchise would have given up his entire company if Natasha kept batting her eyelashes at him. But in the end, just as every other time the two of you have played, you both felt like winners because the almost obscene amount of money was helping fund housing for Rohingya refugees living in Bangladesh. The competitive edge to it is just for entertainment.

This time, though, seeing as this event is an auction and you are in no mood to flirt with red-faced old men with paper-thin skin, you have taken to auctioneering with Sam.

Motioning to a projected photograph of a luxurious Paris hotel room with a view of the Eiffel Tower in your best Vanna White impression, you grin as brightly as you can. “And the last item Sam and I will be auctioning off together is a two-night stay at Plaza Athénée in Paris. First class airfare for two is included, as are two tickets to the Louvre. You’ve been to Paris, haven’t you, Sam?”

“Why, yes, baby girl, I have,” he replies with a grin as broad as yours, the spotlight and his natural charm causing his deep brown eyes to sparkle like diamonds. You think for a second that you can actually hear Bucky scoffing in the audience. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but I will say that it is called the City of Love for a reason.”

“Of course, our unlucky-in-love Sam shared those kisses only with every bit of bread and cheese he came across but you can share it all with someone special.” At that, Sam elbows you gently in the ribs with a fond roll of his eyes. “We’re going to start the bidding at twenty-thousand dollars.”

Immediately, paddles shoot up and Sam begins calling out higher bids and paddle numbers while you lean your hip against the podium and take a long sip of your champagne which has since, unfortunately, gone lukewarm and flat. Your face pinches and you scan the crowd for a wandering waiter.

Before you can, though, your head tilts just as you spot Bucky, a large button reading “BACHELOR #4” pinned to the lapel of his tux.

He’s laughing. Not openly and loudly like he usually does when the two of you are alone, but his shoulders are shaking and he’s grinning so the skin beside his eyes wrinkles. You think fleetingly that his cheeks might even be dusted in pink as he ducks his head.

The sight makes you smile, too, and you set your champagne aside. It’s secondary now.

“Congratulations to Mr. Baldwin and all the other winners of these wonderful vacations,” Sam says once the winner has been announced and ushered backstage. “Sadly, our time is up for the night.”

You nod and pick up your microphone again. “Yes, but you will be seeing Sam again tonight as a part of the Bachelor Auction. Give the crowd a spin, Sam, show them what they could be going on a date with.”

Sam unbuttons his wine-colored tuxedo and spins slowly, a slight swing in his hips. He’s met with several wolf-whistles, a rose thrown on stage, and a brief retching noise courtesy of Clint, to which Sam replies with a wink and a scoffed, “The glory is too much to handle for the insecure and faint of heart, ain’t it, Barton? We got a doctor on retainer in case you pass out.”

Sam holds out his elbow to help you down the stairs and you gratefully loop your arm through his, your other hand hoisting the hem of your dress above your ankles.

You sigh after meeting one of the bid winners, smile falling from your lips the moment you turn away. “I should’ve bid on that Marrakech trip.”

Sam cocks an eyebrow. He doesn’t seem to mind one bit that you have yet to release him and simply follows you as you head to the bar. “Enjoy it last time?”

“You mean when I was there to locate stolen Chitauri weapons?” you let out a bark of sarcastic laughter. “Steve didn’t even let me glance in the relative direction of a souq when that was the only reason I volunteered.”

“So that’s a no?”

You take the fresh flute of champagne a waiter offers and nod your thanks. “That’s a hell fucking no.” A pathetic pout and, “I deserve to love Morocco.”

“Makin’ that face at me won’t help your cause. Makin’ that face at Pervert Santa Claus over there,” he points to a man, rosy-cheeked with a white beard and wandering eyes, who you recognize as the winner of the trip. “That’ll get you what you want.”

You make a face, tongue sticking out as you gag, and set your glass atop the bar. “First of all, even the prospect of sex with me will make his heart give out.”

Sam laughs into his tumbler of whiskey and rolls his eyes.

You grimace openly when the eyes of an elderly man— his arm around a woman who looks to be barely in her twenties— linger a bit too long and smile when he visibly shrinks. “And B., I only flirt with them to get donations. I’d sooner never leave this tower again than get with one of these ‘I only donate money to boost my public image’ types.”

He hums and a slow, lazy smile curves his lips. He nods his head in the direction of something behind you. “Barnes’ got a different ideology.”

As casually as you can, you turn your body to lean your elbows atop the bar and tilt your head ever so slightly to glance where Bucky is standing.

Standing and laughing. How is he still laughing?

Arching an eyebrow at the woman he speaks to, you lift your glass to your lips. “Doesn’t look like she fits the bill.”

“You’re joking,” Sam laughs, shaking his head as he sets his elbows on the bar as well. His shoulder brushes yours and, despite the itchy fabric of his tuxedo, you don’t mind. “That’s Maris Scheufele.”

Long, chestnut brown hair swept over one shoulder to keep her back bare, her gown is silky, liquid gold. Dripping in wealth.

You purse your lips and turn back to Sam. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Chopard heiress.”

“Chopard like—” with wide eyes, you point at the sapphire and diamond earrings borrowed from Pepper on your ears and the matching ring on your left index finger. “Like Cannes Film Festival Chopard? Like that Chopard?”

“Yeah, that Chopard.” He has to stop from laughing at the look you offer him. He thinks he might see your skin turn green in a matter of minutes. “She’s more loaded than Cigarette-Breath Du Rideshare-App-CEO from the elephant benefit.”

You manage a small smile and a quick roll of your eyes, only to have them once again land on Bucky and the Chopard heiress. Maris.

You aren’t jealous— per se. Jealousy is an ugly emotion, after all. Childish, and inconsiderate, and rooted in insecurity.

Sure, she’s cuddled up next to someone you’re in the midst of denying feelings for out of fear and the prospect of being undeserving. And, sure, she’s covered in diamonds and you’re usually covered in dried blood, dust, and dirt from HYDRA facilities. But you aren’t jealous.

You know you’ve wasted your time, his efforts, and your emotions being anything but happy with Bucky. Chances lost never come around again, right? So you’ve made your peace with it. You’ve had to make your peace with it.

With how much you’ve messed up, how many chances you’ve lost. With how perfect she is and how perfect he looks laughing with her.

Perfect.

So perfect that your teeth grit and the grip you have on your champagne flute tightens.

“He’s gonna bring in the big bucks.”

You snort. “I thought he had different ideologies.”

“He does. But you know she ain’t gonna let him get auctioned off to anyone else.” A corner of Sam's lips turn up in disgust as he, too, stares at them with little stealth. Nick Fury would be ashamed in you both. “Lookin’ at him like he’s a piece of jerky.”

“Jerky?”

“Old, dried up beef.” He then hums in agreement with his own words. “Nasty, hundred-year old beef.”

With a laugh— a laugh that has the cadence of a sob— you drop your head into your hands.

You meet Bucky’s eyes when you pick your head up, his head tilted in silent question. Perhaps at your wet, ironic smile, perhaps at the pull of your eyebrows.

You shake your head in response and it’s when he almost immediately returns to laughing at whatever Maris Scheufele is saying that you straighten with a frown.

What the hell kind of name is that anyway? Maris.

“What the hell—” you pause to take the glass from Sam’s hands and polish off his whiskey. “What the hell is so funny?”

The glass is snatched back. “Not you finishing my drink, that’s for sure.”

Shrugging as you continue to stare at Bucky and Maris, you mumble, “Put the next one on my tab.”

Sam snorts as he asks for another drink, facing you as he adds, “S’an open bar, you cheap ass.”

Once you’ve been able to secure a fresh, much stronger drink for yourself, you loop your arm through Sam’s again and set your chin on his shoulder. Your noses nearly bump when he looks at you and you both laugh softly. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

“You did.” He yelps and laughs when you pinch his side, lightly knocking his head against yours. Gentle eyes meet yours as he says, “Not tryna be harsh, but you had him and you let him go.”

“I know.”

“He spent weeks moping about it, you spent weeks moping about it.”

“I know.”

“It was miserable comforting both you idiots.”

“Yeah, you’re the real victim here.”

Despite your dry tone, he nods in agreement. “You could tell him right now. Get all this bullshit over with and out in the open.”

Just the idea makes your heart rate spike. “He might reject me. Exact revenge for what I did.”

“Barnes is a lotta things. Greasy, geriatric, testy, fuckin’ annoying as shit—” Sam hisses when you pinch him again, “— but vindictive ain’t one of ‘em.”

Before Sam can convince you to move even an inch from the part of the bar you’ve dubbed yours for the night, warm fingers wrap around your elbow and tap your arm five times in quick succession. A secret identification code.

A secret identification code that makes you smile despite yourself. You lift your head from Sam’s shoulder and hope you don’t look too eager as Bucky leans back against the bar, facing you entirely. “Look who it is.”

He waves vibranium fingers and grins, a bit of that thirties charm you’d heard so much about shining in his blue eyes as he looks at you. “Hi, sweetheart. Wilson,” he adds with a playfully curt nod, chuckling when Sam returns it. “You were great up there. Prettiest MC I’ve ever seen. Almost had me buyin’ the trip to Morocco to make up for the shit Steve put you through.”

You feel Sam shaking in silent laughter and sigh when you hear his whispered, “For fuck’s sake.”

“Only ‘almost’?” you ask with a pout Bucky grins at and wide eyes that have him swallowing over a dry throat. “What does a girl have to do for you to actually bid?”

He shakes his head after a moment of simply staring, chuckling. “These poor bastards don’t stand a chance against you, do they? They’d probably sign their entire companies over to you and not think twice about it.”

“Just doing my part to save the Amazon,” you shrug. “Like you’re doing with the Bachelor Auction.”

“‘Bout that,” he begins as he straightens his jacket and tie— all black. You trace his jaw, sharp and angular, when he glances away for just a second. “How long d’you think it’ll take Stark to put me out of my misery when nobody bids on me?”

“I wouldn’t be so negative. I know of one person who’ll definitely bid on you.”

His lips quirk up on one end, eyes dreamy as his head tilts in indulgence. “Yeah? Who’s that?”

“Your heiress.”

Bucky doesn’t seem to notice Sam jabbing his elbow into your ribs and cocks an eyebrow in confusion. “My what?”

Though you weren’t planning on replying, Tony’s voice over the speakers doesn’t allow Bucky to question you further and you heave a sigh of relief. He calls all the bachelors to the stage and Sam pulls his arm from yours, bumping your shoulders together before he departs just as Tony begins telling a story of his first bachelor auction and how much he went for.

Bucky remains still, however. Leant against the bar, eyes on you.

“Bachelor number 4,” you say, pointing at the button he wears. You smile softly. “You’re needed on stage.”

That seems to jolt him out of whatever stupor he was lost in and he stands straight. He takes a step forward and pauses, so close you can feel the heat radiating from him and smell his subtle cologne. “Bid on me if no one else does.”

“I won’t need to.”

Natasha finds you just as the bidding begins and orders herself a drink. She doesn’t say much, simply looking at you as you stare at Bucky standing next to Steve and Sam, and nods to herself. She remains a quiet, comfortable presence until Steve is brought to centerstage and nearly every paddle in the room shoots up. “You tell him yet?”

“Nope.”

“Thought so.” She nods her head to her left and you follow the movement to where Maris sits, back straight as she, too, looks at Bucky— but she’s grinning, paddle poised to be raised. “Scheufele being a cock block?”

You’re visibly surprised when you turn back to Natasha, her ginger hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. “How did you— How the hell could you possibly know that?”

With the crooked curve of blood red lips, she smiles. “I’m just that good. And Sam texted me about it ten minutes ago.”

She continues to watch you as the excited winner of a date with Steve rises from his seat. “He’s next.”

“I know that.”

“You gonna bid on him?”

You snort, though unconvincingly, and shake your head. “And go against an heiress? I’ll save myself the embarrassment.”

“Stark pays us buckets,” she tells you with a frown, picking a stray piece of lint off her silver dress. “You could afford to go against an heiress.”

Bucky’s eyes are narrowed as he looks over the crowd of people seated at their tables. The light bounces off diamonds and sequins, gold and shiny leather shoes. It stings his eyes, it makes him scowl.

“And next, ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes on Bachelor Number 4,” Tony announces, turning a bit to glance at Bucky as he trudges over, not bothering to look a bit more appealing. “James Buchanan Barnes, truly the human equivalent of a cat.”

Bucky openly glares at Tony now.

“James enjoys silence, brooding, eating like a fuckin’ horse, and telling the same story more than once,” Tony continues, ignoring the roll of Bucky’s eyes. “Cute, cuddly, and a little dangerous, we’ll start the bidding at one-thousand.”

Three paddles shoot up. One from Maris, and two toward the center of the room. Your shoulders tense, Bucky’s relax.

“Okay, do I see eleven hundred?”

Two paddles remain lifted until Maris shouts from her seat in a lilting voice, “Three thousand.”

Your jaw clenches, Bucky grins.

Tony set his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Alright, three thousand going once—”

“Thirty-one hundred!”

It feels as if the entire room turns in their seats to gape at you, but you try to pay them no mind. You, wearing your jealousy and determination like armor, stand at the bar with an empty glass in your hand, waiting for Tony to call your bid. But before he can—

“Thirty-two!”

Your eyebrows furrow as you look at Maris. “Thirty-three!”

“Four thousand!” She’s smiling. A perfectly manicured eyebrow is raised in challenge.

You see red. “Forty-three hundred.”

“Six thousand!”

“Sixty-five hundred!”

“Seventy-five hundred!”

When you look at the stage in a bit of a panic, Tony grins expectantly at you and Bucky— Well, you don’t think Bucky’s ever looked so shocked in all the time you’ve known him. But when his eyes go from Maris to meet yours, you find yourself yelling, “Ten thousand!”

The room goes silent, or maybe you’ve just tuned it all out, and Tony is shaking his head in amusement. “Ten thousand going once.”

You turn toward Maris as she sits and tosses her paddle onto the table. “Ten thousand going twice.”

You face the stage again. Bucky’s expression is unreadable. “Sold to our beautiful teammate in blue.”

A bright spotlight shines on you and you fight the urge to run from the room, from the Tower, from New York, and give your best smile.

—

It’s four in the morning, all the lights on the residential floors of the Tower have been turned off, and the world is peaceful. But your mind continues to race.

You sit at the kitchen counter, container of Sam’s leftover cheesecake from your lunch out with him open before you. You twirl a fork between your fingers and stare at nothing in particular, your soft breaths the only sound in the room.

You’d changed out of your dress hours ago, washed off your makeup and taken the pins out of your hair. You could barely meet the eyes of your reflection out of fear of judgement and you didn’t ask FRIDAY to dim the lights or lock your door just in case she laughed at you.

Tony had yet to talk to you about paying the ten grand you bid on Bucky and you left the ballroom before anyone could so much as snicker. You knew you couldn’t hide forever, you just needed the night to come to terms with your own stupidity.

Yet as you prop your chin upon your palm and sigh, you think you might need a day or two, too.

Quiet steps down the hall are made purposefully louder as they grow closer so as to not startle you, the lights dim as bulbs flicker on to about ten-percent of their full brightness. You fear your heartbeat might be audible to everyone in a ten mile radius at the sight of his blue eyes, messy brown hair, and wrinkled black t-shirt, and take a deep breath through parted lips in a futile attempt to calm it down.

He offers you a small smile and walks to the fridge. “You want some water?”

You shake your head— even though he can’t see you. “No, I’m fine.”

There’s a beat of silence and you take a breath to steady yourself. “Buck, I think we should talk.”

He takes out a glass bottle of water for himself and shuts the fridge, leaning against the sink. He’s still smiling. “I know.”

“I—”

“I’m not gonna hold you to this thing,” he interjects, rolling the bottle between his hands. He watches as you sit up straight and set your fork down. “I know you made the bid just to donate the money and save me from that married heiress—”

“Married?” you repeat to yourself.

“And you’ve made it clear you just want to be friends,” he continues, undeterred. “So it’s okay. Hell, I’ll pay for half of it so I’ll feel like I’ve actually done somethin’ to save the sea turtles.”

“The Amazon.”

“Right, the Amazon,” he amends with a quiet laugh. He takes a sip of the water and sets the botte aside. “So whaddya say, huh? We’ll go half and half, help this cause out a little, and you don’t have to go on a date with me.”

“Bucky, you don’t understand—”

“No, no, I get it,” he says, walking around the narrow strip of granite separating you to sit on the stool beside yours. Features soft but a little sad, he shrugs as warmth rolls off him in waves. “I told you to bid on me in case no one else did and you saw how much more Steve went for. You tried to raise the bids on me and got stuck since those billionaires didn’t want to shell out more than ten grand on the Winter Soldier. I get it!”

“That’s not why I did it, Bucky. Not at all.”

He lowers his eyes to his hands, staring at mismatched palms, and says nothing.

“Honestly, I—” You stop yourself when it feels as if your heart’s lodged itself in your throat and struggle to swallow over it. “When I saw that Chopard heiress talking to you and laughing with you, and when she bid on you and almost won that date, I— Something happened.”

He looks at you now, eyebrows pulled together. “What happened?”

“I— I don’t know. I guess I was a little jealous,” you say with a laugh only to shake your head. There’s a subtle sting behind your eyes, at the tip of your nose, and you pray to every deity you can think of to stop any tears. “No, I was very, very jealous. You two looked so happy and perfect and I wanted to scream, and cry, and— Fuck, all I could think about is how much time, and energy, and emotion I’ve wasted pushing you away so neither one of us ends up heartbroken when I already am.”

You sigh, unable to meet his gaze as he gapes at you, his mouth hanging open as you laugh mirthlessly. “It probably seems so stupid to you and I know you’ve moved on, but, holy hell, I wish you still had some kind of crush on me because I’m dying here, Buck. I mean I just spent ten thousand dollars to make you go on a date with me.”

“You did,” he agrees. He’s smiling when you manage to look at him, “You spent ten thousand dollars on me when you could’ve just had me for free this entire time.”

He grasps your chin between his flesh index finger and thumb and jostles you a little, gaze so adoring. “And what punk ass told you I moved on from you? Huh? That same goof who said it’s just a crush?”

He leans forward and pauses just before his lips meet yours, as if waiting for you to pull away only for you to close the distance first.

What starts off as just a light brush of your lips against his quickly turns into a deep, hungry kiss that quiets your mind and forces your heart into overdrive. The warmth of it reaches your toes and every hair follicle, especially as both his hands cup your face while your fingers tangle through his hair, the rasp of his stubbly beard against your soft, sensitive skin stealing your breath even more.

You pull away first and your voice is small, a bit hoarse as you ask, “So you still like me?”

He sets his forehead against yours and his lips pull into a smile. “I’d say it’s a li’l more than that, sweetheart.”

It’s hours later when the sun is up, the cheesecake slice is long forgotten, and Bucky’s pulled you onto his stool to straddle his lap, your lips swollen and a little painful, that you groan in embarrassment.

He immediately leans away from your neck and looks up at you in concern, lips full and cherry red. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I have to pay Tony ten thousand dollars.”

Chuckling, he rolls his eyes and presses a kiss to your chin. “I’ll pay it.”

“Then I’ll owe you ten thousand dollars.” You withhold a moan when he nips at a part of your neck that has your hips rolling into his, the hitching of his breath felt more than heard. “That— that just transfers the problem.”

You feel him smile, arm tightening around you. “I think I know of a way you can pay me back.”

“Sounds like you just discovered the world’s oldest profession.”

A punishing nip under your jaw and you gasp as he laughs. “I’m still all for going half and half to save the sea turtles.”

“The Amazon.”

He sighs and leans back. “Fuckin’ Christ. Someone needs to save the fuckin’ turtles already, then.”

#i wish i could show y'all the dress i imagine her wearing but alas #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader fluff #bucky barnes x reader angst #well. mild angst #VERY mild

4K notes · View notes

purplesauris · 4 years ago

Text

The Way the Pendulum Swings

Yes, I am back again with more writing, no, i cannot control myself. My fantastic friend @frostedbasilisk and I got talking, and I was inspired by Buffskier. (yes, i will continue using the name. Look at their beautiful rendition of Jaskier from a scene of the fic here!

Read on AO3 here!

“I think we need help.” Geralt says, leaning over and offering a hand to hoist Jaskier up. His doublet is now covered in dirt on the back and Jaskier’s pride is wounded, but Jaskier grins sheepishly all the same.

“I told you, I’m uselessly lead footed.” Jaskier dusts himself off as best he can and fixes his hair, turning so that Geralt can dust him off the rest of the way. “If you can’t teach me dear, who possibly could?”

“Vesemir trained me.” He points out, and Jaskier raises both eyebrows in shock, tilting his head and hmmming.

“You want to go up north, so that Vesemir can train me?”

“It’s only a few weeks early.” Jaskier pins him with a look that could wither the largest tree, and Geralt has to fight to keep from withering too. Jaskier’s expression lightens quickly, eyes softening, and he goes up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to the tip of Geralt’s nose.

“Fine. But if he can’t train me, I suppose it’s a lost cause, hmm? Then my big brute of a witcher will have to protect me.” Jaskier’s voice is fond, and though the word should sting, he wields it like such a compliment that Geralt feels himself relaxing. Jaskier likes his brutishness, and has said so many times. “Shall we set out in the morning then?”

“Mmm.”

-*-

Their trip up through the mountain is much more pleasant this time- the breeze is just barely beginning to hold the frigid notes of winter, and animals are plentiful along the path. They can take their time, too, in no rush to beat the snows or be the last ones there, so Jaskier can truly admire their surroundings. He spends just as much time singing as he usually does, but now it’s waxing poetics about the way the grass sways in the wind and the mountain air plays with flower petals. It’s meaningless and frilly, but Geralt likes to hear Jaskier like this- wondering at the world around him and seeing the beauty in everything. Not that he’ll tell him such, though if he hums along when Jaskier’s a few steps ahead, no one can blame him.

Geralt has to end up climbing the side of the keep and slipping over when they get up to the massive gates. Vesemir isn’t expecting anyone for at least another month, so the gates are firmly shut and Geralt has to open it for them. Jaskier leads Roach inside and meets Geralt at the stables, helping in taking off all the packs and brushing her down. He leaves that mostly to Geralt in actuality, and feeds Roach a couple of apples from their pack as a treat.

“You’ll make her fat.” Geralt scolds, but Jaskier just laughs and kisses her soft nose.

“She works too hard not to get an apple from me.” Roach butts her head against Jaskier’s chest in agreement, and he looks at Geralt to say see? Geralt shakes his head, but he spends an extra bit of time brushing her down and getting her comfortable. Jaskier murmurs quietly to her, telling her what a good horse she is for putting up with Geralt for so long and smiling when he hears Geralt scoff quietly.

“Geralt, Jaskier.” Jaskier jumps at the sudden arrival of a new voice, and Geralt merely glances over at his adopted father. “You’re early.”

“Geralt’s idea, I’m afraid.” Vesemir chuckles, as if that he already knew that well enough. “He says, and I quote, that I am “woefully unprepared to fight off even the weakest of foes”, and thus, my only hope is you.”

“That’s all he said?” Jaskier grins at Vesemir, snickering when Geralt grumbles and stoops to grab their bags from the hay. “Well, I have to agree. I suppose I could put you through accelerated training.”

“Then consider me your dedicated pupil.” Jaskier bows low at the waist, blue eyes bright when he straightens up. Vesemir smiles at that, a fleeting glimpse under the usual stern exterior, and Jaskier takes it as a win.

No one expected Jaskier to take to training quite the way that he did. Much like a fish to water, actually. Jaskier still woke early to tend to the livestock, as had been his job the last three winters he’d managed to come up to Kaer Morhen, and still managed to make enough food to feed the witchers and leave them wanting for nothing. But when he wasn’t embroiled in other chores, he was outside, under the watchful eyes of Vesemir. Vesemir had sent Geralt off to tend to the monsters in the forests while they trained, and when Jaskier had asked why, Vesemir had just said that Geralt was a mother hen.

They’d started off with basic fighting, and Jaskier’s progress went significantly faster than it ever had with Geralt. He seemed a natural at it; graceful and light on his feet in a way that many witchers struggled with even today, body already strong from years on the Path. Vesemir wasn’t sure where the problem was in teaching Jaskier- he was attentive and driven to continue until Vesemir had to tell him to stop. By the end of Jaskier’s first month, Vesemir watched and paced the length of the wall as Jaskier hopped and danced around the huge pendulum swinging in the wind. The first time Jaskier had hauled himself up onto the poletops Geralt had nearly called the whole thing off, protests on his lips. He’d remembered his own training as a child, much younger than Jaskier, and had decided to trust him, and trust in Vesemir.

Jaskier thought that the pendulum was fun. Geralt had never thought balancing on the tops of poles and dodging a large, spiky pendulum was fun, but Jaskier laughed and jested with Vesemir the whole time, catching himself when he stumbled and swearing like Lambert when a spike slammed sideways into his thigh. After the pendulums, Jaskier would be sent to run the walls in true witcher school fashion, and by the time dinner came around Jaskier was all but dead on his feet. Still, he got up day after day, boasting of the newest bruises that had formed in the night as if they were a badge of valor.

“You hide it.” Jaskier stumbles atop the poles, righting his footing as Vesemir lets out a careful- and watches him a bit closer.

“Hide what, dear teacher of mine?” Vesemir raps a wooden sword against one of the poles, making it shake under foot, but Jaskier merely hops to another pole and brandishes his sword.

“Your fighting prowess.” Jaskier stops then, dropping gracefully into a balanced crouch so he can hear Vesemir over the roaring of the wind. Vesemir allows him a moment to talk, since he started it, and watches the way Jaskier adjusts to keep the wind from blowing him off the poles. “You were already trained, weren’t you?”

“I’m a noble, Vesemir. There isn’t much that I wasn’t trained in. My father thought it important that I learn, in the worry I be called to war.”

“You’re a noble.” Vesemir points out in refute to that, and Jaskier laughs. No noble has ever been called to war anymore than they’ve been called to shovel pig shit. “It’s served you well now, though.”

“I suppose it has.” Jaskier agrees, standing once again. Vesemir uses a weak blast of aard to get the pendulum going again, and Jaskier twirls around the obstacle, feet hardly touching one pole before he vaults for the next.

“When the other boys get here, let’s put that to the test.” Jaskier doesn't say anything, but he’s grinning, and he pushes himself just a bit harder.

-*-

“Since when the fuck have you been first?” Geralt grunts as Lambert claps him on the back, nudging the younger man with his shoulder. “No Jaskier this year?”

“He’s here.” Geralt turns back to the dummy he’s restuffing, pointedly not looking toward Jaskier on the far side of the grounds. “With Vesemir.”

“What, talking about boring old history in the library again?”

Geralt smirks at that, tilting his head back toward the pendulums and turning to catch Lambert’s reaction. Lambert looks over, eyes widening, and he breathes out a holy shit. “You let Vesemir sink his claws in?”

“He asked.”

“He asked? Bullshit.” Lambert goes jogging over, and after a minute Geralt follows, sure that trouble is brewing. Lambert gets to Vesemir first, and the old witcher doesn’t even bother to look at the newest arrival.

“He’s training.” Is all he says, as if that’s ever been enough to settle Lambert.

“Like hell he is, Jaskier, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Exactly what Vesemir said!” The bard calls back, swaying between not one, but two pendulums now. Vesemir had added the second only upon Jaskier’s insistence. Geralt can smell the worry emanating off of Lambert, and he reaches out to grab at the man’s shoulder but finds him already moving. He reaches a hand, trying to catch Jaskier by the ankle and pull him down, but Jaskier hops away with ease and gives him a dirty look. Lambert grabs for him again, but again Jaskier skips away, glancing down and waiting for his next move. The pendulums move with almost the same sway, and Jaskier doesn’t even have to look to anticipate their moves. “Helping?”

“No, you little shit. You’re on the edge of a cliff and I’m not going to be the one cleaning your carcass up. Get down.”

“Make me.” Lambert growls, lunging and following Jaskier along the wall as Jaskier dodges and leaps away just shy of Lambert’s reach. Somewhere in the time of them having come over to witness Lambert chasing after Jaskier like a kitten with a toy Eskel has arrived, and he slings an arm over Geralt’s shoulder as he approaches.

“He’s better than you were.” Eskel remarks, watching curiously.

“Shut up.” He’s done remarkably well though, Geralt has to admit. Just seeing that Jaskier is able to dodge Lambert has his heart settling a bit. He can at least be trusted to run if danger shows up. Geralt’s heart doesn’t get a chance to rest much as Lambert finally catches Jaskier’s ankle, yanking him forward. Jaskier’s leg goes out from under him, and Geralt watches in slow motion as Jaskier tips backwards, out toward open air. Vesemir leaps forward, reaching, but Jaskier goes plunging over the edge, and Geralt’s heart stops completely.

“FUCK. FUCK, I killed the bard-” Lambert goes to hoist himself up so he can peer over, but stops himself short when he hears something. A pained grunt, and a swear colorful enough to curdle milk.

“No, you didn’t, but I’d appreciate it you didn’t attempt to do so again.�� Jaskier’s voice comes from the other side of the wall at the same time that he swings himself up and rests on one knee. His arms are shaking and Geralt can smell blood- he’s pulling Jaskier down and hugging him tight before anyone else can move. “Geralt, I’m fine.”

His voice is muffled against Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt shudders before pulling back to look for the blood. Jaskier’s palm is torn up by the rough grit of the wood, and Geralt counts at least six splinters that will have to be pulled out. He’s alive though, and that’s enough for him at the moment. “Still like the pendulums?”

“What’s not to like, love?” His tone is light, but his scent is bitter with fear and his voice shakes a little at the end. Geralt presses his lips together, trying not to frown and failing to do so. Jaskier does laugh then, quietly, and he tugs his hand from Geralt’s to turn to Lambert. He holds his bloody palm out, raising a brow. “Kiss it better?”

“Kiss my ass.” Lambert bites out, scowling and leading the bard inside to clean out his hand. Eskel eyes the pendulums still swinging in the wind, and looks toward Geralt.

“Once, for old times sake?” Geralt shakes his head, but joins Eskel all the same to duck and weave around the pendulums and each other. Vesemir corrects their form, though he hardly needs to, and Geralt only gets down once the pendulums settle and it’s near impossible to move around them. He hops down, landing lightly, and hears soft clapping. Jaskier’s one hand is wrapped tight in a bandage, but he seems put back together again, and Lambert is hanging a step behind his shoulder.

“Now imagine how much better I’d be with witcher reflexes. No one would ever catch me!” Jaskier casts a sly glance toward Lambert, lips tugging up into a smile. “This one almost didn’t. Beginner’s luck.”

“Who’re you calling a beginner?”

“Not used to sweeping men off their feet, hmm?” Lambert’s cheeks go pink as he scoffs, waving a hand. He opens his mouth to say something, but Vesemir interrupts, nodding his head.

“Heal quickly. We’re going to test your training.” Geralt frowns, wondering how much he could have actually done in a month, but Jaskier’s eyes are eager.

“Yes sir.”

-*-

“We’re sparring today. Each day, one of you will fight him, to see how he reacts.” Jaskier is standing next to Vesemir as he announces the plan, excitement written all over his face. “Lambert will go first.”

“Really? You want to start with me?”

“Scared? I promise I’ll go easy.” Jaskier quips, rolling his sleeves up and taking a couple steps into the large sparring circle they've marked in the dirt. Lambert growls softly and strips out of his armor, leaving it in the dirt.

“Don’t bother, this’ll be over before you know it.” Jaskier walks in a slow circle, watching Lambert and humming softly.

“Are you sure?”

“False bravado makes you look like an ass.” Jaskier nods his head as if he agrees, rolling his shoulders and matching Lambert’s pace.

They spiral in the ring, slowly coming closer. It seems like neither of them want to strike first, until Jaskier steps forward and swings. The blow is weak, shaky, and Lambert bats his hand away easily. He punches the bard with a swift hit to his stomach, scoffing. Jaskier oofs, bending over, and Lambert comes in closer, aiming another hit meant to incapacitate him. Jaskier’s gone and behind Lambert before the man finishes his swing, bouncing light on his toes. Lambert whirls, using the momentum to punch forward, but Jaskier slips past him, slamming a fist into the underside of the man’s upper arm and dancing away. Lambert grunts, fingers tingling unpleasantly, and advances forward. Geralt watches in fascination as they play cat and mouse, Lambert chasing and chasing as Jaskier whirls and skips away, staying just out of reach. Lambert is faster, manages to keep up easily, but the only blows he manages to land are glancing and Jaskier seems to handle the pain with ease.

“He’s fast.” Eskel murmurs, eyes flitting between the two opponents and lingering longer on Jaskier. Lambert snarls, red faced after another blow hits dead air, and his pupils contract as he watches, waiting. Jaskier stops too, panting and using the moment to catch his breath. Geralt sees the moment that Lambert decides what he’s going to do- his heel digs into the dirt and he launches forward, roaring and tackling Jaskier. The hold is one he doesn’t think that Jaskier will get out of, especially not with an enraged Lambert, but Jaskier grabs onto the back of his shirt and brings his leg up, knee slamming into Lambert’s side twice in quick succession. Lambert’s rib snaps with a dull crack on the second hit, and he howls as the two go rolling in the dirt. A broken rib has never stopped him before, never stopped any of them, but he’s distracted and Jaskier uses the momentum of their roll to fling himself up and off. He scrambles from his knees to his feet, arms coming up and taking the brunt of the blow Lambert aimed for his head. Geralt can see the purple bruises already forming along Jaskier’s arms.

“We should stop this.” Geralt breathes, knowing that if they don’t, Lambert is going to do something he’ll regret later. Still, Jaskier hasn’t left the ring and neither of them have yielded. Lambert’s eyes have gone wild, and Geralt’s heart picks up at the sight. Even he will admit he doesn’t want to go up against Lambert like this unless he absolutely has to, and he’s even more impressed and slightly aroused that Jaskier is holding his own. Lambert gets in close and delivers a vicious right hook, and Jaskier ducks down into a low crouch. Geralt’s eyes track the movement, and he sees Jaskier’s thighs flex and his head tuck to the side as he springs up from his crouch, ramming his shoulder up into Lambert’s tender ribs. Lambert goes stumbling back, hissing, and Jaskier follows him, using one hand on the witcher’s chest to shove an already wobbling Lambert from the ring.

“Match.” Vesemir says, glancing down at his son who is currently laying in the dirt, hand pressed to his side as he pants. Jaskier pads over and crouches next to him, tilting his head and probing at his side. Lambert smacks his hands away, and Jaskier grimaces.

“Sorry Lambert. Did it break fully?”

“Just a fracture. Only thing broken is my pride.”

“I tried to warn you.” Jaskier teases, pulling a vial from his pocket and handing it over. “Thought you’d need this.”

“Cocky son of a bitch-” Lambert takes the Swallow and downs it in one go, laying still so the potion can do its work. Lambert lays his head back in the dirt again, and Jaskier settles by his side to wait. “Thanks.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier says in return, grinning when Lambert shoves him.

“I can’t wait to see Eskel beat your ass.”

Jaskier looks up at the aforementioned witcher, still smiling. “I can’t wait either.”

-*-

Eskel refuses to fight him until his bruises are healed, citing unfair advantages if his opponent is wounded already. No one begrudges him this, and Jaskier takes the time to train a bit more in swordplay. They meet back in the ring a week after Lambert’s fight, Jaskier bouncing on his heels and grinning all the while. Eskel is the mirror opposite; he stands calmly on the other side of the ring, watching with amusement as Jaskier looks at Vesemir to signal the start of their fight. Vesemir waves them both into the ring, nodding. “Begin.”

Just as before, they begin circling, slowly moving toward one another. This time, Jaskier doesn’t hesitate. He goes on the offensive immediately, throwing quick jabs that hit with loud thuds against Eskel’s forearms. He absorbs the blows and continues his slow pacing, letting Jaskier come to him. It’s smart, after having seen the way that Jaskier was content to let his partner slip into a rage before doing any substantial damage. Eskel hardly gives anything back, but he’s wearing Jaskier out and he knows it. Jaskier backs off when he can’t break through Eskel’s guard, panting and hands trembling lightly. His knuckles are already bruised horribly, and Geralt frowns. Jaskier has wasted all his energy trying to break through Eskel’s guard- Eskel only has to deliver a single blow to Jaskier’s abdomen to send him flying, and he skids along the ground, stopping just inside the circle. Jaskier curls into a ball, wheezing, and Geralt strains to make sure that he didn’t hear a rib snap or something pop.

“Get up, bard.” Eskel’s voice is soft, and he allows Jaskier room, time to get up. Jaskier rises to his knees, gasping, and then he stumbles to his feet, raising his hands and swaying. “Yield?”

Jaskier shakes his head and Eskel sighs, padding forward. He doesn’t want to knock Jaskier out or blow him from the ring, but Jaskier is stubborn, dodging to the side when Eskel tries to push him out of the ring. Eskel follows after him, patiently corralling him to the other side of the ring. Jaskier is still stumbling, blinking rapidly as if the sun bothers him, and Eskel seems to take pity on him. He sweeps a leg out, intending to take him out once and for all, but Jaskier leaps up and over. Eskel grabs at him, knowing where he’ll land, but Jaskier is waiting for it, and he grabs Eskel's hand. He spins on his heel, dragging Eskel’s arm with him and pivoting when Eskel tries to break his hold. Jaskier presses a thumb viciously into the meat of Eskel’s thumb, making the bone grind as he finally gets Eskel’s arm behind him and wrenches upwards.

Eskel is the one to gasp in pain now, and Jaskier uses his leverage to press him to his knees in the dirt, bending over until Eskel’s face is nearly on the ground and his shoulder shrieks in protest. Geralt feels his blood heat at the sight of Jaskier holding a witcher down with a very well done pin, and his nostrils flare when he smells a spike of arousal from Eskel in the ring. That… doesn’t bother him as much as it should. Jaskier’s voice is raspy as he pants raggedly, pupils wide. “Yield.”

Eskel tries to wiggle his way out, but Jaskier pulls his arm a bit tighter, digs his thumb in harder, and Eskel gasps again. “Yield, I yield.”

The words stun Geralt, and he looks at Lambert in astonishment as Jaskier lets Eskel go. “Match.” Vesemir calls, pride warming his words. Jaskier nods, smiling, and then promptly turns, takes a few steps away, and vomits into the grass. Geralt hurries to his side immediately while Lambert goes to help Eskel up, rubbing at Jaskier’s back and murmuring softly. The smell of bile hits his nose, sharp and raw, and he grimaces as Jaskier dry heaves, tears dripping down his cheeks. Geralt looks closely at what Jaskier throws up, looking for any blood, but finds nothing but their breakfast from this morning. Good. Nothing seems to have been damaged internally, at least not that he can tell yet, and Jaskier straightens up slowly, wiping at his mouth and burping.

“Ugh, that’s disgusting.”

“Are you alright?” Jaskier nods, giving Geralt a soft smile. Eskel comes over now, holding out a waterskin and allowing Jaskier to rinse his mouth out. Eskel also urges the bard to drink a bit, and rubs the back of his head sheepishly.

“Didn’t mean to hit you that hard, Jask.”

“No, it was a good swing. Almost had me there for a minute. Am I going to get a medal?”

“For what?” Geralt says, voice tinged with amusement and worry and everything else in between.

“Well, beating two witchers at hand to hand combat, of course.”

“You still have one more to go. Beat the White Wolf, and then we’ll talk.” Lambert peers around Eskel, wrinkling his nose at the smell of vomit and pointedly not looking Jaskier’s way again. Jaskier locks eyes with Geralt, winking, and Geralt regrets agreeing to the sparring now more than ever.

-*-

It takes Jaskier a full week to recover from Eskel's well placed punch, and he spends every minute of it working or training. His stomach recovers fine, much to Eskel's (and Geralt's) relief, and Jaskier seems supremely pleased that he was able to even survive such a hit. The weather has gotten colder now as winter fully grasps the valley, and snow falls lightly as they convene outside for Jaskier’s final test.

“Something different today. Swords.” Vesemir waves toward the wooden training swords and Jaskier grimaces. Lambert though, is grinning. If there’s one thing that Geralt is known for, that Jaskier sings of constantly, it’s his swordsmanship.

“Really? I don’t think-”

“He’s already proven his hand to hand. I want to see his sword skills.” Jaskier doesn't object, taking a sword when Geralt holds it out to him. Geralt looks like he's swallowed something sour as he rolls his wrist and dips into a slight crouched stance. Jaskier mirrors the stance but doesn't seem nearly as comfortable.

"You don't have to." Geralt says softly as they walk a slow circle around each other.

"I do." Jaskier replies, nodding his head. "Let's get this over with, love."

Geralt feels his heart constrict- he doesn't want to risk hurting Jaskier, doesn't think he could stomach it, but Jaskier isn’t going to back down. He starts out easy, blows that Jaskier can parry or block without being terribly inconvenienced. He can imagine the sad, frustrated look on Jaskier’s face when he loses, and Geralt’s heart breaks for him already. Geralt is half in his thoughts when Jaskier swings, blade sailing for his side. He moves to block, but Jaskier’s arm twitches and he moves trajectory, smacking Geralt hard on the arm with the flat of his blade. Geralt’s skin stings, and his eyes narrow minutely. His nostrils flair- he’d expected Jaskier to smell like rotting fruit- anxious and resigned, but he doesn’t. He smells of citrus, sharp and bright. Excited.

Geralt lets himself go a bit harder, moves faster and with more of that impossible dancer's grace. None of the witcher’s fought quite like he did, with spinning, overly dramatic moves that were just as effective in disemboweling someone. He expects Jaskier to fall behind, expects to feel his blade strike some soft part of Jaskier’s body, but Jaskier… doesn’t. He grins, laughs, and moves through Geralt’s moves as if they were his own. He mirrors them as effortlessly as Geralt attempts to hit him, and Geralt isn’t sure what to think of this. Jaskier’s spins and hops around him, drops low into near splits that has Geralt wincing in pain at the thought. No wonder he liked the pendulum- they’re the perfect way to avoid an enemy, and he spent ample time on them.

“Stop dancing with each other and fight!” Lambert calls, and that breaks Jaskier’s concentration. He glances over, away from Geralt, and Geralt lunges forward. His blade is a hair's breadth away from Jaskier’s head, a move that will knock him out if Geralt’s lucky when Jaskier bends backwards. He doesn’t stop just out of reach- he bends fully over, spine creating an elegant arch as his hands plant in the dirt and he flips backwards. The toe of his boot catches Geralt’s wrist, jarring his fingers, and the blade goes flying as Jaskier completes his hand stand and drops, chest to the ground. The world around Geralt tilts sharply as the heel of a boot smashes into the backs of his knees, and he goes down onto his back, wheezing and failing to suck in a breath.

He hears the shuffle of feet in the dirt as Jaskier steps forward, rolling his wrist and twirling the blade the way that Geralt has done a thousand times. He presses the dull wooden tip against the soft skin under Geralt’s jaw and digs in lightly, tipping his chin up. His eyes are dark, dangerous, and Geralt feels heat pool in his stomach. He shouldn’t be getting aroused at this, at being beaten, but Jaskier is spectacular, wreathed in light with snow in his hair and cheeks red from exertion.

“Yield, love?”

“Yield.” Geralt breathes out, raising his hands in a placating gesture. A smirk plays across Jaskier’s lips, and Geralt wants nothing more than to kiss him until neither of them can breathe. Jaskier tosses the sword in the dirt and offers Geralt a hand as he leans up. Geralt thinks for a moment about yanking Jaskier down and pinning him into the dirt, but Jaskier draws in a sharp breath and narrows his eyes.

“Don’t even think about it.” Geralt schools his expression into one of faint annoyance, for having lost of course, and not because he’s predictable enough that Jaskier knows what he was planning. Geralt scoops Jaskier’s discarded blade up as he gets to his feet, and hears Lambert begin to laugh.

“We have got to be the worst witchers- a fuckin bard beat all of us!” Lambert laughs harder, doubling over and slapping his thigh.

“Vesemir must be quite the teacher.” Eskel says in agreement, eyes sparkling with amusement as he nods toward Jaskier. Jaskier reaches to brush some dirt off of his pants, smiling and glancing over at Vesemir. Vesemir nods, sharing a small, private look, and Jaskier straightens up.

“I uh, may have misled you lot about my apparent lack of skills.” That shuts Lambert up, and he stands up, frowning hard. Jaskier laughs nervously, shuffles his feet in the dirt, and hurries to explain. “While I am nowhere near your skills as witchers, I ah, was trained as a child. Extensively, I might add, in the art of war.”

“Ha! So the old man isn’t responsible for that?”

“Well, he certainly helped reawaken old skills.” Geralt stares at Jaskier, confusion on his face and lips pressed together in a tight line.

“But… Every time I tried to-” Jaskier clears his throat, blushing, and takes Geralt’s hand in his.

“Ulterior motives, love.” Lambert scoffs in disgust, Eskel laughing quietly.

-*-

“Show me that move, the one you used to disarm Geralt.” Lambert insists that night while they’re eating dinner, golden-amber eyes shining.

“Inside? Fine.” Jaskier sighs dramatically, standing up from the table and moving a few steps away. He folds himself back, fingers splaying against the stony ground, and lifts himself up onto his hands, tilting his body and lowering himself down until his chest is parallel to the floor. He pauses there a moment, then swings his legs around in a sharp burst of speed, knocking over one of the chairs and grunting at the pain in his shins. He’s folded oddly now, still holding all his weight up and off the ground, and he slowly unfolds himself, shaking out his hands as he hops to his feet. “Good enough?”

“Holy fuck.” Lambert gapes, thoroughly impressed. Geralt doesn’t say anything, but he has to agree with Lambert’s amazement. He hadn’t been able to see the whole move, being the target, but it’s rather impressive, and highlights all of the lovely muscles in Jaskier’s arms. Lambert leans over to whisper at Geralt, eyes tracking Jaskier as he picks up the fallen chair and collapses into it, grinning when Eskel says something to him. “You lucky son of a bitch.”

Geralt feels his chest rumble, and distantly hears himself growl, but his eyes are on Jaskier and the exposed column of his neck. Geralt blinks, shaking his head, and tries his best not to seem like a luststricken fool. Jaskier’s eyes aren’t on Geralt, and he can’t possibly have heard the noise Geralt made, but he tilts his head, the muscles in his neck shifting as he slouches in the chair, legs spreading just a bit. Geralt growls louder at that, and Lambert rolls his eyes, smacking Geralt lightly on the shoulder. Geralt jolts, swallows hard and tears his gaze from Jaskier. “Jask, come here. I want to know how you fought like that.”

Jaskier rises to his feet obediently, plopping back into his old seat near Geralt. “Like what?”

“Like me.” It’s been bugging him since they came inside, and he wants to know. He didn’t do that with Eskel or Lambert- he’d used what advantages he had, but he hadn’t bothered trying to emulate them.

“I watch you. A lot. And… Working on the pendulums, it gave me a better sense of your footwork- the way you move. From there, it was about putting the pieces together to create-”

“A dance.” Geralt’s eyes meet Jaskier’s and Jaskier nods, beaming.

“Just so. I didn’t need to be able to actually best you in combat, I just had to survive long enough to disarm you.”

Lambert looks between them, then glances at Eskel, pretending to throw up and rolling his eyes. Geralt sees him mouth the word ‘saps’ and he reaches out to flick Lambert’s ear. He hisses, swatting Geralt away and glaring. He’s still covering his ear from further onslaught when he looks expectantly at Jaskier, as if to say what about us?

“Hmmm. As for you two, I couldn’t spend nearly as much time watching, so I used what I knew. You, my spitfire, are easy to piss off and keep that way. It makes you easy to read.” Jaskier winks at Lambert even as he scowls, but he won’t argue. It’s pretty accurate and he knows it. Jaskier’s attention turns to Eskel, who’s waiting quietly to hear his weakness. “You, my gentle giant, are harder. You’re much more patient, and I can’t rile you for the life of me. But, I can use that gentleness against you.”

Eskel hums, considering this, but he also finds no fault in Jaskier’s thinking. He didn’t want to hurt Jaskier, especially not in front of Geralt, and that had made him easy prey. “Okay, now I have a question about you.”

“My favorite subject.” Jaskier grins, waving for Eskel to go on.

“How did you become so flexible?”

“Ah, yes, everyone always seems to ask me that.” Jaskier muses, tapping a finger on his chin and smirking when Geralt nudges for him to go on instead of dragging out the silence. “I traveled with a carnival troupe when I graduated from the academy. I played the music to accompany their shows, and learned much from the acrobats in the family. One of them, a very pretty elf, was particularly interested in using it combatively. It’s served me well, thus far.”

“Very well.” Lambert’s grin is saucy, and Eskel groans as Jaskier laughs. Geralt sits there, throat dry and cheeks blazing red. He sees Jaskier glance over out of the corner of his eye, and he tenses up to keep from reacting as Jaskier’s hand slides up his thigh suggestively. Geralt swallows hard, and Jaskier sighs at the same time he begins to draw patterns over the fabric of Geralt’s pants.

“Well, now that I am an honorary witcher through ancient rites, I am going to sleep. No one dare wake me.” Jaskier’s voice is threatening, but he’s smiling and chuckles when Lambert mutters honorary witcher my ass. Jaskier glances over at Geralt, hand falling away as he stands to leave. He stoops to kiss Geralt lightly, humming against his lips. “Coming up soon?”

“Mhm.” Jaskier heads up to bed alone, and Geralt only manages to stay with his brothers for another few minutes before following Jaskier up to bed. Lambert whistles at him as he leaves, and Geralt’s cheeks are red as he climbs the stairs up to their room.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #the witcher #say hello buffskier #jaskier is also acrobatic #bc heehehe...#lambert #eskel #vesemir #geralt of rivia #jaskier

57 notes · View notes

the-wild-wolves-around-you · 4 years ago

Text

Carry Me Home (A Din Djarin/Reader Fic)

Summary: Din and Reader find themselves on a jungle planet hunting a bounty, but nothing goes as planned, and secrets are shared.

***Based off this line from a previous fic in this series: "Then the mysterious bounty hunter told you his name one day when you were trying to hold his femoral artery together with nothing but bacta gel and hope."

No spoilers. Set in Season 1 between Episode 6 (The Prisoner) & Episode 7 (The Reckoning)

Pairings: Din Djarin/Reader; Din Djarin/You

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: Blood, gore, & violence. Brief mentions of past slavery.

A/N: In true Star Wars fashion, I'm just writing shit out of order lol. But the idea for this fic kept bugging me, so i just had to get it out on the page.

You don't need to read the previous fics to understand this one, though (since the others are set in s2.) I have some more ideas for out of order stories, too, so I'll most likely be continuing this series.But let me know if you'd be interested in a fic from Din's POV! I think that could be fun, but if y'all are digging Reader POV, I'll stick to that.

And in case anyone cares, the title is taken from the lyrics of Arcade by Duncan Lawrence, which I was listening to on repeat as I wrote this.

As always, I’ve posted this piece on Ao3, but I’ll paste the text below.

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28763814

I’ll also include the links to the other two fics here:

The Sea Like Glass Ch 1: Here

The Sea Like Glass Ch 2 (includes smut): Here

“Dank farrik!” you hissed as the wire in front of you sparked and sent a jolt of electricity through your already singed fingers. Not for the first time, you wished you could wear your gloves, but some of the pieces that needed repairing were too small to feel through the bulky material, so you could do nothing more than sacrifice your flesh for the cause.

Didn’t make it hurt less, though. You sucked the smarting tips into your mouth, glaring at the trashed circuit board in front of you, but the ruined hardware only crackled in response.

If you were back in Hanger 3-5 in Mos Eisley, you would have probably trashed the whole part and dug through Peli’s stock for a replacement, or gone down to the market and haggled for something newer, but you weren’t on Tatooine. You were smack dab in the middle of a jungle planetoid you couldn’t remember the name of, and it was up to you to get the Razor Crest running again on what you had available.

Which, admittedly, wasn’t a lot.

You sighed as you sat back on your haunches, using the back of your wrist to swipe at the sweat trailing down your temple. The pre-Empire ship towered over you as you dug into her innards, having pried off one of the semi-melted lower side panels to access the appropriate circuits. Your thin tank top was already drenched, and the hair sticking to the back of your neck kept giving you phantom itches. You wanted nothing more than to tie it up completely, but you always felt naked when your nape was exposed. You weren’t necessarily ashamed of the scar there, or the past connected to it, since it wasn’t your fault you were born into shackles, but… still. It was a… personal story to tell, and you weren’t sure you were ready to share it with your new boss.

Well, “new” was relative. You’d been employed on the Razor Crest for several months now, but you didn’t know much more about the Mandalorian than you did when you’d first set foot onto his ship. You knew he was a bounty hunter, from a race of legendary warriors. You knew he had a partially sordid, and dangerous, past if your encounter with Ran and his crew of mercenaries was any indication. You knew the green baby was his ward, or foundling as he called it, and Mando was tasked with returning the little guy to his people. And you knew his Creed forbid him from removing his helmet.

That was about it. The Mandalorian didn’t talk much, but it didn’t particularly bother you. You’d always been a quieter person, and after years of Peli’s constant chattering, you were kind of relieved for the silence.

Most of the time, anyway.

“How’s it looking?”

You gasped in alarm, jolting yourself off balance and falling back onto your ass in the dirt.

“Maker, Mando,” you panted as you craned your neck back to stare up at the bounty hunter. “What have I told you about sneaking up on me when I’m working on electrics?”

The impervious mask of the Mandalorian stared down at you silently, blotting out the sweltering sun and providing you a modicum of relief. A moment passed, then two, and you shifted uneasily under his unblinking gaze.

“I thought you heard me approach,” he said finally, his modulated voice flat and unaffected, but he didn’t move from where he was looming over you.

“Well, I didn’t,” you grumbled as you flopped your head forward and popped your neck, stretching your legs out in the dirt.

The tight leggings you wore ended not too far past your knees, so your shins were streaked with the red soil of this planetoid. The dirt didn’t bother you, but the heat sure did. It was different than Tatooine’s dry desert. This heat was oppressive, stifling, almost cloying, and every time you took a deep breath, a small part of your brain panicked, images of drowning flashing through your mind even though you knew it was irrational. You were just grateful your clothes didn’t look a fraction as hot as the Mandalorian’s all black get-up and what had to be twenty-five kilos of armor.

“So,” the bounty hunter said after a few more moments of silence, interrupted only by the call of exotic birds in the canopy, “how are things looking?”

“Honestly?” you sighed as you pushed yourself off the ground, dusting the red dirt off your hands but not even bothering with your pants. “Not good. The bounty’s guns must have grazed us when we were still outside orbit, and entering the atmosphere certainly didn’t help matters. Some of the side paneling has been melted beyond repair, and a lot of the wiring is fried, too.”

“Can you get it flying?” Mando asked, crossing his arms over his chest and making his silhouette all the more imposing. The sun glinted off his silver beskar, and you squinted in the glare.

“Maybe.” You pursed your lips and averted your gaze, turning back to stare at the charred panels and sparking wires. Sweat trickled down your neck, and you reached back to cup your nape, feeling the bounty hunter’s eyes on you.

“Didn’t know I was paying you for maybes.”

“You’re not paying me at all if you can’t even catch that quarry,” you snorted before your brain could catch up to your mouth.

You froze when the words finally registered, nails digging into the back of your neck. Stupid. Your mouth always did get the better of you. You used to mouth-off to your former owner until he backhanded you into silence, and now you’re starting shit with a bounty hunter you’d seen kill half a dozen men in just as many seconds.

Stupid.

You waited for Mando to say something, staring at the Razor Crest without even seeing it, and even if you didn’t really believe he’d hurt you for a simple off-handed comment, your body didn’t get the message. Muscle memory was a hard thing to forget, and every fiber in you braced for the blow.

The birds chittered in the towering blue-green canopy above your head as sweat poured from every single one of your pores, and you were just about to come out of your skin when the Mandalorian finally spoke.

“Well, to catch the quarry, I need my ship to fly,” he said, and when you chanced a glance over your shoulder, you discovered he’d somehow moved further away from you, like he took several steps back.

Was he… giving you space?

His tone was still flat, but after several months spent in close proximity with the bounty hunter, you were now able to parse out several different minor inflections in his modulated voice. You were by no means an expert, but you knew for a fact he didn’t sound angry in this moment. When he was angry, his voice took on a softer, menacing quality. The few times you’d heard it—thankfully never directed at you—every hair on your body stood on end, and the lizard part of your brain had screamed to run and not stop running until you were in a completely different star system.

This wasn’t anger. This was… something else. You almost wanted to say… amusement, but that would have been crazy.

Still, the tension bled out of your shoulders like sand through a sieve, and you dropped your arms as you turned to face the Mandalorian fully again.

“Alright, this is the best I can do,” you said. “I can get her flying again, I think I can even get her shielded enough to withstand leaving the atmosphere when we’re done here, but it’s gonna take some time.”

“How much time?” he asked.

You glanced over your shoulder again at the damage, did some calculations in your head, and added some padding to give yourself a margin for error. Then you turned back to the bounty hunter.

“At least two days,” you replied, confident in your abilities. “Anything less, and we risk blowing ourselves to the Inner Core and back when I go to start her up.”

“Hmm.” Mando stared at you for a moment and then shifted to gaze into the jungle. “The bounty will most likely be off planet by then.”

“I don’t think so,” you contradicted him, and your heart actually skipped a beat when the T of his visor turned to look at you. There was something nerve-wracking about staring into the dark, reflective glass, but then you noticed your red-streaked appearance, and you cringed self-consciously as you looked away.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Because,” you started, stooping down to pick up the tablet beside your tool bag, “when I first came out here and saw the damage, I was afraid we’d end up in this situation. But then I remembered that the quarry’s ship took more damage than we did in our little space battle. I know for a fact we landed at least one solid hit, I saw it myself.”

“And?”

“Well,” you said as you tapped at the screen, “given the make and model of his vessel, and the location of where we struck the ship, I was able to deduce that we most likely damaged his engines. If his engines are damaged, then there is a maximum distance he could have gone before he would have been forced to land, or even crash landed. With all this information, plus the fact that I knew the general location of where we lost visual of him when we entered the atmosphere, I’ve estimated the quarry can’t be farther than five klicks from our current coordinates. And with his entry trajectory, he’s most likely in this triangulated area three and a half klicks to the west, which should be easily reachable on foot.”

You turned the map on the tablet to face the Mandalorian, and he stepped forward to take the device from you. His gloved fingers brushed across your singed ones, remnant electricity shooting through your veins, and you stifled a flinch as you dropped your arm.

Mando studied the map for a long moment, cocking his head and zooming in to get a better look. You shifted uneasily in the silence, scuffing the tip of your boot into the red soil, but then the bounty hunter finally looked back up at you.

“When did you have time to do this?” he asked, and he actually sounded… impressed. “You were out here for less than ten minutes after we landed.”

“It wasn’t that hard.” You shrugged as your cheeks flushed with heat, but you blamed the sweltering sun overhead and the soup-like air.

“I didn’t realize you were so good with numbers,” he said, his helmet staring directly at you.

“Numbers are easy,” you replied, shrugging again as you raised your hand to chew nervously on your nails, but you stopped yourself when you saw the crimson dirt still caked on your skin. “They don’t lie, once you understand the rules.”

“Did Peli teach you how to do this?” he inquired, and you were surprised by all these questions. Most of the time, the bounty hunter asked you one-or-two-word questions and expected one-or-two-word answers. You couldn’t figure out why this situation was any different, but you found yourself responding anyway.

“Partially,” you explained, and you wondered how you could phrase your answer to be vague but satisfactory. “She… taught me a lot of the specifics for bigger jobs like ships and larger machines, but I’ve always been good at numbers and tinkering.”

That seemed good enough. You didn’t think it was relevant that you first started tinkering because your former owner used to lock you in his shop’s basement with broken droids when you misbehaved, and putting the discarded machines back together kept you from going crazy when your punishments lasted days. You also didn’t think it relevant that when your former owner found out and realized he could profit off your skills, you fine-tuned your abilities to become indispensable. The bastard still hit you occasionally, and his other slaves weren’t treated any better, but you had to admit, him locking you in the basement all those years had saved your life. If you hadn’t cultivated the skills you had, Peli wouldn’t have bought you at auction when the bastard bit the sand, and she wouldn’t have dug out your transmitter chip and effectively freed you the moment you walked into Hanger 3-5. The tiny woman had said she needed an apprentice, not a slave, and so that was what you became. Now, you were a mechanic in your own right, and a damn good one if you did say so yourself. Mando just didn’t need to know how you’d gotten there.

The bounty hunter seemed to think the same thing, too, because he nodded once before he looked back at the tablet.

“This is good work,” he said, and something in your chest preened at his words before you squashed it down. “If these calculations are correct—”

“They are,” you interjected before you could stop yourself.

“Then I think I can set out on foot, find the quarry, and bring him back tomorrow just as you’re finishing the repairs,” Mando went on, and he glanced up at you again. “Does that time frame sound right to you?”

“Maybe.” You shrugged. “Should work for me, but it could take you a little longer. I’m unfamiliar with this terrain, and there are too many other variables, like jungle beasts or indigenous species, for me to be sure.”

“The terrain won’t be a problem,” the Mandalorian said as he handed you the tablet back. “And neither will any beasts or natives.”

You cocked an eyebrow at the bounty hunter but didn’t contradict his confidence. “Alright. Then, yes, I should have the ship up and running by the time you get back. Are you leaving now?”

“Once I grab some supplies,” Mando replied before he paused and seemed to consider you. “Will you be… okay until I return?”

It was a familiar question, albeit still surprising. The Mandalorian was a stoic, usually silent warrior, literally a wall of beskar steel. You’d seen him kill men as easy as breathing, and he threw each bounty into carbonite without an ounce of remorse.

And yet, every time he had to leave the ship alone, he asked you if you would be alright until he got back. The question and concern would have made no sense… if you hadn’t seen the bounty hunter interact with his foundling. He tried to hide it, but he treated the little green baby so gently you knew there had to be a warm, beating heart beneath all that beskar. You just never expected any tenderness to be aimed at you, so it drew you up short every time.

“Yeah.” You smiled. “I’ll be fine. Besides—”

You trailed off as you felt something touch your lower leg, and when you looked down, big brown eyes set in a little green face blinked back up at you. Then little green hands lifted in your direction, and you laughed as you swooped down, picked him up, and set him on your hip.

“Besides,” you continued, still chuckling as you booped the child on the nose and left a smudge of red dirt behind, “I’ll have this little guy to keep me company. Right, kid?”

The baby cooed and reached out, his three tiny fingers settling on the bridge of your nose as he tried to boop you back. When he withdrew his hand, though, his skin was dyed black.

“Huh?” You frowned at the slick ooze on his fingers, your eyes crossing as you tried to bring his hand into focus. “What’s on your hand there, bud?”

“It’s grease,” Mando supplied.

“What?” you asked as you turned your head to the bounty hunter.

“Grease,” he repeated, and he touched the intersection on the glass T of his visor, right over where the bridge of his nose would sit. “You’ve got some just there.”

“Oh.” You blushed, your hand flying up to cover your face. Not only were you covered in dirt and sweat, but grease now, too. Typical. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought you knew,” the Mandalorian said, but there was that faint undercurrent in his voice that you were sure was amusement now. “Don’t you have any rags?”

“I did,” you muttered as you tried to rub at your face with your shoulder, “but I had to throw most of them out after that oil leak we had on the moon we left about a week ago. It’s fine. I’m already a mess anyhow, and I’m just going to get dirtier as I fix up the ship.”

Mando seemed to stare at you intensely for a moment, and you had the feeling he was taking in just how filthy your clothes were. You could read nothing from his body language, though, and since he wasn’t speaking, there was nothing to infer from his voice, either. Embarrassed heat crawled up your neck, and you suddenly felt naked in your tank top and leggings. You shifted the child in your arms a little to bring him more in front of you and block more of you from view, but the effort was useless because Mando was abruptly spinning on heel and marching toward the ship’s ramp.

“I’m going to gather supplies,” he said gruffly over his shoulder. “Don’t let the kid touch any of the wires.”

And then he was gone, his cape flapping behind him as he disappeared into the bowels of the Razor Crest.

“Okay, bye,” you muttered, and you frowned after him before looking down at the kid and lowering your voice. “Your dad’s a little weird, you know that?”

The child blinked up at you and then seemed to nod his head in solemn agreement.

You laughed and kissed the top of his head even though you knew you were toeing a dangerous line here. You knew you were just the ship mechanic, the hired help, but you and the foundling had spent a lot of time together when the Mandalorian was out hunting bounties, and you couldn’t help loving the adorable baby like he was your own. He was mischievous and always looking to put things in his mouth that he shouldn’t, but something about his presence was calming, soothing. Plus, those big brown eyes were to die for. You weren’t even that surprised the kid had managed to wiggle his way under Mando’s beskar. It had only been a few months, but you knew without a shadow of a doubt that if it came down to it, you would give your life to save this child.

Which was wildly inappropriate, but you chose to ignore that fact.

“It’s just gonna be the two of us again for a bit, little man,” you told the foundling, turning back to face the Razor Crest. “But we’re gonna have some fun, yeah? Do you want to help me fix up the ship?”

The child gurgled into your ear and patted your cheek, which you took as an affirmative.

“Alright,” you laughed as you set him on a large root right next to your tool bag. You dug around until you found a tool you would need eventually, and then you handed it to the kid. “Here, hold this until I need it, okay? But don’t put it in your mouth.”

The foundling seemed to pout at that last bit, but he dutifully wrapped his three little fingers around the tool and held it firmly.

“Thank you.” You smiled. Then you turned back to the ship, put your hands on your hips, and furrowed your brow. “Now, where to start?”

You spent the next ten minutes assessing what was completely ruined, what was salvageable, and what you had on hand that wasn’t necessary and could possibly be retrofitted to fix the damage. The skeletal beginnings of a plan were already forming in your mind by the time the Mandalorian was clomping down the ramp again. You set down the tablet you’d been tapping away at and picked up the child once more, and the foundling babbled as he waved around the tool he was still holding.

“Be careful with that,” you chuckled, and you craned your head back to avoid getting smacked in the temple. “I’ll need it soon, so keep holding onto it.”

The child cooed and then shifted to wave the tool at the bounty hunter as he approached.

“Putting the kid to work now?” Mando asked as he stopped a few feet away. The crescent-shaped hilt of his favored Amban rifle jutted out over his left shoulder, and a small bag was slung over his right, probably filled with spare ammo, cuffs for the bounty, and possibly some food. You’d never personally seen the Mandalorian eat, though, and a part of you was convinced he didn’t, even if you rationally knew that wasn’t possible.

“Nah, I’m just teaching him a thing or two,” you said as you settled the foundling more soundly on your hip. “You’re never too young to learn something new, and on the plus side, being my little helper keeps him out of trouble. For the most part, anyway.”

“Thank you for watching him,” the bounty hunter said, tilting his visor down minutely to stare at the child, who grinned a gummy grin and waved the silver tool again. “I know it isn’t exactly what I hired you for—”

“I don’t mind,” you cut him off, and you glanced down to smile at the kid. “He’s pretty good company, and some of Peli’s droids have given me more trouble than he does. It’s really no problem.”

“Well, regardless,” Mando replied as his visor returned to studying you. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” You nodded, flushing again under his scrutiny. Then you cleared your throat and gestured at the bag on his back. “All ready?”

“Yes,” the bounty hunter said. “Days are longer here, but the sun will set eventually, and I want to try and find the quarry before moonrise. If all goes well, I should be back tomorrow before sunset.”

“Good luck, then,” you told him, and you lifted your chin with confidence. “I should have the ship ready when you return.”

“Thank you.” He inclined his helmet.

The baby suddenly burst out babbling something, and you glanced down to see him reaching out with his free hand toward the Mandalorian. His three little fingers made grabby motions, and the bounty hunter sighed.

“Listen to her while I’m gone, okay?” Mando murmured as he stepped closer into your personal bubble and held out his finger for the foundling to latch on to.

The child cooed, swinging the Mandalorian’s finger from side to side, and the breath stilled in your lungs as the bounty hunter’s glove brushed the edge of your mouth. You smelled something like leather and smoke, probably blaster residue, but then Mando was stepping back again, and the baby was forced to drop his finger.

“Keep alert,” he addressed you as he adjusted the pack on his shoulder. “We’re pretty far from any civilization out here, so I don’t think you should encounter anyone, but don’t assume you’re safe. And get inside the ship once the sun sets. The jungle will be more dangerous at night. I’ll have my comlink on me, but it’s affected by proximity, so you most likely won’t be able to contact me until I’m on my way back.”

“Don’t worry, Mando,” you said, and you patted the blaster he’d given you that was almost permanently attached to your hip. “I can defend myself if need be, and I have no desire to be caught outside after dark. We’ll be fine.”

“I know,” he replied, but you weren’t sure if he was trying to convince you or himself. Either way, he seemed to compose himself because he nodded once. “I’ll be back soon.”

“We’ll keep a weather eye on the horizon.” You smiled. “Try not to die of heat stroke.”

“I’ll try my best,” he said dryly, but after one more moment of staring at you and the foundling, he turned on heel and marched off into the jungle without another word. The multi-colored trees swallowed him almost instantly, and suddenly you were alone.

The child cooed sadly as he stared after the Mandalorian, and he turned his big brown eyes on you as if to say, Where’d he go?

“Don’t worry, bud,” you said, turning back to the ship. “He’ll be fine and back before you know it. Now, let’s take a look at those power converters, shall we?”

You set the foundling down beside your tool bag again, but you couldn’t help glancing over your shoulder in the direction the bounty hunter had disappeared in.

He’ll be fine and back before you know it, you repeated silently to yourself.

~~~~~

Two days later, you were starting to doubt the validity of your statements.

The sun had set and risen twice, and there was still no sign of Mando. Now, the celestial orb was steadily making its way across the horizon for the third time, and you sat on the ramp of the ship and glared up at the chattering canopy.

The child was down for a nap in the hammock the Mandalorian had set up in his own bunk, and your eyes burned with a similar exhaustion, but the anxiety slowly mounting in you made it impossible to sleep. The past two days had passed uneventfully. You’d spent every hour of sunlight you had at your disposal patching together the ship, and since days were longer on this planetoid, you estimated you’d spent over seventy-two hours getting the Razor Crest in working order again.

And you’d done it. It wasn’t perfect, but the ship could fly, and you were ninety-eight percent certain it would withstand leaving the atmosphere.

Now, all that was missing was the Mandalorian and his bounty.

“Dank farrik, Mando,” you grumbled under your breath as you dragged your singed, cut-up, and bandaged fingers through your hair. “Where the Maker are you?”

The chittering birds and critters in the underbrush didn’t have an answer for you, and you huffed out an aggravated breath as another bead of sweat dripped into your eyes.

By your estimate, there were about six hours left before the sun set again. Part of you, the illogical, irrational part, wanted to charge into the jungle in search of the Mandalorian. You had a general direction and location he should be in. Maybe you could find him.

But the rational side of your brain thankfully pointed out all the problems with that plan. For one, leaving the ship unattended was dangerous. You hadn’t seen anyone in the past two days, but that didn’t mean you were alone in the jungle, and now that the ship could fly again, someone could potentially walk right in and steal the vessel if you weren’t here to stop them.

Then there was the issue of the foundling. Sometimes, Mando took you and the kid along with him when he was hunting a bounty in a more populated area, but he was always there to protect the two of you if something went wrong. What happened if you brought the child with you into the jungle and you couldn’t protect him? And you couldn’t exactly leave him behind. Someone could steal both the child and the Razor Crest in that scenario.

The most compelling reason to stay with the ship, though, was Mando himself. Before he left, he’d confidently declared that neither the jungle itself nor the beasts or peoples therein would pose any problem for him. If he was wrong, and these things had posed a problem for the bounty hunter, what luck did you have of doing something he could not?

Anddddd that’s where the irrational side of you chimed in again with, Well, if he did run into an issue, he could need your help, so you should go look for him.

It was a vicious cycle, and your head was pounding with how fast it was running in circles.

You groaned as you dropped your face into your hands, digging the heels of your palms into your eye sockets.

“Fine,” you sighed into the darkness. “I’ll give him until morning.”

If the Mandalorian hadn’t returned by then, you’d start up the ship and fly over the area you’d triangulated for him. If you couldn’t find him from the air… well, you’d cross that bridge when you came to it.

~~~~~

You huffed in irritation as you tossed and turned in Mando’s bunk that night. You turned one way, rolled another, but then you found yourself with your nose buried in his pillow, and you instantly flipped back over, face hot with embarrassment even though it was dark and you were practically alone. You weren’t sure if he slept with his helmet on when he was alone in the closed confines of the bunk, but either way, the small space smelled of him intensely. You tried not to put words to his scent, told yourself it was inappropriate and he was your boss, a Mandalorian to boot, and you had no room or right to think of him in any way other than strictly professional… but that apparently didn’t work because you knew he smelled like the cheap soap from the fresher, and the rest was a blend of smoke, leather, and metal, the degrees of which varied by the day and yet was still always uniquely him.

You knew you were playing a losing game even just having these thoughts, but you somehow couldn’t help yourself, couldn’t stop yourself. Ever since Mando stepped between you and Ran’s crew all those months ago, blocking you with his body, a startling, protective rage in every inch of his armored silhouette, this little voice had come to life in the back of your head and wouldn’t shut the kriff up.

What if? the little voice whispered. What if it’s not just you having these thoughts? What if you could have him in more than just your dreams and fantasies in the darkness of this bunk?

Usually, you shoved the voice into the deep, dark recesses of your thoughts and recited equations until it grew quiet. You knew that was nothing but wishful thinking at best and delusion at worst. The Mandalorian was just that: a warrior closed off from the world by a shell of silver beskar. He cared for the foundling, yes, but that was entirely different and bore no correlation to the bounty hunter’s relationship with you. There was little he could possibly want from a former slave turned mechanic, aside from your skills, of course, so you clenched your eyes closed and tried to take shallow breaths through your mouth, but nothing you did could get his scent out of your nose, your memory.

You sighed for the umpteenth time and rolled to face the wall of the bunk.

When the bounty hunter was on the ship, the two of you usually slept in shifts so you could share the bunk, though sometimes the Mandalorian slept upright in the cockpit. It had been his idea originally. You’d been fine with a thin sleeping mat on the floor of the cargo bay, but he’d insisted in his strange, stoic, nonchalant way. So, you shared, and when it was just you and the kid on the ship, the two of you had the run of the place.

The child was currently in the hammock above your head, but you were pretty sure he wasn’t asleep, either. Every so often, he’d gurgle or make some other noise, and more than once you peeked up to find big brown eyes staring down at you in the dimness. You wondered if he could sense your anxiety, and you shifted so you could glare past your feet, out of the bunk, and at the closed ramp door.

You wanted to be angry with Mando, but by the time the sun set a few hours ago, you’d moved past that anger and straight into worry. The bounty hunter had never been gone this long before without contact, and your gut told you something was wrong and wouldn’t let you sleep. You wished you could blame your insomnia completely on your concern, but sadly, that wasn’t the case.

As if on cue, a sudden, piercing shriek echoed through the ship, and all the muscles in your body locked up on reflex.

The child gasped and made a worried noise as he poked his head over the edge of his hammock and stared down at you, and you tried to plaster on a fake, reassuring smile.

“It’s alright,” you murmured, reaching up to gently rock the foundling. “The ship’s closed and locked up. They can’t get us in here.”

The baby made an unconvinced sound, but he settled back into his bed without any further argument.

You sighed as you continued to rock the child, and you did your best not to flinch when another high-pitched screech sounded outside the ship.

You weren’t entirely sure what “they” were, but you knew they were nocturnal and carnivorous. And hungry. The past two mornings, you’d found bloody animal remains torn to bits and strewn along the edges of the clearing the Razor Crest was parked in like gory, crimson confetti. You’d kept the child practically glued to your side during the days because of this, but nothing ever attacked you during the day. They just circled the ship incessantly at night, howling and screeching and keeping you from finding a moment’s peace or rest. They hadn’t outright attacked the ship yet, but you were ready for it, your borrowed blaster a cold and heavy weight tucked under your pillow.

Reaching for it now, you curled your fingers around the familiar hilt and tried to block out the crescendoing, bloodthirsty shrieks of the mysterious jungle beasts.

You didn’t know how or when, but you must have dozed off at some point because all of the sudden, you jolted awake with a panicked gasp.

The bunk was dark and close around you, but since you’d left the door open at your feet, it wasn’t claustrophobic. Your vision was still blurry with sleep, so you swiped at your eyes with the back of your left wrist as you scrambled into a seated position. In your right hand you grasped the blaster, and you pointed it blindly in front of you, toward the rear of the ship.

You couldn’t remember what had woken you up, but it had been something. Your heart pounded a frantic tattoo into the underside of your ribcage, your arm shaking minutely with adrenaline. The ramp was still closed in front of you, so it hadn’t been Mando opening the door and returning. You squinted in the darkness but couldn’t see anything beyond shadows and vague shapes in pale, muted moonlight. It must have still been night, then.

You strained your ears, listening for the howling, but it was quiet. Suspiciously quiet. The jungle beasts usually didn’t go silent until right before dawn, but it was dark enough in the ship that you estimated it was still the middle of the night.

Where had they gone?

Your heart rose up into your throat, sweat beading at every one of your pores, and your mouth was so dry that your throat clicked when you swallowed.

The child made a noise of inquiry above you, barely louder than a breath, but it still made you jump all the same. Your gaze darted upward to find brown eyes staring down at you, but they were wide in an alarmed sort of way. One three-fingered hand poked over the edge of the hammock, making grabby motions at you, and the noise he made this time was more urgent, louder.

Had he heard something, too?

“What is it, little guy?” you whispered, reaching up with your free hand and awkwardly grappling him from his sling-bed.

He tumbled gently into your lap with a soft “oof,” but almost immediately he was standing up, turning around, and frantically patting at your cheek.

“What?” you asked with a frown.

He babbled and continued to tap the side of your face, and his noises grew increasingly distressed until he was grunting with frustration.

Then his tiny palm actually slapped down right across your ear canal so hard that both of your ears rang, and you hissed as you jerked your head back.

“Kriff, what was that fo—” you started to ask, but another hiss cut you off, and this one wasn’t from you.

Your heart stuttered, eyes skipping over the child’s head and out into the cargo bay, and your right hand tightened around the blaster you’d lowered to your side.

But there was nothing there. Nothing moved in the shadowy ship beyond you, and you frowned, thinking your mind was playing tricks on your startled and sleep-addled mind, but then the hiss came again.

And this time, you recognized it.

“Oh, pfassk!” you cursed as you craned around and shoved your hand under the pillow. Your fingers scrambled wildly across the sheet but encountered nothing, and you growled in aggravation, shifting the child off your lap and coming onto your hands and knees. You tossed the pillow over your shoulder in a fit of frustration, and your right hand slapped at the wall around your head until the bunk light came on.

You squinted in the flood of harsh light, the child gurgling behind you, but when your vision cleared, you spotted the thumb-sized comlink off the edge of the cot, shoved up into the far corner of the bunk. You lunged forward and wrapped your fingers around the small device, and the words were falling out of your mouth before you were even sure you had hit the button.

“Mando?” you called into the comlink, cringing when your loud voice echoed back to you in the close confines of the bunk. “Mando, can you hear me?”

Mild static crackled back for a moment as you huddled around the tiny communicator, but then a louder burst of static—the hiss from earlier—exploded to life.

And you were sure you heard Mando’s voice in there.

“Mando!” you shouted as you heart did its best imitation of a speeder, and you cupped both hands around the comlink like that would help him hear you better. “Mando, it’s me! I’m here. Can you hear me?”

Another burst of static. Then…

Mando yelled your name, clear as day, followed by a scream of what sounded like “help” and a chorus of familiar howling, and your stomach bottomed out inside of you.

“Mando!” You were gripping the communicator so hard you were afraid you were going to break it. “Mando, where are you? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t respond. You sat there frozen for a full minute, ears straining to the point of ringing, but only quiet static crackled back at you.

“Dank farrik!” you cursed, punching the side of your fist into the bunk wall.

The child cooed at you, brown eyes big with concern, and he put his tiny hand on your knee as you raked a shaking hand through your hair.

Your chest heaved up and down as you fought for breath, your mind spinning off into a million directions at once.

Mando was in trouble. Mando needed your help. He was fighting jungle beasts, and he was far enough away that you couldn’t hear the shrieking with your own ears, but close enough that he could partially reach you over the comlink. You had to do something. You had to go help him.

But what about the child? What about the ship? You couldn’t take the Razor Crest. It was pitch black outside, and you wouldn’t be able to see Mando below the thick, dark canopy. You had to go on foot.

And you had to take the kid with you.

“Come on,” you said as you tucked the communicator into your pocket, grabbed the foundling and blaster, and scooted to the edge of the bunk. Your boots were on the ground below you, and you shoved your feet in them blindly, tying the laces in three deft movements.

Then you were on your feet, turning on the cargo lights, and jogging the child over to his floating silver carrier. You grabbed the spare remote on top of it, pressing the button and watching the top slide open with a hiss. Then you set the foundling down inside of it, and in the same motion you were tucking the remote into your pocket, turning on heel, and striding for the armory.

Another button press, followed by the hiss of hydraulics, and you were left staring at several walls of guns and weaponry. Some of them you knew. Mando had even taught you how to shoot a few, but those were typically smaller blasters.

And based on those howling screeches, you needed something with more of a kick.

Your eyes skipped over the blaster pistols since you already had the one on your hip, and after a moment’s indecision, your gaze settled on a midsized rifle you’d shot once before. You hadn’t been very good at it, only hit four of the ten targets Mando set out, and you remember it being very heavy.

But it was better than nothing, and you needed something to fight back against the dark jungle.

So, you took the rifle down and looped it around your shoulder, pursing your lips as the strap dug into your skin. You spent a moment checking the power cell and gas canister, and even though both were full, you still stuck a few spares into a belt that you wrapped around your hips. You also added a few grenades to your arsenal, both explosive and ones set to stun, plus a pair of Mando’s vibroknives, as a last defense measure. If you were being honest, if the rifle and grenades failed you, you probably wouldn’t live long enough to use the knives, but it made you feel better to clip their sheaths unto your belt.

The rifle and belt weighed you down with an extra five to six kilos, but you had lugged far heavier burdens through Tatooine’s desert, so you knew you could handle it.

The last two things you grabbed were the head lamp you typically wore when working under or inside ships and the cuff you’d programmed to work the twin lights—along with a variety of other tasks aboard the Razor Crest—resting at each of your temples. The cuff was a haphazard creation of yours made of old leather, metal, and glass, but it worked and was comfortable, which was all that mattered. It also had a small magnetic slot that was specifically meant for the remote of the foundling’s floating carrier, so you fished that out of your pocket and felt it snap into place with a satisfying click.

You were armed and ready now. All you had to do was move.

“Mando,” you said as you stuck the comlink in your ear and synced it to your cuff, which had a built-in frequency booster. You were already moving toward the ramp, tapping at your wrist and listening to the foundling’s carrier humming after you. The rifle felt heavy as you maneuvered it into your slick palms, and your heart hammered a war song in your ears. “Mando, I’m coming for you. Just hold on, okay?”

Static crackled in your ear, and your chest began to heave up and down as adrenaline flooded through you.

“Okay, little man, you’re going to take a nap, alright?” you said as you looked down at the child in his pod, your voice shaking even though you tried to stop it. “And when you wake up, your dad will be back with us.”

He cooed up at you with a fearful expression on his face, but you only spared a moment to press a kiss to his head before you were tapping at your wrist again. The lid of the pod started to hiss close as the ramp of the ship began to clank open, and you slid your finger onto the rifle’s trigger as the door slowly lowered before you.

The ramp finally thudded to the jungle floor, and you took a moment to stare out into the foreboding darkness. The moon was pale and wan in the purple-tinted sky, and all you could see were shadows along the edges of the clearing. Your eyes darted back and forth, every muscle in your body locked and braced for an attack, but nothing happened. Nothing moved save the indigo clouds over head, and the only sound you heard was the muted chirps and hums of insects.

“Okay, come on, quit stalling,” you muttered to yourself even though your heart felt like it was about to roll off your tongue. “Mando doesn’t have time for this.”

At the sound of his name—or at least, the only name you had ever known the bounty hunter by—some of the fear inside you vanished, and you were suddenly jogging down the ramp without further thought. The child’s carrier trailed after you quietly, and you jabbed at your wrist to close and lock up the Razor Crest.

You spared half a glance over your shoulder to make sure the ramp was secured, and then you looked down at your cuff. Mando’s comlink had a built in GPS transmitter, but its range was limited. However, if he was close enough to briefly contact you…

A dot flickered in and out on the grungy screen on your wrist, and you spun in a circle to figure out which direction had the strongest connection. The dot flared brightly when you angled toward the west, and you started running before you even had a plan.

You crashed through the underbrush with the child’s pod hot on your heels, and the thick, humid air sawed in and out of your heaving lungs as you gasped for breath. The lights at your temples provided enough illumination to see several steps ahead of you but not much else, and you tripped and careened over root and vine as you tried not to lose your grip on the rifle.

The good news was the dot on your read-out was no longer flickering, and it was now a strong red point about a kilometer ahead of you.

The bad news?

The jungle was no longer quiet around you.

As your feet pounded into the red soil and carried you forward, static crackled loudly in your ear, and the howling returned, faint at first but growing closer. Shivers wracked your sweat-slicked spine, and every fiber of your being was screaming to run the other way.

But you couldn’t. Because now you could hear Mando grunting and shouting over the comlink, clearer and clearer with each step, and as you vaulted over a protruding root in your path, you distinctly heard a roar of rage directly ahead of you.

You would have shouted his name if there was any breath left in your lungs, but instead you just lowered your head and sprinted as fast as you could.

The howling was nearly deafening now, echoing all around you, seeming to come from every shadow in the jungle. Your ears rang with the soul-piercing shrieks, and the cacophony was so disorienting, you tripped over your own feet and crashed into the dirt.

“Kriff!” you gasped, your knees and palms stinging as you skidded to a halt. Dots danced in front of your eyes as you panted harshly, and the rifle knocked painfully against your sternum.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the child’s pod come to a stop several feet away, the silver orb glinting in the pale moonlight barely filtering through the canopy.

Then you saw something else shift in the shadows behind the floating carrier.

At first, you thought it was your swimming vision, but then the weak lights of your headlamp reflected off several glinting eyes, and the breath stalled in your lungs.

A guttural, wet growl echoed out of the bushes beyond the foundling’s pod, and in the next instant the beast was lunging forward, vaulting over the carrier in one bound.

You yelped as you scrambled backward, fumbling for the rifle’s trigger, and you got the barrel up just in time to block a bifurcated jaw of gnashing fangs. The beast let out a piercing shriek as it snapped at your face, and the familiar sound nearly popped your eardrum at this proximity, but the pain barely even registered as you wedged your legs up under the creature’s chest and heaved it off you.

The beast let out a high-pitched yip as it smacked into a tree trunk, but you didn’t give it the chance to regain its feet. In one swift movement, you brought the rifle up, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

The blaster must have been set on full-auto because a continuous stream of energy screamed out of the weapon, and the barrel jerked upward with the recoil. Bolts of energy shredded through the vines and branches overhead, and some kind of bat-bird creature screeched as it dove out of the canopy and swooped over you. It thankfully wasn’t trying to attack, merely flee, and the avian-beast cawed angrily as it disappeared into the jungle.

“P-Pfassk,” you panted, your voice as jittery as your racing pulse. Still, you scrambled to your feet, with the smoking rifle held tight in your shaking grasp, and you stared wide-eyed at the corpse of the beast that had attacked you.

The thing was almost two meters long, and six disjointed looking limbs jutted out from underneath it. Your would-be-killer looked vaguely canine yet also insect-like, with its long snout and what looked like scaled plates along its spine. The combination made your stomach churn. The blaster had carved smoldering holes into most of the creature’s flesh, but the uncharred remains were blackish-purple, mottled with spots of blue and green that matched the jungle’s underbrush. The beast was entirely hairless and slick-looking like an oil spill, and its bifurcated maw hung open to reveal rows of rotted black fangs. Two pairs of pale white eyes stared blindly up at the dark sky, and purplish blood seeped out around the carcass to stain the jungle floor.

Bile rose in your throat, but before you could even process your fear, terror, and revulsion, a very human sounding scream echoed through the dark night, and you whipped your head in the direction it had come from.

“Mando,” you breathed, and you spared the dead beast one last glance before you took off running again, every sense on high alert.

You didn’t dare blink as you crashed through the underbrush, and you pushed your aching limbs as fast as they would go. The din of snarling and howling was so loud now it was rattling your teeth, and all of the sudden you were stumbling out of the thick tree line and into a small clearing.

A clearing riddled with bodies, both living and dead.

Your brain stuttered as it tried to assess the scene before you. The canopy overhead was broken in a perfect circle, so the moonlight here was strong and bright after the deep shadows of the jungle, and it illuminated everything perfectly. The Mandalorian stood in the center of the carnage, half collapsed against a rotten log twice as tall as he was. Carcasses of the canine-like beasts were piled up in mounds around the clearing, some shot but some charred into blackened skeletons, and the stench of burnt flesh invaded your nose and sat heavy on the back of your tongue.

For every dead beast, though, there were two more still snarling, and boy, were they pissed.

The pack of creatures prowled in a semi-circle before the bounty hunter, all their attention centered on him, and they growled and snapped their bifurcated jaws in his direction. They didn’t seem to want to attack him head on, and a moment later you saw why.

One of the beasts must have reached its breaking point, because with the same piercing shriek that had kept you up the past two nights, it lunged for the Mandalorian, the moonlight glinting off the armored plates along its spine.

The poor bastard never made it.

While the creature was still in mid-air, Mando jerked his wrist up, and a blast of flames roared out of his vambrace. The beast screeched as it was swallowed by the inferno, and its charred corpse crashed to the ground at Mando’s feet a moment later. The remainder of the pack snarled in fury as they paced in front of the bounty hunter, but you felt your throat tighten with fear.

The flamethrower was obviously a great weapon at repelling these creatures, but judging by the radius on that last spurt of fire, you estimated Mando had enough fuel for one, maybe two more attacks.

And there were dozens of the beasts left.

What were you going to do?

You heaved for breath as your eyes darted around the clearing, trying to look for a solution, but you knew the answer was obvious: you were going to have to fight.

You blindly tapped at your wrist, and a moment later the child’s carrier rose up above your head and nestled against the lowest branch of the tree you were standing under. You didn’t know if the beasts could climb, but the pod was made of a strong, reinforced metal, so as long as the creatures didn’t notice the kid, he should be fine.

The same couldn’t be said for you.

Maker, you were going to regret this, weren’t you?

You didn’t give yourself the chance to change your mind.

“Hey!” you shouted as you stepped further into the clearing, one of your hands dropping to the belt on your waist.

The chorus of snarls and growls tapered off for a moment as the pack whipped around in unison to face you, and the saliva evaporated in your mouth as you stared at the dozens of glowing white eyes.

At the sound of your voice, you could see Mando jerk upright in your peripherals, but you didn’t dare tear your eyes off the pack as they started to stalk toward you. Sweat dripped down your face and trickled along your spine as you palmed a cold, heavy orb in your right hand, and you watched the distance between you and the creatures shrink bit by bit.

Mando shouted your name, but you ignored him.

“Yeah, that’s right!” you yelled at the beasts instead. “You guys hungry? Why don’t you come and get me?”

“What are you doing?” Mando roared, but you still didn’t pay him any mind as you tracked the pack. There were maybe three dozen left alive, and they bared their black fangs at you as they drew closer and closer.

Twenty meters… fifteen… ten…

Now.

“Take this!” You heaved your arm back, aimed at the beast in the center of the pack’s line, and threw with all your might, and the creature yelped as the stun grenade struck him in the skull.

A moment later, a web of electricity exploded out of the orb and arced through half of the pack, and the poor bastards screeched and screamed as they fell spasming to the jungle floor. The beasts on the edges snarled as they jumped away from their sparking brethren, and you saw some of the canine-monsters retreat into the shadows of the clearing.

This was your chance.

You darted forward the moment you had a clear path to take, and you vaulted over the pack’s twitching bodies in three swift strides. When you landed on the other side of them, you spun around and faced the fallen creatures as they whined and spasmed on the ground. Then you lifted your rifle, aimed haphazardly, and pulled the trigger. You swept the barrel from side to side for a moment, energy bolts tearing and searing through flesh, but then you whirled back around and sprinted toward the Mandalorian’s prone form.

He was propped up against the log with his legs splayed out in front of him, and you inhaled sharply when you saw the dark stain of blood on the ground beneath his right thigh. His Amban rifle lay beside him, but since he wasn’t using it, you assumed he was out of ammo. The bounty hunter listed heavily onto what you first thought was a rock of some kind, but as you skidded to a stop in front of him, you realized the lump was the body of another humanoid, except it didn’t look to be breathing.

“Mando!” you gasped as you crouched down in front of him. “Maker, w-what happened—”

“What are you doing here?” he cut you off with a snarl, and the absolute rage in his voice drew you up short.

You gaped at his visor, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “W-What… you called—”

“I didn’t call you, he did, right before they tore out his throat,” Mando growled and shoved the prone form beside him.

The body flopped over with a thud, and you stifled a gag when you realized the poor bastard had been eviscerated. He was torn open from gut to gullet, intestines and innards gleaming wetly in the dark, and his bulging black eyes stared up unseeingly at the moon.

“Dank farrik, Mando,” you breathed in horror. “What happened?”

The Mandalorian tilted his helmet up to look at you, but then his gaze seemed to shift over your shoulder, and he was suddenly latching onto your wrist with an iron grip and tugging you forward.

“Watch out!” he shouted as you tripped over his legs and landed on the other side of him, and a moment later you heard and felt the roar of flames at your back as another beast met a smoldering end.

You scrambled up onto your knees and whirled around, rifle held at the ready, but there were only the two new dead creatures sprawled at Mando’s feet. Their corpses smoked as their blackened flesh crackled, and this time you weren’t successful in stifling your gag. You dry-heaved off to the side, tears blurring your vision, but when the chorus of bone-chilling howls started up again, you blinked away the tears and clenched your rifle in a white-knuckled grip.

“We gotta get out of here,” you panted, your eyes darting from place to place as you tried to track the beasts slithering through the shadows.

“Can’t,” Mando grunted, and all of the sudden, you realized his voice sounded off, slurred.

You whipped back around to face the bounty hunter, and your gaze immediately fell to the dark stain under his leg. It had grown since you’d first seen it, and then you realized a haphazard tourniquet was lashed around the top of his leg, right above the metal plate that covered the front of his thigh.

“You’re hurt,” you breathed. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah.” Mando’s head jerked up and down in an unsteady nod. “Just… happened. One of them got me… when I was trying to save the bounty. Pretty sure they nicked my femoral.”

His words were softer and definitely slurred now, and panic rose up in your throat like a burning coal.

“Then we need to get back to the Razor Crest now,” you said as you reached for his shoulders, but the Mandalorian sluggishly shoved you away.

“I’ll… only slow you down,” he grunted. “The bounty and I… are easy meals. The pack should stay to finish us off while you make a break for the sh—”

“No,” you cut him off, and the snarl in your voice surprised even you. “No, Mando. I’m not leaving you to die. We’re only a kilometer away from the Razor Crest. I have extra power cells and grenades. We can make it.”

Mando’s head thunked back against the log he leaned on as he stared up at you, and even if you couldn’t see the face underneath the visor, you could see the resignation in every inch of him.

And it ignited a fury in you unlike anything you had ever known.

“So, what?” you growled, bending down to bare your teeth in his face. “You’re just gonna sit here and die? What about the kid? You just gonna abandon him?”

You’re just going to abandon me? you didn’t say, but the words rattled against the backs of your clenched teeth.

“He’ll… have you,” Mando said, and suddenly his gloved hand reached up as if to touch your face, but he didn’t seem to have the strength, and the tip of his index finger barely grazed the edge of your jaw. His touch left behind a warm streak on your skin, and you didn’t have to look to know it was blood.

“That’s not good enough,” you snarled before you stooped down and grabbed the ends of his makeshift tourniquet, yanking tightly on both ends until Mando groaned in pain and latched onto your shoulders.

He murmured your name, his modulator crackling in your ear, but you ignored him as you looped his spent Amban rifle over his shoulder and shifted to slide your left arm behind his back, throwing his right arm over your shoulders. You took two deep breaths to brace yourself, and then you dug your fingers into his waist as you tried to leverage the both of you onto your feet.

It was nearly impossible. The Mandalorian had to weigh nearly ninety kilos in his beskar, and with the added weight of the weapons and grenades you carried, you could feel the muscles in your legs, core, and back scream at the strain.

“Dank… farrik,” you hissed out between clenched teeth, but you managed to get the two of you upright, even if Mando was practically limp against you. Still, you had to leverage your back against the log behind you to keep from collapsing.

“We’ll never make it… back to the ship like this,” Mando panted, his cold helmet brushing against the shell of your ear.

“Shut up,” you gritted out, listening to the howling beasts closing in again like they could sense your weakness. “I refuse to leave you behind. So, unless you want to kill us both, you need to get your ass in gear, Mando. I can keep them off our backs as we go, but you need to walk with me. Understand?”

“Cyare,” he slurred, and the unfamiliar word sounded pained as his helmet thunked into your temple. “I… don’t want you to die.”

“Then walk,” you grunted as you tightened your grip on his waist and lurched forward a step.

Mando staggered behind you, half draped over your back, but you widened your stance and refused to go down.

“Please… Mando,” you panted, shoving the barrel of your rifle into the loamy red soil to act as a crutch. “Help me save us. Just… just put one foot in front of the other.”

“Wait,” the Mandalorian said, and he actually lifted his head off your shoulder. “The bounty…”

“The bounty’s dead,” you grunted as your eyes darted to the trees again. You could see the sinuous shapes of the pack weaving between the towering trunks, but they kept their distance for the moment. They’d lost more than half of their numbers by your estimate, and you prayed to the Maker they would just give up, but you knew that would be way too convenient for your life.

“The puck… said dead or alive,” Mando sighed, his arm weighing down on the nape of your neck like a yoke, and it reminded you of the slave’s collar you once wore.

“I can’t carry both of you back, Mando,” you growled in frustration. “I can barely drag you.”

“Don’t need the whole body,” he clarified. “Just… the head. It’s… a big bounty.”

You groaned as you glanced down at the quarry’s corpse, and then you tilted your head back to try and look at Mando.

“Can you stand by yourself for a minute?” you asked.

“Maybe,” Mando grunted, but he shifted his weight off you bit by bit and leaned up against the tall log at your backs. His boots slid a few inches in the blood-soaked dirt as he almost collapsed, but he dug his gloved fingers into the rigid bark and stood there shaking.

“Didn’t know I was paying you for maybes,” you parroted his words from days ago back at him in an attempt to take his mind off the pain, and it seemed to work because he actually huffed out a strained-sounding chuckle.

“Hurry,” he panted, and you nodded as you quickly stepped away from him, stood over the bounty’s corpse, and shoved the barrel of your rifle between his shoulder and neck.

It was so dark, and you were running on so much adrenaline you couldn’t even be sure of what species the man used to be, but you pushed the thought away as you took a deep breath and held down the trigger.

The rifle screeched as it tore through flesh like a hot knife through butter, and you tried to ignore the feeling of lukewarm blood splattering across your lower legs. Moments later, the jittery, rapid-fire motions of the gun ceased, and the bounty’s head rolled away from the smoldering stump of his neck.

Bile rose up in your throat again, but you swallowed it down as you picked up the decapitated head and started punching buttons on your cuff.

Instantly, you heard the familiar hum of the child’s pod drone closer and closer, and behind you Mando inhaled sharply as the jungle dogs yipped in curiosity from the shadows.

“You brought the kid?” he growled.

“Well, it wasn’t like you left me much kriffing choice, but you can fire me later for child endangerment,” you snapped as the carrier floated down to stop in front of you. Then you turned to the Mandalorian and held out your bloodied hand. “I need your fibercord whip. Eject it.”

Mando didn’t even question you, he just did as he was bid. Within moments, you had the thin but strong wire wound up in your palm, and then you started the gory process of wrapping it securely around the bounty’s bloody head. Your stomach churned at the slick warm goo covering your skin, but you swallowed the saliva pooling in your mouth as you tapped at your wrist again.

The child’s pod opened with a hiss, and you made sure to lower the decapitated head so it was below the carrier and out of the foundling’s line of sight.

“Hey there, bud,” you said as you leaned down and tucked the end of the fibercord into the interior of the pod near the hinges. “Look who I found.”

The foundling cooed and gurgled happily when he caught sight of the Mandalorian, and he lifted his arms and made grabby motions at the bounty hunter.

“Not yet,” you said as you stepped forward and blocked Mando from view. “First, we need to get back to the ship, so I need to close you up again. Don’t worry about anything you hear, though, okay? I promise we’ll be fine.”

The child murmured a soft sound as you bent down and kissed his wrinkled brow, but then you tapped at your wrist, and the pod closed with another hiss, locking the wire with the dangling head in place. You keyed in a few more commands, and the carrier rose up high above you, hovering at least six meters off the ground. Blood dripped from the severed stump of the quarry’s neck as it dangled from the pod, and you flinched when a speck of it landed on your cheek. It might be disgusting, but this way, the child and the remainder of the bounty would hopefully be out of reach of any of the beasts, and you could focus all your energy on getting you and Mando back to the Razor Crest.

“Alright.” You tore your gaze away from the silver pod and shifted your grasp on the rifle, wedging the stock against your right shoulder as tight as you could. You knew your aim would be abysmal since you were going have to shoot one handed while dragging Mando, but you hoped the full-auto setting would grant you some leeway. “Let’s go.”

“You really should—” the Mandalorian started, but you clicked your tongue to cut him off.

“That wasn’t a request,” you said as you sidled up against the bounty hunter and double checked that his tourniquet was secure.

“Fine.” He reluctantly draped his right arm over your shoulder, and you wrapped your left one around his waist. Then the two of you pushed off the log at your backs, and you staggered forward several steps, trying not to trip on any dead jungle dogs.

Mando’s cold beskar felt like it was burning you wherever it brushed against your bare, hot flesh, and he groaned in your ear as he practically dragged his injured leg behind him. The agony of his voice made you want to stop and sprint forward all at the same time, but you settled for stumbling several more steps.

“That’s it,” you panted in encouragement. “One step at a time.”

The pack howled and shrieked as you painstakingly shuffled your way across the clearing, but you haphazardly aimed your rifle into the jungle and held down the trigger. Rapid-fire bolts of energy careened into the darkness, illuminating white eyes and flashes of twining vines and snarling beasts, but several yowls echoed through the night, so you knew you’d hit at least some of them.

“Mando,” you gritted out as you neared the tree line. “I need you to hit my cuff. There’s a button on the side that will turn up my headlamp. I want it at maximum. Since these bastards are nocturnal, I’m guessing they don’t like the light.”

The Mandalorian grunted something that sounded like an affirmative, and then his left hand was swatting blindly at your cuff. After fumbling for a moment, his thick, gloved fingers encircled your wrist, his thumb brushing faintly over your thudding pulse point.

Your feet nearly tangled beneath you, but then Mando found the button on your cuff, and he pressed on it until the lights at your temple were bright enough to blind. The beams of white light cut through the oppressive darkness of the jungle, and the canine creatures yelped in pain as they darted back into the shadows. You swung your gaze back and forth, your lamp dragging over the scenery like a burning laser, and the beasts whimpered as their tails disappeared into the bushes.

“Come on,” you groaned as you dragged Mando forward, and the two of you finally stumbled into the thick of the trees.

You didn’t know how much time passed as you and the Mandalorian struggled back to the ship. Seconds seemed like minutes, minutes hours. The moon appeared frozen in the sky above your head, and more than once you had the thought that you were already dead, and this was some messed up version of an afterlife where you were tortured for eternity.

In the end, though, you knew you were alive.

If you weren’t, it wouldn’t hurt so much.

“Left,” Mando slurred in your ear, half draped over your back, and your feet stuttered as you swung both of you around to the left.

The rifle screeched as it fired off into the darkness, followed by the yelps of dying dogs, and you hissed as the stock dug into your already sore shoulder. The pack snarled and gurgled as they encircled you, but they were hesitant now that you’d killed a majority of them. You wondered why they just didn’t give up, but you realized they could most likely sense you weakening, slowing.

Sweat ran in rivers down your face and spine, and every tendon in your body felt like it was on the edge of snapping. You could tell Mando was trying to take some of his weight off you, but he was becoming more and more unsteady with each step, his breath jagged and uneven as it rasped out of his helmet. He probably wouldn’t remain conscious for much longer, and if he passed out before you reached the ship, you were both dead. You couldn’t fully carry him, and you would not even entertain the idea of leaving him, so it was all or nothing.

Either you both reached the ship together, or neither of you did.

But, as you glanced up at the child’s pod hovering high over your head, you knew the second choice wasn’t really an option. The kid needed you. Needed both of you.

So, you were going to kriffing live, even if you had to break your body down to achieve your goal.

“Come on,” you encouraged as you stumbled over a tree root. “Come on, Mando. We’re almost there. Stay with me, okay?”

You had no idea if you were almost there or not. The homing beacon on your cuff was beeping steadily, but with all the howling, and the blood pounding through your ears, you couldn’t approximate how close you were to the Razor Crest.

“I’m… trying,” Mando mumbled, lifting his head just slightly. “B-Behind us.”

You cursed under your breath, letting the rifle dangle against your chest as you fumbled at your waist. Your fingers curled around a cold, metal orb, and you clicked the button in its center before you lobbed the grenade over your shoulder with all the strength you had left, which wasn’t much.

Then you staggered forward a little faster, dragging the bounty hunter behind you, and five seconds later, you heard the stun grenade go off, followed by the crackling of static and the yelping of beasts.

“That’s my last… stun grenade,” you panted, and the hair on your arms stood on end with all the electricity in the moist air. “I have some explosive ones… but…”

“But we’re not fast enough to get out of range in time,” Mando finished for you, his helmet bumping into the crown of your head as he sagged a little more.

“Yeah,” you huffed, but then a crunch to your right had you whirling and firing in one motion.

The canine yipped and screeched as the energy bolts tore through its chest mid-lunge, and it crashed into the ground at your feet as you staggered into a tree. The bark scraped painfully across your bare shoulder blades, and Mando groaned as you almost lost your grip on him.

“No,” you growled, tightening your arm around the bounty hunter and tugging you both upright. “Dank… farrik!”

The muscles in your arm burned hotly from the strain of keeping the Mandalorian on his feet, and you bit through your tongue to keep from crying out, the metallic taste of blood coating your teeth and whetting your parched mouth.

You stumbled forward blindly as you tried to work through the pain, but all the sudden, the claustrophobic darkness caused by the towering trees lessened a few degrees. You thought you were hallucinating it at first, but then you lifted your head a fraction and realized the trees were thinning out ahead of you.

And the beacon in your cuff was beeping like mad.

You were almost there. The Razor Crest was so close.

Of course, that’s when the snarling behind you reached new frantic heights, and you knew the pack was gearing up for one final assault.

“Mando, listen to me,” you gasped as you shifted to shove him against a tree, using your palm to keep him rooted at the sternum and on his feet.

He groaned as he listed there, mumbling something that didn’t sound like it was in Basic, but he remained upright, so you seized the opportunity to jab at the screen on your wrist. A moment later, the child’s pod swooped down from where it had been hovering near the canopy, and the bounty’s head dragged against the jungle floor with a dull crunch. You tweaked the carrier’s settings half blind, one eye on the encroaching darkness and the beasts therein, and then you grabbed the floating orb and shoved it against Mando’s gut.

“Ugh,” the bounty hunter grunted, his feet starting to slide out from under him.

“No, lean forward,” you rushed out, grabbing one of his shoulders and tugging him toward you.

Mando moaned as he collapsed onto the child’s pod, but since you’d cranked up the carrier’s power output to the max, the bounty hunter didn’t crash to the ground. Instead, he hung there half suspended, the pod whirling angrily from his added weight, his feet limp and dragging behind him.

“Mando,” you said as you tapped the side of his helmet, eyes still on the shadowy trees. “Mando, I need you to hold onto that pod as tight as you can, okay? Can you hear me?”

“Hear… you,” the Mandalorian just barely breathed, and you saw his arms wrap around the bottom of the silver carrier.

“Hold on like your life depends on it,” you instructed as you tapped at your wrist again. “Because it does.”

“What—” he started to ask, but he didn’t get to finish the question because the pod was suddenly surging forward, in the direction of the ship. The bounty’s head and Mando’s feet dragged loudly against the ground, but with one last jolt of power, the pod lifted away from the jungle floor and began to float away.

The pod would probably have just enough power to get Mando back to the ship before it died, but that was fine. That was just what you needed.

The jungle dogs howled and shrieked as they watched the Mandalorian drifting away through the trees, but as you listened to them start to skirt around you in his direction, you finally gripped the rifle with two hands and aimed into the dark.

Then you pulled the trigger, full-auto, and the shrieking of the energy bolts collided with the screeching of the canines and crescendoed into a deafening cacophony. You sprayed the jungle in wide sweeps as you slowly started to walk backward toward the Razor Crest, the rifle stock jolting into your shoulder in time with your racing heart. You just needed to give Mando time to reach the ship. You had programmed the pod to open the ramp at a certain distance, so they would just fly on into the cargo bay, and it would close behind them. Once they were safe, you could make a break for it and—

Suddenly, one of the shadows broke away from the trunk directly to your right, and you turned too late to see it was a slavering beast, its bifurcated jaw wide open and aimed for your throat.

“Ahh!” You stumbled back, trying to crane away from those jagged black fangs, but your feet got tangled up beneath you, and you came crashing down. A root slammed into one of your rear ribs so hard you heard and felt the snap as the bone gave, but you didn’t even have time to register that pain before the jungle dog smashed into your chest.

You instinctively shoved your arms outward, wedging the rifle between those deadly, snapping jaws. One of the beast’s jagged fangs scraped down your forearm as you tried to keep the bastard from swallowing you whole, and you screamed in fury and pain as blood spilled from your rending flesh.

Then you brought your knee up and smashed it as hard as you could into the jungle dog’s ribcage, and this time you felt its rib snap, and grim satisfaction burned like a wildfire through your blood. The warmth filled your limbs until you thought you would burst into flame, and you kicked the beast again and again as it yipped.

You were just starting to think you had the upper hand when the creature’s jaw started to close with a creaking sound of bone on metal, and your eyes widened in horror as the canine jerked its head back, taking your rifle with it. Then its bifurcated jaw snapped close with a horrible crunch, and the rifle shattered into shards of metal and sparks.

The beast roared in pain and rage as it tossed the remains of your rifle aside, but now you were acting on pure survival instinct, not thought, not logic, and you were already wrenching two grenades and a vibroknife off your belt when the nightmare dog finally settled its four milky white eyes on your face.

“Eat this, you bastard,” you snarled as its terrible jaws, rowed with serrated teeth, descended on you.

Then with one hand you stabbed the vibroknife into its neck just above the shoulder, and with the other you activated the grenades and shoved both of them down the jungle dog’s throat.

Warm blood sprayed down on you like humid rainfall, and you twisted the blade in to the hilt, feeling as it tore through flesh in a jittery fashion. The creature gagged and gurgled as its throat muscles convulsed around your other wrist for just an instant, but then you yanked your arms back with all your might, teeth catching on your elbow again, before you crashed into the dirt.

You were scrambling up in the next instant, barely listening to the creature heaving and choking behind you as you staggered forward into a clumsy sprint.

The rest of the pack howled at your back, but you were flat out running now, and you could see the Razor Crest through the trees. The pounding of paws on dirt sounded at your heels, and you couldn’t tell if you were gasping for breath or sobbing as you tore the final grenades off your belt, activated them, and let them fall through your numb fingers.

In the next instant, you broke through the tree line, and you could see the ramp of the Razor Crest, closing. You slapped at your wrist blindly as you sprinted as fast as you could, lungs heaving to the point of seizures, legs at the point of collapse. You didn’t know if the dogs were still right behind you, but the grenades…

You must have finally hit the right command because the ramp suddenly shuddered before it started to lower again, and you were ten meters away when the grenades went off like dominoes falling.

The first two explosions—of the grenades you shoved into the jungle dog—only shook the ground hard enough to make you stumble forward, but then the rest of them detonated much closer, and the combined shockwave hit you moments later and catapulted you into the air.

Thankfully, the ramp was just low enough that you scraped over it and crashed into the ship, smashing into a bulkhead with a dull crunch. The howling shrieks of dying dogs reached you through the ringing in your ears, and you felt a wave of heat hit you as the grenades engulfed the jungle trees. You curled into a ball on the cargo bay floor, your back to the ramp, and you just barely had the presence of mind to tap at your wrist one last time. A moment later, you heard the whirling of the ramp closing, and when it clanked shut a moment later, you rolled over onto your back and stared blindly above you.

You could just barely hear the roar of the building wildfire outside the ship, and the screeching of the jungle dogs died down within seconds. Your entire body—your lungs, your heart—heaved up and down as adrenaline pulsed through you like a bad hit of spice, and your ears ached in the relative silence.

Then the child cooed, and Mando groaned weakly, and you jolted upright like you had just been struck by lightning.

“Mando,” you rasped, flipping over onto your raw hands and bruised knees.

The bounty hunter half-sat, half-sprawled on the floor at the foot of his bunk. The foundling’s pod lay askew on the ground in front of the fresher like it had crash landed there when it finally died, but the child stood unharmed beside the Mandalorian.

Who was currently bleeding out on the floor of the cargo bay.

“Kriff!” You scrambled forward when you saw the spreading stain of blood below his leg, and as you drew closer, you realized his tourniquet must have been loosened when he collapsed.

The Mandalorian barely even seemed conscious at this point. His chest stirred only slightly beneath his beskar chest plate, and if it weren’t for the soft groans he was exhaling, you would have thought him dead.

“Mando!” you shouted as you shakily rose onto your feet and staggered the rest of the way to the fresher. Your hands were shaking as you tore one of the storage compartments open in search of a med kit, and your voice cracked when you said his name again. “Mando! Stay with me. We made it back. We’re on the ship. Just stay with me for a few more moments. Please.”

You crashed down onto your knees beside the bounty hunter, tearing the med kit open with bloody hands and broken nails. His helmeted head lolled onto the edge of the bunk behind him, and you could barely hear his raspy breaths through the modulator.

The child stood between Mando’s splayed boots, eyes large and frightened, but you couldn’t pay him any mind right now. Your frantic gaze darted between the bacta gel patch in your hand and Mando’s bleeding leg, and even though it felt crazy, you set the patch down for a moment and reached for the last vibroknife on your belt.

Suddenly, Mando jerked awake with a gasp, and you reached out without thinking, pressing your left palm over his heart and feeling his faint, fluttering pulse.

“Mando, I’m right here,” you murmured soothingly. “Keep breathing for me.”

The Mandalorian muttered your name as his head lolled toward you.

“Yes, that’s me, I’m here,” you said, rising up on your knees and leaning over him. The vibroknife glimmered in your hand, looking like a real-life glitch, but you shook off the unsettling feeling and fixed your eyes on Mando’s visor.

“Mesh’la,” the Mandalorian slurred. The word was soft and elongated to the point of sounding like gibberish, but his hand settled firmly on the wrist you still had pressed to his heart, like he was talking directly to you.

In any other situation, your own heart would be fluttering with a feeling you didn’t want to name, but as the bounty hunter’s blood started to soak into the knees of your pants, all you could feel was dread.

“I need you to stay still, okay?” you said as you dropped your hand from his chest to grip the top of his injured thigh. “I need to cut your pants away from the wound.”

“O… kay,” he muttered, and his hand fell to settle over yours again on his leg like he was grounding himself by touching you.

“Nice and easy,” you cooed, trying to blink the tears out of your eyes so you could see to cut through his pants and not his flesh. “I’ll have that bacta patch on in just a moment. Why don’t you talk to me, huh? Mando, talk to me. Tell me something. J-Just stay awake.”

“Aw…ake,” he whispered, but it sounded like he was just repeating you now, barely clinging to consciousness.

Your hand shook as you slowly sawed through the blood-soaked fabric, and an aborted sob rose in your throat. But you shoved your hysteria down, down, down, you had no time for it, you had to stay level-headed, steady-handed, Mando was counting on you, Mando was dying.

“Mando,” you choked as you finally pulled the cloth away from his wound. Three parallel gashes, each nearly five centimeters deep, ran from his hip crease and nearly all the way to his knee, and blood pulsed sluggishly from the wounds in crimson gobs. “Oh, Maker, Mando.”

You dropped the vibroknife with a loud clang as you lunged for the bacta patch, and out of your peripherals you could see the child waddling closer, standing in between the Mandalorian’s knees, the hem of his little robe slowly staining scarlet. You didn’t have the heart or the strength to shove the child away now, so instead you focused on settling the bacta patch over the bounty hunter’s grisly injuries.

Mando twitched and inhaled sharply as the bacta adhered to his skin, and you sent up a million prayers to the Maker that you had administered aid in time.

“There y-you go,” you sniffled, unable to stop the tears from coursing down your cheeks now. “I got the patch on, Mando. You’re going t-to be okay. You… you have to be okay. Do you hear me, Mando?”

You felt like a glitching holotape repeating his name over and over, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You wanted, no needed, him to stay awake, and every time you said his name, he seemed to jerk a little, like he’d been recalled from a long distance at the sound of your voice.

For a moment, there was only the faint, raspy wheeze of the Mandalorian’s breath through his helmet, but then he suddenly mumbled something.

“What?” You shuffled closer, slipping in blood. You practically had your ear pressed against his visor. “What was that, Mando? Say it again. Come on, talk to me, Mando.”

“Not… Mando.”

The words were stilted, sluggish, and you frowned in confusion. “Huh? I-I don’t understand.”

“My… name isn’t… Mando,” the bounty hunter struggled out, and his helmet tilted forward a fraction like he had lifted his head and was looking right at you. “It’s… Din. Din Djarin.”

The shock you felt was muted, distant and removed, like a crack that formed deep in the heart of a glacier, buried beneath the adrenaline, horror, and helplessness warring within you.

“Din,” you breathed, and the word somehow tasted like the exact moment Peli dug out your transmitter chip. It tasted like freedom, like infinite possibility, and you didn’t understand why.

Mando—no, Din, Din Djarin—exhaled heavily as his head thunked back against the bunk, and even if you couldn’t see it, you could tell his eyes were slipping closed. “I… wanted at least someone to know before I—”

“No,” you cut him off vehemently, reaching out to cradle the sides of his helmet like you were cupping his face. “No, you’re not going to die. Not now. Not when… no, do you hear me, Din Djarin? I will not allow you to die. Not when I worked my ass off to fix this ship and drag you back onto it by the skin of my kriffing teeth.”

“Mmmm.” Din’s head lolled in your grasp, the weight of him growing heavier and heavier. “I knew I would like the way… you say my name.”

Oh, Maker. He was nonsensical now, and terror gripped you by the throat and squeezed.

“Then stay awake, Din,” you begged, and your heart felt like it was on the edge of a great precipice. “Stay awake for me.”

“’m so… tired,” he sighed.

“I know,” you breathed as you guided his head back to rest against the bunk, and you couldn’t speak above a whisper because your voice was thick with tears. “I know, but just listen to my voice, Din. Just—”

You trailed off as the child suddenly waddled into your line of sight, and you dropped your gaze slightly to find him standing between the Mandalorian’s thighs, right next to the bacta covered wounds. The foundling stared up at the bounty hunter with a furrowed, seemingly determined expression, and then he closed his big brown eyes as he reached for Din’s leg.

“Oh, buddy, don’t,” you started, reaching out to stop him, but Din—Maker, his name felt delicious and forbidden even in your mind—weakly placed his hand on your wrist to stop you.

“It’s… okay,” he panted. “He can help.”

“Help?” You frowned down at the child. How could he help? Was this one of the “powers” the bounty hunter had vaguely mentioned before? You thought the foundling’s ability dealt with physically moving things, not healing, but honestly you could do for a miracle right about now.

The child gurgled a small noise as his three fingers settled over Din’s wound, and the Mandalorian inhaled sharply at the same time that you felt… something. You weren’t sure what it was, but it was like the very air shifted, became magnetic, charged somehow. The air stilled in your lungs as you feared even the barest breath would fracture this fragile spell you were bearing witness to, and you watched with wide eyes as the gashes on the bounty hunter’s legs began to close right in front of you.

Bacta worked fast… but not that fast.

Several still, endless seconds passed as the foundling healed the Mandalorian, but then just as soon as it began, the moment ended. The atmosphere snapped almost tangibly, time jolted back into motion, and the child suddenly started to pitch backward.

“Oh!” you gasped as you lunged forward, your hands cupping the baby and bringing him close to your body. The foundling’s eyes were closed, his face slack, but his little chest still moved up and down with breath.

“He’s okay.”

You snapped your head up, more tears spilling down your cheeks with the motion.

Din was sitting up a little straighter, and his helmet looked squarely at you. His voice sounded stronger, too, and you gaped at him in bewilderment.

“He’s okay,” the Mandalorian repeated when you continued to blink at him. “He usually… tires himself out when he uses his powers.”

“I d-didn’t know he could do that,” you breathed, and your tongue felt like a disembodied lump of flesh in your mouth. “I… wait, how do you feel? A-Are you okay?”

You suddenly realized how close you still were to the bounty hunter, practically kneeling in his lap, but you ignored this as your eyes darted back to his leg. It was a little hard to tell through the dried blood and blue bacta, but it looked like the three gashes had closed altogether, leaving behind faint pink lines.

“I’ll survive,” the bounty hunter sighed, thunking his head back against the bunk again, but he tilted it to the side to regard you still. “Thanks to you.”

“I-I’m not the one who just healed you with magic,” you stuttered incredulously as your cheeks flared hot, and you cuddled the child against your chest even though you realized you knew almost nothing about the apparently powerful foundling.

“No,” Mando said evenly, “but you did charge out into a dark, unknown, dangerous jungle, fight off a pack of wild dogs, and drag both me and the bounty back safely.”

“Well,” you snorted with an edge of hysteria in your voice, and you gestured to the discarded head that lay sprawled against the corner of the fresher. “I don’t know if I’d say he got here safely.”

Maker, you felt a little crazy, hollowed out and wrung dry by the sheer amount of emotions you’d just experienced in a span of a few minutes.

“I’m serious,” the Mandalorian replied. “You… saved my life. I am in your debt.”

“I-I’m not one for debts.” You shook your head to try and clear it, dropping your gaze to the foundling’s face, nuzzled against your sternum. “I don’t like to owe anyone or be owed. You’ve stuck your neck out for me before, so let’s just call it even… Din.”

You saw the bounty hunter freeze out of the corner of your eye, and you bit your cheek until you tasted blood.

You should have known that was too much to ask for.

“Sorry,” you muttered, peeking up at the Mandalorian through your lashes. “You… mentioned your name when you were—”

“I remember,” Mando said, cutting you off, but you couldn’t tell what he was thinking, his expression hidden as always and his voice pitched in a way you didn’t recognize, couldn’t identify.

“Right.” You cleared your throat, feeling the adrenaline starting to drain out of you and be replaced by every ache and pain you had ignored in lieu of survival. “Of course, I can just forget about it. You weren’t exactly in your right mind, after all. I’ll just… using ‘Mando’ is fine for me.”

The Mandalorian’s visor stared you down unflinchingly for what felt like an eternity. Then…

“You can… use my name, if you like,” he said haltingly, then quickly amended himself. “But only when we’re alone, on the ship. I… my name could be a dangerous thing in the hands of my enemies.”

You blinked in shock at the bounty hunter.

“A-Are you sure?” you asked, and you tried to keep the hope out of your voice, but you knew you failed miserably. “O-Only if you’re sure. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You’d thought giving up his name had just been a delusional, dying declaration, and you didn’t want him to regret it. What you said had been true enough. You were fine using ��Mando,” even if the traitorous feelings buried deep in your chest said otherwise.

“I’m sure.” The bounty hunter nodded minutely. “I… trust you.”

The admission flooded your whole body with warmth, and goosebumps broke out across your skin. You’d known the Mandalorian trusted you, he wouldn’t have left his ship or his foundling in your care otherwise, but hearing him say the words felt like something out of a dream.

“Okay, then.” You smiled, heart thudding against where the child was pressed into your chest. “Din.”

At the sound of his name, the tension in the Mandalorian’s worn body seemed to bleed out of him entirely, and he sighed as his helmet fell back again.

“Let’s get off this Maker-forsaken planet,” he grumbled.

“I second that,” you chuckled dryly before you slowly clambered to your feet, careful not to slip in Din’s tacky blood or jostle the sleeping baby in your arms. You very gingerly leaned over the prone Mandalorian to set the foundling in his hammock, but you hissed when the movement jarred the bruised or fractured rib in your back.

“What’s wrong?” Din asked below you, and he was so close you could feel the rumble of his modulated voice against the bare skin of your stomach, your tank top having lifted up a fraction.

“Nothing.” You took a quick step backward, trying to put distance between you and the bounty hunter, but now that he was no longer actively dying, you were starting to realize you were a little more beat up then you’d previously thought.

The moment you stepped back on your right leg, your hamstring seized up, and when you went to grab at it, you realized your fingers were a little numb. You glanced down and saw fresh blood dripping down your forearm—your blood, not Mando’s—and the sight of the wound seemed to flip a switch in your brain because a moment later, pain crashed over you like a wave.

“Dank farrik,” Mando cursed lowly as he tried to shove himself up.

“No, no, no, no,” you babbled, holding out your less injured left hand in a gesture to stop him. “Don’t get up so fast.”

“You’re hurt,” he grunted, and you could practically hear the scowl in his voice as he tilted his helmet back to stare at you. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” you stressed, even though you could still taste blood on the back of your tongue. “Also, you seriously have no room to talk. You were literally just bleeding out less than five minutes ago.”

“How much bacta do we have left?” he asked, completely ignoring your statement. “We should take care of your injuries before they get any worse.”

“Maker, you’re not even listening to me, are you?” You rolled your eyes as you leaned your shoulder against the bulkhead, but when the Mandalorian started to get up again, you held your hand out once more. “Alright! Alright. Let me at least set the coordinates to meet up with the client and get the ship in the air. I’m pretty sure the jungle is burning down around us as we speak anyway, so the sooner we lift off, the better.”

Din stared up at you silently for a moment like he wanted to argue.

“It will take me two minutes, max,” you reasoned with him. “I won’t pass out or die in that time frame, okay?”

“Fine,” he finally sighed and dropped his chin to his chest. “Just… be careful climbing up there.”

“I’ll try my best,” you snorted, wincing when pain flared through your body, but you still slowly made your way to the ladder.

It took you way longer to climb five rungs than it should have, but you thought not falling back into the cargo bay was a feat in itself, given how every muscle in your arms and legs twitched in pain. The blood pouring down your arm also did nothing to help your grip, nor did your scraped up palms, but you still made it into the cockpit relatively unscathed.

Dawn was just breaking beyond the windows, but you could barely see it through the black smoke that hung thick in the air. Guilt sat heavy in your chest as you saw the charred trees and the birds fleeing the flames overhead, but you told yourself you did what you had to in order to survive.

And it wasn’t like you were walking away scot-free, either. Your arm pounded painfully in time with your slowing pulse, and every time you took a deep breath, you became a little surer that the rib in your back was, in fact, broken.

You punched in the client’s rendezvous coordinates without sitting in the pilot’s chair since you knew if you sat down now there was no way you were getting back up. While you waited for the Razor Crest to power up, you cringed at the blood you were dripping all over the floor, but there was nothing for it at this point. The whole ship would need a thorough scrub down the next time you made a pit stop, but that was a future-you problem. Right now, you were mainly focused on getting off this planetoid and out into orbit without crashing and burning.

You held your breath as the pre-Empire ship rose up above the now smoldering jungle, but no warning alarms or messages sounded. The Razor Crest glided steadily upward, and you leaned heavily on the control panel as you breeched first the clouds and then the atmosphere. Entering orbit rattled the ship and you more than you cared for, but nothing broke off or burst into flame, and before you knew it, you were drifting through the familiar black void of space.

“Thank the kriffing Maker,” you sighed as the autopilot took over, and then you turned and shuffled back to the ladder, exhaustion starting to make the edges of your vision go fuzzy.

Or maybe that was blood loss?

You were a little less graceful with the descent than you were with the ascent, but you at least landed on your feet before you nearly collapsed into the fresher.

“Careful,” Mando’s modulated voice murmured, and suddenly his bare hand was on your left, uninjured elbow, skin against warm skin.

“What are… you doing up?” You frowned as you studied the Mandalorian, trying to make sense of what you were seeing as he led you to sit in the open mouth of his bunk.

“I told you,” he said, reaching over and grabbing another med kit from the fresher. “We need to take care of your injuries before they get any worse.”

“You should be resting,” you grumbled, but you were too tired to put any real heat behind your voice.

“I’m fine,” Din parroted your earlier proclamation back at you. “The kid did a thorough job.”

Then the bounty hunter sat on a crate before you, a crate that hadn’t been there before, and you realized he was no longer wearing a majority of his beskar, save the ever-present helmet, of course. Instead, a faded but clean pair of duraweave clothes covered his body, and the bloodied outfit you’d basically sliced off him was piled up between his feet. It also looked like he had haphazardly tried to mop up some of his blood with the dirty clothes, and you wondered if you’d been up in the cockpit longer than you thought.

“Hey,” you chuckled suddenly, and you distantly noted that your voice was a little slurred with exhaustion. “Looks like I’ll have some new rags after all.”

You giggled a little loopily as you gestured to the Mandalorian’s blood-soaked clothes and then to the blood and dirt your outfit was also currently coated in, but Mando didn’t seem as amused as you were.

“Let me see your arm,” he said as his helmet stared at you impassively, but then he paused and added, “Please.”

“It’s really not that bad,” you tried to argue as you held out your injured limb, but since it was still actively dripping blood, your words didn’t carry much weight. Then the bounty hunter gingerly gripped your wrist with tentative fingers, and you hissed through your teeth as pain lanced up your arm.

“Osik,” Din cursed in a language you didn’t recognize, slowly rotating your arm to take in the extent of the damage. “Did one of those dogs get you? The bastard almost flayed you to the bone in some spots.”

“Yeah, well I shoved two grenades down his throat, so I think we’re even,” you gritted out.

Din froze and lifted his head, your blood, sweat, and dirt-streaked face reflecting back at you from his visor. “You what?”

He must have really been on death’s door if he didn’t notice or remember you literally blowing the jungle dogs to Tatooine and back, but you just shook your head.

“Story time later,” you huffed, narrowing your eyes as you tried to breathe through the pain. “Bacta time now, please.”

“Right.” Mando jerked back into action, and in the next moment he was shifting into medic-droid mode.

Few words were shared between you two as the Mandalorian tended to your bumps and scrapes. Beside the deep lacerations on your forearm, your palms and knees were scraped bloody from tripping your way through a dangerous jungle in the dead of night. Your upper back was in the same condition since you’d been wearing a tank top when you decided to grapple with blood-thirsty hounds, and when Din accidentally brushed against your lower back, a small whimper squeezed out between your clenched teeth.

“This rib is probably broken,” the bounty hunter said, and there was a heavy quality to his quiet voice.

“Thought as much,” you grunted, trying to sit up straight without breathing too deeply. “Too bad we don’t have a full bacta tank to soak in.”

“I could always… drop you back off on Tatooine,” Mando muttered. “With the payment that I owe you, of course. Should be enough to pay for a full treatment and then some.”

You froze sitting there in the doorway of his bunk. The Mandalorian wasn’t looking at you, too busy double checking the bandage he’d wrapped over the bacta on your forearm, but you could see how rigid his body was as he awaited your answer.

“Do you… want to drop me back off on Tatooine?” you asked hesitantly, the breath shallow in your lungs. You could hear the child snoring softly in the hammock directly behind your head, and the thought of leaving him opened a dark pit inside you.

And that was nothing to say of the thought of leaving the Mandalorian. Of leaving… Din.

Now that you knew his name, the feelings you had done your best to ignore came surging up to the surface, that little voice whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

He told you his name. He trusts you. He wants you here. Maybe he wants you for more than just your skills.

You shoved the thoughts away as quickly as they cropped up, but that didn’t stop something small and fragile from unfurling in your chest. You almost wanted to call it hope.

“I—” Mando started, stopped, fidgeted on his crate, and then sighed as he scooted back a little to stretch out his injured leg. “No, I don’t want to do that. You’re a talented mechanic and… good company. I’ve… enjoyed having you on my crew.”

“Oh.” You blushed as the breath whooshed out of your lungs, leaving you feeling lightheaded and buoyant. “T-Thank you. Current circumstances notwithstanding, I’ve enjoyed being on your crew, too. A-And not just for the payment. Seeing new worlds, as dangerous as they are, was something I never thought I’d get to experience. So, even if the price to pay is a few bumps and scrapes, I think that’s a fair deal.”

“You have a skewed idea of ‘fair,’” the Mandalorian chuckled dryly as he reached down beside him, picked up a pair of his gloves, and slipped them back on.

“No kriff,” you snorted, the scar on the nape of your neck tingling. “But it works out in your favor, so I wouldn’t question it too much.”

“Fine.” Din held up his hands, but then he lowered them to his knees and cocked his head at you.

“What?” you asked when he didn’t say anything for a full minute. His gaze made your skin prickle even if you couldn’t see his eyes, and with each passing moment, you grew acutely more and more aware of how dirty and disheveled you looked and felt.

“Nothing,” he said, fingers flexing against his knees. “Just… thank you. Again. For saving me, the kid, the bounty, and the ship.”

You fidgeted in discomfort. You didn’t know what to do with praise and compliments, having never really received them before, so you shrugged your shoulders as you picked at the bandage on your arm.

“I told you, we’re even,” you muttered.

“It doesn’t feel that way to me,” he argued, and something about his tone told you he wasn’t going to let this go. “So, how about this: after we drop off this bounty with the client, you can pick the next planet we stop on.”

“Really?” Your eyes flicked up to the bounty hunter and widened. He’d never let you pick a destination before. You’d always just been along for the ride.

Mando nodded. “And make a list of parts and stuff you need to keep the ship running. We’ll stock up wherever we stop off next.”

“Okay.” You grinned as your heart did a little jig in your chest, and you stuck out your bacta-wrapped hand to shake on it. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Din Djarin.”

His name rolled off your tongue like a grain of sand spiraling down a dune, picking up momentum as it went, and it sent a shiver of pleasure straight down your spine. You knew you were playing a losing game with your own heart here, but as you stared into Mando’s visor, you also knew there was no stopping yourself now. You would just have to deal with the future heartbreak.

The Mandalorian tentatively reached out and grasped your fingers in his gloved ones.

“Deal,” he rumbled back.

“Good.” You nodded as a yawn cracked open your jaw, and you reached up to cover your gaping mouth and scratch your nose. “Now, given the client’s rendezvous coordinates, we should have a few days of rest before we reach our destination, and if you don’t mind, I think I’m going to start right now by taking a well-deserved nap.”

You made to stand up, but Din gently placed his hand on your shoulder to keep you seated on the edge of the bunk.

“Take the cot,” he said as he nodded behind you. “I’m going up to the cockpit to send a message to the client anyway.”

“Are you sure?” you murmured around another yawn.

“I’m sure,” he said, but then his gloved fingers were suddenly ghosting over the bridge of your nose. “By the way, you’ve got a little grease right here. Just thought you should know.”

You went cross-eyed as you tried to draw his finger into focus, but when he stepped back, you noticed the fingertips of his glove were shiny, and glancing down at the hand you used to shake his revealed that your palm bore the same black sheen.

“Hey, this is your grease,” you muttered indignantly, but then Din was pressing gently on your shoulder, guiding you to lay back on the cot, and you went willingly.

“Get some rest,” he said, turning off the bunk lights. “We’ll worry about cleaning up later.”

You tried to grumble something, but exhaustion was starting to tug at your limbs and eyelids, and your body unwound bit by bit as you buried your face in the bounty hunter’s pillow with no remorse.

A moment later, Mando’s boots were clomping up the ladder to the cockpit, but he left some of the cargo bay lights on and the door to the bunk open, like he somehow knew you were afraid of the dark.

The beginnings of a smile tugged at your lips, but you spiraled into sleep before you could fully process the thought.

#din djarin #din djarin/reader #din djarin/you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian/you #the mandalorian/reader #pedro pascal #star wars #fanfiction #fanfic #my writings

37 notes · View notes

bunnys-beetlejuice-blog · 3 years ago

Text

dings a rinky triangle right next to your head Hi guys, it's fic time! I actually put this up last night but I'm telling you right now. It's had a few hours to cool, like a pie out of the oven, but made of words. This chapter will actually contain mentions of ssssself harm, so viewer beware, i guess.

His world stays dark, even though he knows he’s opened his eyes. He tries to understand that, brain feeling foggy. He must be somewhere dark. He’s laying on his back. He can hear muffled voices, maybe, over him? He’s under something. He lays there, listening, but he’s too tired to even try to understand, and the voices are too muffled to be anything recognizable. Maybe, if he really strains, he can hear a familiar voice, or someone who sounds like his baby sister, but the only word he manages to understand is “invisible.”

He falls back into a restless sleep.

The next time he’s able to shake exhaustion from his mind, he tries to sit up. It’s easier than he thought it might be. This time, more aware of himself, his body feeling less destroyed, he actually tries to understand where he is. It feels like he’s laying in dirt, or under dirt, in a mountain of it, the usual soft scent of freshly turned earth overpowering. It still hurts to move, but he forces himself to, clawing upwards, through the dirt, until he reaches a wooden plank, which he goes through, like he’s not even there.

It’s a box, containing something foul smelling. A coffin… he’s inside a coffin. Juno buried him below a pine box, in someone else’s grave. The inside of it stinks, like decay and chemicals, and he doesn’t stop to take in whoever this used to be, just pushes up, and out, until he emerges from the ground like a zombie, like Night of the Living Dead. The ground around him is grown over with grass, and he grabs at it, using it as much as he can, as he crawls from someone’s grave, until finally, he pulls himself free from the earth, and lays there, taking breaths he doesn’t need, to clear the smell of the body from his nose. His suit and trench coat are filthy, but that barely registers, at this point. There are more important things to worry about, like getting home- He sits up, catches sight of the gravestone.

Emily Deetz Devoted Wife, Beloved Mother “Whom Most We Love Reach First the Golden Gate, Leaving Us Desolate”

He stares at the etching on the stone, and feels something in his mind snap, like a rubber band stretched too tight. He’s seeing the world through a fisheye lens, his vision distorted, blurry, as he tries to understand exactly what just happened. Juno made him crawl out of his own mother’s grave. The body he still reeks of was Emily’s. He sits there, a long time, not feeling much of anything, only able to stare, replaying that memory, over and over, and the only thing that makes him move is the sudden realization of what grass over a grave could mean. Emily’s been buried long enough for it to grow. How long has it been since he’s been home? He does his best to push this fun new trauma down, as far as it will go. He’s got to get back to his family. What’s left of it, he thinks, humorlessly.

He stands, off balance, and wipes some of the dust and dirt from his face, and finds that, annoyingly, his glamour has slipped, and it refuses to reapply. Maybe he’s too drained, though he’s not sure how he’s going to get back home, clearly looking as deranged as he must. He’s too exhausted to teleport, and he wanders around the cemetery, avoiding the few people there as much as he can, as the sun dips low, and vanishes. At least by that point he can force his teeth and ears to resemble normal human’s. The moss and eyes, well, he’s too worn down to care. So he’ll look like an extra grubby hobo, he thinks. That’ll have to be his new look, for now.

He reaches a gate, and leans on it, and then falls through it, and blinks, confused. He’s never been intangible by accident, before. Usually it takes concentration to make his solid form incorporeal. He stands, straightens out his suit collar, adjusts his sleeves, fiddles with his tie, as he thinks. There’s got to be someone around here who can call his family for him, or at the very least, a cab. The cemetery is growing darker, and his attention is drawn to the far off flicker of candles. He feels a pull, and he approaches, taking in what he sees.

It’s a group of five teenagers with an Ouija board. Predictable. He snorts, and expects that sound to alert the kids to his presence, but they don’t even turn to see what the noise could be. He steps closer, until he’s fully illuminated by the glowing ring of candles around them, and he tries to be friendly. “Hey, just a normal livin’ adult human man, in a cemetery, at night, approachin’ a group of children. You kids wanna be helpful an’ call me a cab?” BJ tries, but he’s ignored. The kids don’t even look in his direction. He remembers being a snot nosed teen, but this is a bit much. His blood boils, and he leans down, claps his hands in one of the teen’s faces, and she responds to that, but not in the way he wants. “I think I just felt a cold spot!” she tells her friends. “In front of my face, just now!” “Calm down with that,” a red haired girl shoots her a look. “We haven’t even started yet, and you’re already having a spiritual experience. Yeah, right.” “No you guys, really!”

“Lookit me,” he interrupts them. The children continue to squabble. His gut clenches. “Look at me!” he demands, storming to the center of the circle, and kicking at their stupid board game. His boot goes through it. They don’t react. Why would they, he realizes, sinking to sit on top of the board.

He’s invisible.

He tries to recall everything Juno had said, as he’d struggled to keep conscious, while impaled. Loneliness. Invisibility, being at the command of the living. Being… forgotten. No, no, NO- His impending freak out is stymied when he feels hands go through him, and he shoots up, hovering over the board game, as the teens below him react. “Oh my god, total cold spot! Should we like, make a note of that?” “Come on, come on, let’s start, while there’s still someone or something here!”

The five teens lean forward, each placing fingers on the planchette. “Is there anyone here?” one of them asks.

Betelgeuse stares, and feels a tug, again, clearly coming from the board. He knows some demons use these things to play with their food, before they eat, so he gives it a go, and floats over the game, head down, feet in the air, like he’s diving underwater. Maybe these kids can actually help him. He pushes the planchette with one finger, to land on “Yes.”

“Did you do that?” one boy asks, and the group devolves into the kids blaming each other, and he rakes his hands down his face, and tries to move the planchette, again, but they’re too busy squabbling, they’re not touching it anymore. Fuck, this is frustrating. He’s never wanted a group of teenagers to drop dead as badly as he does right now. Finally, they put their hands back on the pointer, and ask another question. “Are you friendly?”

This time, he pushes the planchette to spell, instead. “S-U-R-E.” “That doesn’t instill a lot of confidence,” the redhead from before mutters. “What do you want?” He nudges the pointer along, painstakingly slow. “H-O-M-E.” “You want to go home?” “YES.”

“For fuck sake, yes,” he groans, and then perks as one asks, “How can we help you?” Well… he’s not actually sure. He squints, trying and failing to recall everything Juno had said. How is he supposed to work with this curse thing, when he doesn’t know the rules? He digs his hands in his pockets, frustrated, and then blinks, because there’s what feels like a business card there, one that he doesn’t remember. He pulls the paper from his pocket, studies it.

BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE BEETLEJUICE

He remembers the way Juno had chanted his name, before he’d lost consciousness. That must be it, then. His name is his burden.

“M-Y-N-A-M-E-T-H-R-E-E-T-I-M-E-S”

“Oh, wait, wait, guys, I’ve heard of this,” one of the girls gasps. “Demonic entities, they have you do things in threes, to mock the trinity, you know, father, son, and holy ghost. It’s a demon thing! We might be talking to a non-human spirit!” “That means we can’t trust it, right?” A boy asks, and they all look uneasy. He steers the planchette around the board, desperate. “W-A-N-N-A-H-O-M-E-P-L-Z.” The redhead wrinkles her nose. “Do demons use chat speak?” she asks, glancing around the group.

“O-H-M-Y-G-O-D-U-K-I-D-S-A-R-E-K-I-L-L-I-N-M-E.”

“I’m not afraid. Tell us your name, spirit!” a boy calls, and he gives the planchette a push, intent on spelling it. The pointer doesn’t move. “Come the fuck on!” he growls, but it doesn’t matter how much strength he puts into the action, he can’t move the dinky plastic piece to spell out his name.

“Spirit? You there?”

“F-U-C-K,” he spells out, in a rage, because this is pointless, he’s too exhausted and sore to think of how to make this work, and he just wants to go home, and see what’s left of his family. He growls again, and then snuffs all the candles in the circle, all at once, causing the kids to scream, and scramble, and that, at least, forces a rictus grin from him. He’s always enjoyed the sounds of terror. He leaves the children tripping over themselves in the dark, and decides he’s going to have to make his way home the old fashioned way- floating. At least he doesn’t have to walk, he supposes, tucking his legs under himself, and he floats invisibly out of the cemetery, and down the sidewalk, trying to focus on how good it will be to see Lydia and Charles, and not on how they won’t see him, and especially not on how every part of him, physically, emotionally, mentally, is hurting. read the rest over here~ If you're totally lost, I find starting at the beginning of something often makes the middle of something make better sense. So you can start at the very beginning right HERE

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice fic #beetlelands fic #beetlejuice broadway #beetlejuice the musical #my writing #lydia deetz #charles deetz #emily deetz #shorter chapter now to facilitate longer chapter in the future. it is what it is beloveds

11 notes · View notes

bookaddict19 · 5 years ago

Text

Sleeping with the Enemy (Part 2) | Fred Weasley x Reader

Rating: Mature...eventually. I don’t know.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FRED AND GEORGE WEASLEY! Thank you all for the support that I received from the first part of this fic. If you haven’t Part 1, I will post a link below. Part 2 is a little bit longer than the first one, so I’m sorry about that. No hate, please. But if you like it, let me know and I will continue adding to it.

PART 1

Y/N stretched out on her back. Her dark head rested on Draco’s chest while her bare feet brushed the sun-soaked grass that surrounded their picnic blanket like the sea surrounds a distant island. She had left her sunglasses inside and was attempting to shield her eyes from the sun’s glistening rays with the pages of her book. Draco, as usual, had found himself unable to stay even remotely still or quiet. During the past hour, he alternated between playing with Y/N’s hair, talking (mostly to himself) about the day’s upcoming Quidditch match, and doodling what Y/N could only assume was Potter’s name over and over again in the dirt.

“I wonder what he looks like without his glasses,” Draco said as he twirled a piece of her hair.

“Who?” Y/N asked annoyed. She was sure she knew who he was referring too but was highly irritated that he was interrupting her reading to ask her daft questions.

“Who do you think” he sneered jokingly.

“I’m going to go out on a limb,” she paused thinking. Her stalling was getting on his nerves and she knew it. Y/N smiled. “…and say probably like Harry Potter…but without glasses”

“You’re impossible,” he laughed as he fell back onto the blanket and started drawing in the grass again. She had always loved the sound of his laugh. It was rare and musical, so very different from the false barking sound he made when he told a nasty joke or made a cruel comment.

“That’s me,” she smiled sarcastically, returning to her reading. “Miss Impossible.” They quieted for a few minutes, each content in their own endeavor.

“If Ned Stark dies, I swear to Merlin, I will go back to America if only to hunt down this sadistic writer and turn him into a dung beetle,” Y/N mumbled to herself as she turned the page; the motion causing the sun to momentarily pierce her eyes. Draco wasn’t listening. She sighed and closed the book in order to sit up and face him. His smile had faded. “What are you doing?” she rolled her eyes at him. Slowly, the pale-headed boy pulled his eyes away from his drawings in the dirt to find hers.

“I think that I have earned the right to wallow in self-pity for a bit,” he stated placidly. Y/N put her hand on his cheek as she had done just hours before and thought back to the events of last night.

***

Y/N had awoken, still wrapped in Draco’s arms, to a searing pain in her left forearm. She struggled to her feet; sleep still attempting to pull her back into it’s dark embrace. She turned to find Draco doubled-over on his side, his face strained in pain. Something’s wrong, she thought, her breath coming in short gasps. “Really? Didn’t notice,” Draco groaned, his face pressed against the pillows of couch. She didn’t realize she had spoken aloud. The pain of the mark and the drowsiness from her lack of sleep had her mind swimming in a pool of confusion. Her senses were overloading. She couldn’t breathe. Somewhere in her murky waters of her mind she heard something crash to the floor. Draco had fallen off of his place on the couch, beads of sweat dripped from the side of his head and onto the carpet. She couldn’t see his face.

As Y/N made her way to Draco’s side, she struggled to get her breathing under control. She collapsed. The left side of her body cried out in pain as she crawled towards him. What to do? What to do? What to do? The words ran through her mind in a continuous fashion that made them lose all meaning. She was almost to him when she suddenly cried out. It seemed that Draco’s glass from their previous night of drinking had crashed to floor with him and shattered into pieces. Her stomach turned as her gaze found her mangled hand. Blood and bits of glass protruded from the wound. Black dots filled her vision as she tried to make sense of what was happening. She took a deep breath. The left side of her body had become completely immobile. Her Dark Mark continued to pulse with pain and, a few inches below it, her injured hand stung with the slightest of movement. As her blood dripped to the floor, her vision came back into focus. Blood, she thought dully. What had Dumbledore told her about blood?

Her scattered mind thought back to a conversation that seemed a lifetime ago. “Blood is power,” he said, his wizened voiced crackled like the hearth before them. “Blood is life and death. Something that binds us to our ancestry and our progeny…it’s no surprise that many of our kind believe it to be the source of our magic and something to be revered.”

Blood, she thought again as she reached Draco. She moved her right hand to her injured one; the crimson liquid felt warm to her touch. Symbols flashed in her mind. Ancient drawings, long forgotten, from archaic grimoires passed down from a time before wands became the new fashion. As her fingers became her quill and her blood became her ink, Y/N began to draw the symbols that now flashed before her eyes onto her arm, just above the Dark Mark. As the pain began to subside, she turned her attention to Draco. After repeating the ritual, Y/N slump on her side; her head resting on Draco’s shoulder. His color was coming back.

“He’s angry,” Draco whispered, his breath rustled her hair as he spoke. She whimpered in pain. Her hand was still bleeding. She was weak and felt as though she had used more magic in the last few hours than she had since she had come back to Britain. “It’s okay,” Draco soothed. It wasn’t. As he reached for his wand in order to mend her hand, her fingers found his cheek. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”

***

“And speaking of self-pity,” Draco muttered under his breath, pulling her out of her reprieve. Y/N followed his eyes. Potter, Granger, and Weasley were making their way across the grounds; their heads bent in deep conversation. When the trio neared the entryway to the castle, they stopped and sat down on the grass. Potter moved to rest his hand on Weasley’s shoulder. Y/N felt Draco tense beside her. Something seemed to be wrong. Weasley’s freckled face was wet, his nose dripped dribble onto his shirt. He certainly was not a pretty crier, Y/N thought to herself. Draco made a move to get up. Apparently, gawking at Potter was not on today’s agenda.

“Come on,” he said as he made to pull the picnic blanket out from up under her. “We’re leaving.”

“Hey! I’m not finished with my book,” she screeched at him as she tumbled onto the grass. “Get up,” he commanded and pulled her to her feet. Y/N grabbed her book off the ground and began to brush the grass from her dark clothes, muttering curses under her breath. As they made their way to the castle, Y/N struggled to keep up with Draco’s long strides. She was panting from having to almost jog to stay at his heels.

“Slow down, you git,” Y/N called out to him. She tripped. As she brought herself to her feet, a slew of profanities on her lips, she came face-to-face with Potter, Weasley, and Granger.

“Potter,” she nodded awkwardly. “Fancy meeting you here.” She made a move to leave. Weasley was attempting to wipe the tears and dribble from his face. Besides the flaming hair, Y/N could hardly believe that him and the twins were related. Ron’s face was babyish and spotted where Fred’s had been smooth and chiseled, with only the dusting of freckles to mark it. The thought of Fred made her palms start to sweat and her heart beat a bit faster. She turned and found herself facing a very displeased Draco Malfoy.

“Potter,” he said, looking over Y/N’s shoulder and into the dark-haired boy’s green eyes.

“Malfoy,” Potter replied.

“Black,” Y/N mumbled, feeling left out. Draco looked at her, a highly exasperated expression on his face.

“We were just leaving,” Draco muttered. He grabbed Y/N’s arm and attempted to pull her away.

“Death Eater dealings to tend too, I presume,” Weasley said, his voice cracking. He was no longer crying. His face flushed red with anger. And here we go, Y/N thought. Draco was the first to lunge, wand completely forgotten. He crashed into Weasley. Punches were being tossed around by both boys, the majority of them failing to connect. Draco grabbed Weasley by the neck and pinned him to the ground. Potter, seeing Weasley’s distressed, kicked Draco in the ribs causing him to cry out.

“Excuse me, Granger,” Y/N said, pushing the bushy-haired girl out of the way. She jumped onto Potter’s back and sent the both of them tumbling to the ground. The next few minutes were filled with elbows and fists, punches and kicks until a harsh Scottish voice yelled, “THAT IS ENOUGH.” McGonagall marched over as the brawlers broke apart. Granger began tending to Potter and Weasley’s wounds as Y/N examined Draco’s blackening eye. “Well, that was fun while it lasted,” she smirked.

“In all my years,” McGonagall shrieked as the pair pulled themselves to their feet. “Detention. Immediately. All of you, go! And 50 points each will be taken from both of your houses.”

Next to her, Draco had paled. “But, professor,” he started. “Slytherin’s match starts in an hour! If I could just–” “Absolutely not, Mr. Malfoy,” Professor McGonagall stated firmly. “You should of thought of that before you started brawling like common miscreants.” Draco quieted. His dark gray eyes burned like embers as he watched a smirk form on Potter and Weasley’s faces.

Hours later, the Slytherin common room was filled with streams of slightly-inebriated students swaying to the beat of the Weird Sisters’ latest album. Draco, who had been in a sour mood since the fight (and subsequent detention), had orchestrated what Y/N could only describe as a night of pure debauchee in an attempt to atone for missing the match. Despite lacking their seeker, the Slytherin team had managed (probably through a great deal of cheating) to beat Hufflepuff and Draco was desperate to make everyone forget that he wasn’t there help. He was doing a good job, Y/N thought to herself as she sipped her butterbeer and watched as Pansy Parkinson led a Hufflepuff boy up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory. Y/N sat at the edge of the festivities, careful not to get too close to the action. In spite of the cheer in the room, a gloom had begun to settle over her like a dark shadow.

“What are you doing?” Draco said as he sat down next to her; a smile played on his lips as he admired his handywork. Clearly, he was feeling better, Y/N thought as she watched him sway drunkenly. The party was in full swing. Butterbeer had been passed out to anyone who didn’t already have a drink in their hand, and someone had snuck down to the kitchens because biscuits and cauldron cakes now littered the counters. The room was filled with the sounds of music and laughter as students danced to the melody. A Ravenclaw girl and a Slytherin boy were making out on one of the nearby couches. Y/N was worried if he stuck his tongue any farther down her throat then he would accidently swallow her.

“Self-medicating,” Y/N answered, waving her glass in his face. He rolled his eyes. She forced a smile at his exasperation and began to scan the crowd again. A flash of flaming red hair caught her attention. Her breath caught in throat as she attempted to zero in on the source but whoever it was had quickly faded back into the crowd. Y/N tried squash the feeling of disappointment that bloomed in her chest. She had not seen Fred Weasley since the night before but he had rarely left her thoughts since then. There was something about being clustered together in the dark stairwell as magic sparked around them that made the experience hard to forget. Not that they had much contact in the past. She had always found him and his twin quite amusing. Their thirst for chaos seemed to almost mimic her own at times. But she had never spoke much to either of them and both had a deep mistrust of Slytherins.

“You know, you turn into a terrible bore when you get in one of your moods,” Draco muttered, bringing her attention back to the present. “Do you even remember what fun looks like,” He pointed at a tawny-haired Ravenclaw boy who was dancing nearby. The boy turned, raised his glass to them and smiled. “Because that is fun.”

“I don’t particularly like blondes,” Y/N mumbled, a real smile had begun to form on her lips as she ruffled Draco’s pale hair. “Besides, I think he’s more your type than mine.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Draco said with a disappointed sigh. “He’s good friends with Hannah Abbott. She’s here somewhere. Forgive me if I don’t want to get hexed again by that little minx.” His eyes darted around. “I don’t know why she hates me so much,” he mused to himself.

Y/N laughed. “Well, you did shag her in one of the Quidditch locker rooms and never talked to her again.”

“No, I shagged her brother in one of the Quidditch locker rooms,” Draco corrected. “I kissed her at Warrington’s back-to-school party last term and…okay, I see your point.” Y/N snickered again. “I’ll keep an eye out for Hannah if you want to try your luck,” she offered as she nodded to the Ravenclaw boy.

“I love you,” Draco smirked devilishly. He kissed her forehead before making his way over to the boy. “I know,” she replied softly but he was already too far away to hear. As Y/N made her way through the crowd, she kept an eye out for Hannah. Y/N didn’t think that Hannah would make a scene in the middle of the Slytherin common room but Draco did have an affinity for falling for the crazy ones. Take Potter for example, Y/N thought to herself. She didn’t know what he saw in the scar-faced wizard besides the fact that he was totally and completely off limits. But maybe that was part of the appeal, she mused as her thoughts began to wander back to Fred. She got another drink. It was her third…no fourth…no…did it really matter? It was only butterbeer. She smiled to herself. As the warm liquid burned in her throat, the gloom that had settled in her chest was starting to fade again.

A flicker of red caught her eye again. She turned and came face-to-face with a pair of stormy blue eyes. Her smile faded as her eyes instinctively searched the room for Draco. If he found at about last night…she would most definitely have some explaining to do. She grabbed Fred’s hand and quickly led him out of the common room, stepping on a few partiers’ feet in the process. “If your back for seconds, dear Weasley, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you,” she said rather sarcastically. Once she reached the hall, she turned and looked at him. For a moment, they stood there, not quite close enough to touch. Y/N could hear the sounds of the laughter and music echoing in the hallway of the dungeons. She tore her gaze away from Fred’s to scan the scene for the eyes of prying professors or drunk partygoers. She knew that the underage drinking, premarital sex, and who knows what else Draco had planned for the night, would likely be received with the same sentiment from the Hogwarts staff as the less than traditional magic she had performed the night before.

After assuring herself that the coast was clear, she returned her attention to Fred. Her spell had worked wonders, if she did say so herself. Fred stood before her, a picture of health. His crimson hair glittered in the torchlight; the fine golden strands that were mixed in with the red becoming more pronounced. His blue eyes were dark with determination as he wiped the sweat from his brow. As his cheeks flushed with color, she watched the way his pale arm, strengthen from years exertion from grueling Quidditch matches, brought his hand to rest on the back of his neck. She remembered how that hand had felt in hers just only last night, when they sat huddled together in the darkness as magic filled the corridor.

“I…,” He searched her eyes, pleading. “I need a favor.”

Her eyes hardened as an involuntary, almost manic laugh escaped her lips. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Please,” he begged. “It’s George. He’s not getting better. He’s in the hospital wing and Madam Pomfrey insists that there is nothing to be done except wait…they’ve sent an owl to my parents...something about the curse reaching his bloodstream…” he faltered.

Her heart immediately went out to him. Umbridge must have spelled these quills under a blood moon for their magic to be so potent. If the curse had made it to George’s bloodstream then it wouldn’t be much longer. He most likely had only a few days, a week at most, left before his poison reached his brain. Even then, it wouldn’t be a peaceful death. Y/N briefly wondered how Umbridge would explain such a thing to the Ministry but had no doubt that somehow, some way, she would be able to do so. Fred was still watching Y/N’s face as if she were a locked box that he had been told not to open but he was desperate to find a way in. He stood there asking a girl, who most would view as his enemy, for help. However, despite his distress, there were no tears in his eyes. Just stony resolve. If that wasn’t the bravery of a lionheart, she didn’t know what was. Nevertheless, she couldn’t risk her mission, her life, or, even worse, Draco’s life to play nurse to the Weasley twins. She was here for one purpose and that purpose was likely to her killed at best and a whole bunch of others killed at worse. She knew what she had to do, even if she didn’t like it.

Y/N plastered a haughty, fake smile to her face despite not being able to meet his eyes. “I’m going to with no…but thanks. Your faith in my abilities is very flattering,” she responded curtly. She started again, intending to walk past him and back into the common room, when he grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him. She bristled, caught off guard. With a twitch of her free hand, she sent a shock through Fred that had him scrambling backwards. Y/N took this opportunity to escape, making it halfway down the hall before Fred’s words halted her progress.

“What if it was Malfoy?” Fred yelled at her. She turned to look at him. Her breath came in rushed gasps. She was losing control. “What?” she breathed. “Draco, I mean,” Fred started again. “What if Umbridge had hurt Draco? What if it were him in the hospital wing right now?” he finished.

She started towards him, her hands crackling with magic. “I would personally burn that human Pepto-Bismol bottle at the stake before I’d let her touch hair on his head,” she spat. To Fred’s credit, he didn’t flinch away. He simply looked at her, the determination that she had admired just minutes before remained in his darkening eyes. There was something else there too. A fierce loyalty, a quiet desire for revenge, a need for chaos that mirrored that in her own eyes.

“Well…I was thinking of something little bit less dramatic,” he smirked. “Mum still refuses to let George and I play with matches and I’ve never been very skilled at pyrotechnic charms,” he shrugged. “Although, I wouldn’t get in your way if your wanted to try.”

She bit her lip in an attempt to keep a straight face. Her anger had disappeared as quickly as it had come on. Could he never be serious? But the tenacity in his eyes had remained constant. “Please,” he whispered again. Her eyes met his; her thoughts sobering. “Don’t make me regret this, Weasley,” she whispered back. He smiled slightly, turning on his heels as he did so to walk back in the direction of the hospital wing. It was like walking with Draco. For every step he took, Y/N had to take two. She was out of breath by the time she made it up the first landing.

It was late when Fred and Y/N arrived in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey was nowhere to be found. From the smell of dung bombs in the air, Y/N assumed Fred had ensured that they wouldn’t be disturbed. They would have to make this quick. George was lying in the only taken bed in the room. Y/N suddenly understood why Ron was crying earlier. George was deathly pale; his chin was stained red like he had been coughing up blood. He showed no sign that he registered the pair entering the room. Fred rushed to his brother’s side and put his hand on his forehead like he was trying to take his temperature.

“You can fix him, right?” he said to her. Y/N walked to the boy’s bedside. If not for the slow, irregular movements of his chest, she would’ve thought he was already dead. This would take a lot of magic and she wasn’t quite sure that she would have enough. She also wasn’t sure why she was willing to risk it for a boy she barely knew. But one look into Fred’s pleading eyes and she had her answer. He looked at her with all the faith in the world. The only other person who had ever done that was Draco.

“I can try,” she whispered. She took George’s hand; she was conscious of Fred’s eyes on her the entire time. She took a deep breath and began to softly chant the words to the same spell that she had used the night before to heal Fred’s hand. Fred watched as lights in the room began to dim as her voice rose higher and higher. The burned smell of magic filled the air and made it hard for him to breathe. Fear filled his heart as his eyes returned to Y/N. She was pale and shaking. Blood flowed from her nose and onto her shirt as her lips whispered the words of the spell.

“Black, that’s enough,” Fred rose to his feet and made his way to her. “Stop.” He put a hand on her arm. With a flick of her spare hand, she sent Fred flying across the room. He smashed against the wall and cried out, more in shock than in pain. “I can do this,” she whispered breathlessly, pulling her eyes away from George to look at Fred. Her eyes, Fred thought. They were no longer the chocolate-colored irises that he had grown accustomed to looking for in crowds. Instead, her eyes seem to burn an unearthly gold. Fred attempted to move towards her again but the force of her magic kept him pinned to the wall. She had lost control. “I can do this,” he heard her fanatically whisper again as she returned her attention back to George and resumed the chant.

A soft, golden light flowed from her hands to George’s. The twin’s color had started to return. His chest moved at a steady rhythm as his breathing returned to normal. Just a little bit more, Y/N thought. Cuts appeared on Y/N’s wrists as her stamina began to fade. She fought the urge to cry out as black dots filled her vision. With her attention diverted, Fred attempted struggle out of his invisible bonds. And then…it was over. As the torches rose to their full stature once more, Fred felt the invisible chains that bound him fade away. Y/N rose to look at him; her eyes had returned to the same dark brown that they had been when he had met her in the Slytherin common room earlier that night. She was pale and bleeding but a triumphant, cocky smile had formed on her lips before she collapsed. Fred rushed to her side. He picked her up and laid her gingerly on the bed next to his twin’s.

“Black, are you okay?” Fred whispered as he moved her dark hair out her eyes. “Y/N…” he whispered again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered sleepily. “I lost control for a bit at the end.” She smiled like, despite the spell almost killing her, it had been a hell of a good time. Fred sighed, relieved that she was at least well enough to joke about it. He got up and began to rummage through Madam Pomfrey’s supplies in order to find something to bandage Y/N’s wounds. The pair sat in silence as Fred dressed the cuts on her wrists, neither really knew what to say.

“Freddie…” a voice from the bed beside them murmured groggily. Y/N fell back into the pillows of her hospital bed as Fred turned his attention to his brother. George looked like he was slowly waking up from a long, pleasant dream. His cheeks, which had been white as a sheet just minutes before, now flushed red as he yawned. He stretched and attempted to sit up.

“Easy, there, Sleeping Beauty,” Fred warned. “You need rest.”

George smiled drowsily. “Don’t have to tell me twice, little brother,” he mumbled as turned over on his side and began to snore softly. Fred watched him worriedly.

“He’ll be fine,” Y/N assured as she struggled back into a sitting position. “The spell took. I’m sure of it. Otherwise, it probably would have killed him,” she mused. Fred turned to look at her sharply.

“Only joking,” She attempted a smile. “Mostly,” she muttered to herself.

“Thank you,” Fred whispered. His eyes searched hers as he approached her. She couldn’t tell if it was fear or nerves that made his hands shake as he walked around his brother’s hospital bed to sit by her. “Yeah. Yeah,” she tutted, not looking at him. She felt weak and sick, but attempted to muster some of her usual sarcasm. “The next time I’m charging you, Weasley. And, believe me, you can’t afford me.”

“It’s Fred. Just Fred,” he laughed. The sound made her heart race and her foot begin to tap in a nervous gesture.

His hand rested on her arm; their faces were so close that she could feel the heat coming off of his body. Why was he always so warm? she thought as her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes moved down his face to where, even in the midst of all of this fear and pain, a ghost of a smile still played hide-and-seek on his lips. His grip tightened on her arm. The embrace was not enough to hurt her but enough to bring her back to her senses. If not for the glamour on her arm, he would be able to look down and see his fingers wrapped around her Dark Mark.

“Weasley…” she trailed off, not sure where to start or what to say. He moved closer to her; his eyes bright. His hand began to make its way from her arm to brush a dark curl out of her face. “Fred…” she whispered warningly.

“What the bloody hell is going on here,” said a panicked voice that made both Fred and Y/N jump apart. Draco Malfoy was standing in the doorway of the hospital wing clutching a bleeding arm. And he looked anything but happy.

#Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #Draco Malfoy #draco X harry #draco x reader #fred weasley #fred weasley x slytherin reader #fred weasley x reader #george weasley #fred and goerge weasley #slytherin #slytherin reader #happy birthday fred and george

132 notes · View notes

ds-ts-smut-fics · 4 years ago

Text

Cave Boys [Chapter One]

Edit: Please tell me if the ‘read more’ isn’t working because this is the third time I tried adding it in and on our blog, it shows, but when I see it on my dash it isn’t there. I’m really sorry if it’s still not working.

Synopsis: While exploring, Logan finds an unknown cave. He’s too curious for his own good and wanders inside, only to be kidnapped by monsters and taken to their civilization as a prize to be sold to the highest bidder.

Genre: Logan-centric whump with a happy ending for all, NSFW, romantic intrulogical, parental loceit, parental logicality, romantic moceit, background romantic prinxiety

Trigger warnings (for the entire fic): Angst and whump, blood, gore, kidnapping, monsters, human in a cage, human in a collar, human on a leash, I think maybe technically body horror?, implied unsympathetic Janus, implied unsympathetic Virgil (neither of them is unsympathetic they’re both just assholes lol), human slavery, human being treated as property, human up for sale, threats, eventual non-con, lots of bullying, poverty

Trigger warnings (for this chapter): Traps, ankle injuries, knives that go unused, suicidal speech, talk of a person ‘fading’ (very briefly and it doesn’t happen), arguing and insults, implied poverty

Word count: 6171

Written by: Claire and Virgil

Edited by: Virgil

A/N: Hi, I played Janus and if you ask me where his personality comes from, I have no answer ~Mod Virgil

When Logan was upset, he explored the forest by his house.

The woods spread over hundreds of miles. They were covered in towering pines, ground in thick moss and large boulders. There were plenty of places of interest marked out and documented— Hot springs, caves, clearings, ponds.

Logan had visited all of them.

It got to the point where he merely wandered, focusing on landmarks instead of the people who upset him, who had once again let him down. After all, he had to be able to find his way home. A few times he got lost in the forest for longer than desired.

He was several hours into his hike, in a direction he had never been before, when he came across an undocumented cave. He checked every centimetre of his map- The one he updated every night -but no one knew of its existence.

Humming, he flicked on his light, circling the area just in case, and making a note of the find in his journal before stepping in carefully, eyes wide with wonder. “Stupendous…."

The entrance of the cave was made of high ceilings and jagged walls covered in moss. The gurgling of running water from somewhere to his left echoed through the room, and straight across, through a narrow crack in the wall, was something… Glowing. Glittering, even, shining with purple, pink, yellow, and blue.

Gasping softly, he crept carefully towards the crack, a small shiver running down his spine. "Were I more superstitious, I would say this is a fairy ring or some nonsense… how does it shimmer like that though!” Reaching out, he slipped some gloves on to touch the nearest one, the darkest blue he’d ever seen.

It was… So warm. Warm and beautiful. What was this rock- No, crystal? If he got some of it back home, he could test it… He’d have to get through the crack to harvest some of it.

Leaning out a little further, he grunted. The moment he stumbled out of the crack, metal slid against metal, and as bars flipped upward to lock him in a claustrophobic cage, pain exploded in his ankle as something clamped around it. Cheers sounded nearby.

A terrified yelp spilled from his lips as he pushed and pulled at the metal. What’s going on?!

Thick, hairy hands curl around the bars of the cage, the metal screeching along the stone floor as Logan was hauled into the darkness.

“That’s four for me,” the voice closest to him grunts, “and none for you. Have you noticed that? I have.”

His hands flew to his ears. He quickly lost track of where he was, darkness and the long strides of whoever, or whatever, now had him, making it impossible. The screaming pain in his ankle had hardly subsided by the time the moving finally stopped. The only direction Logan was certain he went in was down. He started to realize why this place wasn’t marked on the map.

“Do him like the other humans, there should be an open spot close to the city,” the same voice ordered. “I’ll go update the books.”

His heart sunk. He flinched back as a long arm reached for him. The monster tugged at him even as he kicked with his unbound leg, fumbling in his pockets for his knife and swiping. “Get the hell away! Let me go!!”

The thing laughed gleefully as its slim form easily avoided his slashes. “You know,” it clamped down on Logan’s injured ankle, pain forming black spots in his vision, “those stupid crystal things were the best thing we’ve ever done for our jobs. Made things so much easier.”

Logan snarled, certain that if he could just get one hit in, it would be fine. Maybe he’d even wake up, bed sheets wrapped around his ankles instead of this millipede nightmare.

“If you don’t stop struggling,” it sang, “you’ll never be able to use that ankle again.” It squeezed tighter, digging the metal further into his flesh, Logan’s vision turning white.

He screamed and fell limp.

The thing dragged him forward by his ankle and slapped something against his neck. It crumpled and curled around like a collar, but the material was some type of metal Logan didn’t recognize. It almost… Harnessed heat. The longer it stuck to his skin, the more it burned, like holding your hand too close to fire without touching it.

It clipped a chain on the collar and dragged Logan across the dirt floor. Logan will never forget the things he saw as it led him further into the cave system.

It brought him down to an area with square holes cut in the walls, light seeping into the makeshift hallway. What could only be described as monsters peeked through the windows, watching Logan with expressions he couldn’t recognize. There was occasional hissing, chirping, incoherent English mumbling… But not a human in sight.

Slumped in the larger pen, he tried to put together what had happened for a long time after the creature left, he finally had looked down to see the bloody mess his ankle was, and the trap attached to it. It throbbed with his panicked heartbeat ever since he had given up getting it off.

“You’re such a bitch, you know that?”

An androgynous voice, sounding almost-human, echoed down the hall as two pairs of footsteps headed for his cage. Were they human? Were they going to save him?

Shifting to his feet, Logan carefully hopped back a little. A soft whine left his lips as he imagined the horror to come.

“What?! I’m a bitch?!” A louder tone answered, an almost trill to the end echoing off the cavern walls. “You!” The voice sputtered, as if trying and failing to defend itself. “You’re not even looking at me, fang boy!”

“I don’t have to look at you to know you’re a moron. You’ve tripped over more rocks than me, and I’m fucking blind.”

Two figures came into Logan’s vision. One of them was biped, and looked vaguely humanoid, but a long snout protruded from its face and in place of nails, long, black talons curled. They were sharp enough to slit Logan’s throat. The thing’s eyes, for what tiny slits they were, had no colour.

Gesturing with a broad swipe, the second figure proclaimed loudly, “So, I wanted to be fashionable and pretty for the new arrivals, Count Woe-laff! So sue me!"

“Count… Who?”

Logan gingerly hopped out of range of the claws and the cloak the louder one wore. It floated and fluttered, as if it sat on a tide. Eyes lifting to meet Logan’s, the loud one found a rock and went down hard. He squeezed out a pained breath.

The badger thing slapped a paw to its face, right above his snout. “God, you are such a moron.” It knelt down and wrapped a paw around the other’s wrist, and for a moment Logan thought those talons were going to draw blood, but the thing helped its counterpart up and patted its back roughly.

Huffing, it dusted off, just now noticing Logan. "So, I missed a safety measure or three. Did you see-? Oh! There’s a human!"

A deep rumble fell from the badger boy’s throat, presumably a laugh. “No, I don’t see. But do you know how I know anyway? Because I listen when we’re given orders.”

The two of them stopped in front of Logan’s cage. The badger held large, flat pieces of stone and ran a single talon along it. The nail wormed its way between all the grooves and indentations, face clenched in concentration.

“Logan?” It tried. “Did I say that right? You’re listed as male, is that correct?”

Mouth opening a few times, Logan managed after a few moments, "I… Yes? How do you know that?! I haven't… There weren’t any questions asked!”

“Everything I have here is first impressions, things our superiors could tell from sight. My name is Virgil, and the idiot back there is Roman. He uses he/him, I use they/them. What do you use?” They cocked their head towards Roman and mumbled, “Did I ask that correctly?”

Roman snorted softly. “I’m not an idiot, V!"

"Yes, a bit stiff and formal, but basically correct. I prefer he/him pronouns and my name is Logan. Why am I here? Can either of you get this device off of my leg?!” He balanced, using a part of the cage furthest from the two beings, uncertainty clouding his mind.

“You were unlucky,” Virgil answered, and then the rest of Logan’s words caught up with them. They snapped something in a language Logan didn’t understand, in the same implication of one spitting out a chain of curses, and asked, “Damnit, Roman, did they leave that fucking thing on again?”

“Looks like it. They pushed it in, too! Even when they struggle, that’s just mean!” Lilting sounds left his lips in much the same implied tone. “We have to get closer to get it off.”

“I’ll do it. Just make sure he doesn’t escape.” Virgil gave Roman the tablets and pulled a set of keys from one of their many pockets. They spoke as they unlocked the door. “Roman and I are assigned to guard you when you’re on good behaviour. If you act out too much, we can’t help, and you won’t like where you end up.” They knelt in front of Logan and pat the ground. “Put your ankle right here. You’re going to have to trust us, and accept the situation.”

Slowly pushing off the wall, Logan carefully slid to where Virgil indicated, voice soft and stubbornly resigned. “Do I have a choice? I don’t know where ‘here’ is or how to get home, even if I thought that I could walk or climb to get there.”

“You’re smarter than most humans they catch.” Virgil slipped a talon into a slot on the device, a thin tongue poking between their lips. They plunged the talon deeper, and the device popped off, ripping off some of Logan’s skin with it.

“FUCK! That hurts!” He groaned. He tugged his foot close and rocked, pressing at the bleeding parts of his foot. He glared. “What good does being smart do me? I’m still here.”

“I’m sorry.” They sounded genuine. “I didn’t want to warn you, it would have just freaked you out.” Virgil stood and left the cage, closing and locking the door behind them. They took the tablets back from Roman. “We don’t have a lot of human food. Do you have… Uh, fuck, what did that girl call it? Come on, Roman, speak up, you know way more about humans than I do.”

Roman jumped a little. “Which girl, the one that had those little bars in her bag or the one that said she couldn’t eat nuts?”

“The one who couldn’t eat nuts. She said it’d kill her. We weren’t aware humans weren’t able to eat all human foods. That’s so fucking weird… You guys are fucking weird, you know that?”

“Those are called allergies. Sensitivity in differing degrees to parts of our environment. I don’t have an allergy to anything. That I’ve encountered so far at least?”

A horrible grating sound sliced through the air as Virgil noted that down with their talon. “And how old are you? We’ve tried guessing age before but another thing humans are fucking weird with, you guys don’t look the same ever.”

Covering his ears, Logan gritted his teeth. “Twenty- I’m twenty years old.”

Virgil noted that down as well and, to Logan’s immense relief, pocketing the tablets. “Okay. So what’s gonna happen is I’m gonna grab you some food while Princey here watches you, then-”

“VIRGIL! ROMAN!” An impatient voice echoed through the corridor, rapidly coming closer. “I’M HERE TO MEET THE NEW HUMAN!”

“Get lost, Janus,” Virgil growled. “The human’s not open for meet and greets yet!”

Logan hissed softly, pushing back against the wall. No more new things…

At first glance, the rapidly approaching creature looked human. It almost startled hope in Logan, until it came into the light.

It was not human.

Its skin was ghostly pale in the spaces it wasn’t covered in shimmering green scales. Its eyes were slit like a snake’s, its fangs poking out between its lips. It had similar talons to Virgil’s, but a fraction of the length and looked almost manicured.

A dazzling grin slid across its face as its eyes landed on Logan. “Oh, hello darling.” It frowned, gaze dropping to his ankle. “Oh, dear, did these two do that to you?”

Virgil shoved the thing. “You can’t keep doing this every fucking time a human arrives. Just because you meet them first doesn’t mean anyone can guarantee you a lower price.”

“P-Price?!” Logan trembled. “You mean I’m to be sold… Like property?!” His vision swam. He curled up tight around his injured limb, rocking slowly as he panicked. “Maybe I should just fucking run… Hope I find a damn cliff or something’s claw…”

All three of them jumped in visible panic, jumping over each other to discourage him.

“-horrible, horrible idea-”

“-please, darling, you’ll only get hurt-”

“-you won’t make it far enough and the punishment will make you regret trying-”

The snake thing wrapped a hand around one of the bars. “I know it looks bleak now, but if you trust me, convince the others that I would be the best buyer… You’ll be happy they took you in the first place.”

Logan laughed with a snort. “Why the fuck would I want something like that?!”

“You’re going to confuse him,” Virgil growled. “Don’t make him think he has any say. Just go and wait for his display day, okay?”

“You’ll look fabulous! And certainly end up with a better owner than snake lips there!” Roman blocked the view with his body, winking.

“I can make you happy!” It insisted. “Please, don’t listen to them! My name is Janus. What’s yours? Let me get to know you, darling.”

“Happy?! Go suck an egg and choke.” Turning, Logan tugged at his ankle, turning to Virgil. “Is there any medical treatment? Water? Clean cloth?”

“Yes, I’ll bring you water with your dinner. Roman, did you-”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Janus did not seem sorry, “but I’m not familiar with that human expression? Was that- Was-”

“You were rejected,” Virgil said flatly. “When are you going to accept that no one wants you?”

“I don’t trust any of you and I don’t like this one bit,” Logan muttered softly.

Janus hesitated, then spun on his heels and left.

Virgil sighed. “Roman, did you remember the gauze?”

Producing a roll from a bag on his hip, Roman nodded. "Of course!”

Virgil took it and unlocked the cage again. “I’ll go grab your food after I get this wrapped up, okay? Did they hurt you anywhere else?” They sat and patted the same spot on the floor.

Slowly stretching out again, Logan thought. “The collar-thing felt like it was burning… But I don’t think so?” Looking at his hands, he hummed.

“Bruises on his hands at least,” Roman piped up, “probably all over from those damn cages.”

Virgil wrapped Logan’s ankle and held out their paws, palms up. “Give me your hands.”

Carefully, Logan held them out, palm down. “What is the purpose of taking humans? What use are we to you?”

“It’s different for each buyer.” Virgil’s dark skin was surprisingly soft as their fingers rubbed along Logan’s palms. “The simple answer is that there’s a huge market for it. There are rumours that people buy humans because they want to take out their anger at being locked down here while you all are free up there, but I think that’s bullshit. We could go up there if we wanted, we just don’t. I think the people who think that are cowards.”

Logan snorted. “Everything I’ve seen here is like a cross between a fantasy tale and a nightmare… Things most people don’t believe even exist! There’s no way there’s a lock or force keeping you here! That’s just not logical!"

“Exactly.” Virgil grinned, squeezing Logan’s hands. “You walked right in, didn’t you? What’s stopping the ones desiring to walk right out?”

"Well… I was exploring, curious. I rather fell in? It was a doorway, though!” He blushed, thinking back. “Seems it was a trap, though, from what they said.”

“Yeah,” Virgil mumbled as they rose to their feet. “It’s those crystals. Humans go crazy for them. The severity depends on the person, but it just makes you want to know… Everything about them. And you’ll put that priority over any others.” Virgil slipped out of the cage, then shut and locked the doors. “Humans are so stupid,” they sighed, and left to get Logan’s food.

Logan curled in on himself. Did I upset them? “Oh…"

Roman hummed softly and slipped into place at the door. "Should we get you more coverings? Are you too cold?"

Pausing, Logan shook his head. Virgil came back a while later with a tray of what looked close to oatmeal, and a few bottles of water. They slid it through a gap in the bars, towards the bottom.

“You should try to sleep after you eat.” They shoved a thick roll of cloth through as well. “Tomorrow’s going to be a big day. You’re going to meet one of our superiors, and she’ll be preparing you for your display day. Please, please obey us, and obey her. If you misbehave, Roman and I will not be able to help you.”

"I… Okay, I’ll do my best. Thank you for the advice. What- What exactly is a display day?"

“One of our superiors will take you to the city, along with some other humans, and, well, put you on display. People come by to meet you and look at you, and bids will start.”

"Oh… Has anyone ever… Gone home?”

Virgil hesitated, expression darkening. “You mean… Left the cave?”

“Yes. Is there a chance that I will ever see the surface again?” He raised his head to watch the expression of this strangely compassionate being. “Will I ever see my home again… Or am I here until I die?”

“Don’t ask questions like that,” Virgil hissed. “That’s exactly the kind of thing that will land you in a place you don’t want to be in. I’m sorry, I’m sure it must be hard to accept, but this is your best option now.”

“Oh…" His head dipped, resting on his knees. "That tells me what I need to know, I guess.”

“It’ll be okay,” Virgil promised. “If you’re smart, you can find yourself a good owner who’ll make you happy.” They looked over their shoulder. “Roman, will you set up our tent? I’m taking second watch tonight.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “Been setting it up as you two gossips talked, guess you really are blind, batboy!”

Virgil looked at them incredulously. “Do you think I’m exaggerating when I say I’m blind?”

Logan couldn’t help but laugh softly, a hand muffling the sound as Roman teased in that other language, causing Virgil to swipe at him.

Virgil finally just rolled their eyes. “Goodnight, Roman. Don’t be stupid, wake me up for my shift, okay?”

He huffed softly. “Fine… Sleep well, emo nightmare!”

“Goodnight, Logan. Let Roman know if you need something.” Virgil ducked into the tent and zipped it up behind them.

Logan spent most of the night struggling to sleep. The blanket Virgil gave him barely softened the hard stone floor, and every time he fell asleep for a few minutes, he jerked awake, body insisting he was in danger. Eventually, he settled for leaning against the back wall of the enclosure and mentally reciting the constellations to try and remain calm. At some point he must have passed out, because he jerked awake when the door opened, an unfamiliar voice speaking with the two guards from earlier.

“How has he been behaving?” The feminine voice asked.

“Perfectly,” Virgil said dryly. “Just went right to bed last night, didn’t even think about escaping.”

“Hmm. That’s perfect. Have you noticed anything strange about him, anything to take note of?”

Roman chuckled. “He seems quite intelligent, if a bit scared. The first crew beat him up a bit and I’m not sure if he’s having issues from that first handling?”

“Hmm,” she sounded indifferent, “I’ll check when we get him to the tailor. We’ll definitely have to market his intelligence, most humans are so dumb.”

Slowly pushing up, Logan hummed softly as dread crept into his stomach. Watching her body language for clues, he steeled himself for whatever she might do to ‘display’ him.

She talked with the two a little longer. She looked remarkably similar to Virgil.

She unlocked the cage door and beckoned Logan forward. “Are you awake? Come here, please.”

“I am.” Standing, he slowly approached, watching those long claws carefully. “Am I allowed to speak, ma'am?”

Her barely-there eyes widened a bit. “Wow, you guys weren’t kidding. He is smart. Yes, Logan, you can speak, but keep it to a minimum. I presume Virgil and Roman told you where you’ll go when you misbehave, and I feel it’s important to tell you that our rules and their rules will not be the same.”

“What are those rules, ma'am? I would prefer to avoid punishment if possible.” Gulping as she approached, he fought not to run.

She gracefully slid her talons under his collar and brought him closer, clipping on a chain. She gently tugged, like beckoning a dog, and stepped out of the cage.

“The obvious ones,” she told him as they walked through the dark corridors, Roman and Virgil flanking them, “like don’t try to escape, don’t be rude, don’t attack anyone. Any others, you have permission to break once, since you won’t know, then any time after that you’ll be assigned new guards.”

He nodded. If he were to break any rules, it would certainly be fighting back or being rude. “Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am.”

“You’re very welcome, Logan. You’re very polite.”

She took them down a route Logan didn’t recognize, and seemingly all at once, the cave walls turned into carved out homes, the narrow hall opened up into a huge cavern bustling with noise, and he was surrounded in life. It was a complete city, underground, and crawling with monsters. “Roman, please visit the office and update the books while Virgil and I bring him to the tailor.”

Smiling wide, Roman saluted. He took the tablets from Virgil before turning with a flourish. “Certainly! I’ll meet back up with you there!"

Virgil’s boss led him through the city. Despite her lack of vision, she never ran into anyone or anything. She brought them to a tiny little building made of jagged rock, some of the door crumbling as she pulled it open.

“Go in, now.”

Stumbling slightly, Logan ducked inside. His eyes slowly adjusted to the lowered light. He could barely make out a small shop with piles of fabrics, some chains and restraints on the walls. "H-Hello?"

Scratching sounded as a figure rounded the mounds, low syllabant voice purring as wings and claws came into view. "Greetings, human… Hand over the chain, Sylvia? I need to see all of him easily, you know!”

A griffin.

Sylvia chuckled and passed it over. “He’s very intelligent, so we’ll need an outfit to highlight that, Rose, make sure everyone who sees him knows.”

Rose’s paw looped the chain over a stand as she drew him in closer. “So I see… His eyes are watching everything. Maybe if we highlight them….” Grabbing some materials, she draped them to check the shade. She sketched concepts with soft mutters. “Scholar… Robes?”

Sylvia hummed appreciatively and found a seat. Virgil stood guard by the door. “Yes, I’m sure that’ll work,” Sylvia said.

“Of course, darling, I AM the best!” Moving Logan with firm but gentle paws, she measured and worked on creating a heavy-looking robe with colours that complimented his features. It made him look wise, and yet hampered movement so he wasn’t tempted to run. Showing him off when she finished, she motioned for Logan to turn. “I would add some makeup for those eyes if you really want him to sell at mark up, sweetie!”

“I’ll mention that to the stylist tomorrow. I trust you’ve done a wonderful job, if there’s anything the boss has to say I’ll bring him back before closing hours.”

She stood and pulled a few gems out of the bag at her hip. One of them was an amethyst, but Logan didn’t recognize the rest. She held them out in Rose’s general direction.

Taking the stones, Rose purred and traded them for Logan’s chain. “A pleasure as always!”

“Virgil, come take this.” She held out the chain, and Virgil felt around until they found her wrist, and felt their way to the end of the chain. “Wait outside for Roman, then get him back to his cage and make him something to eat. I’m going to make sure the work on his display cage is going smoothly.”

“Sure.” They gestured for Logan to follow, taking it on faith that Logan saw and tugging him out the door.

Logan stumbled as he adjusted to the change in leading style. “Virgil?”

Sylvia passed them outside and disappeared into the crowd of people. Virgil leaned against the wall of the tailor. “What’s up?”

“Just a question. Am I to wear this outfit only for presentation, or is this to be my new daily attire?” Logan touched the navy fabric, careful not to mess it up.

“We’re just fitting you for your display day. After we get the boss’ approval, you’ll change back into your original clothes and we’ll keep that safe until everything’s ready. Why?”

“Oh… They are much warmer than what I currently have. The space I was in, it’s colder than I’m used to?"

Virgil stepped forward and clumsily rubbed one of their paws over the side of Logan’s face. “Hm. You’re right, I don’t think humans’ skin is supposed to be this cold. I’ll grab you a hoodie when I get your breakfast. Jesus, do you see Princey anywhere? He’s so fucking distractable.”

Shivering, Logan leaned into the touch. "Mmm…"

Roman scoffed softly, coming up behind Virgil. "Petting him without me, V? You’re bonding nicely!”

They dropped their paw with a sigh. “He’s cold. You should carry him back. Body heat should be able to warm him up just as well as fabric.”

“Oh!” Stepping in, Roman scooped Logan up after a quick consideration on how to position him. “Okay! He’s so light… Are they supposed to be this small?”

Virgil shrugged as they made their way back. “I don’t know. Like I said, humans almost never look the same. Feel below his chest, can you feel his ribs through his skin?”

Logan squeaked as Roman poked at him. “I am not underweight!”

“Just let Roman check,” Virgil sighed. “We need to make sure we’re feeding you correctly.”

Blushing a bright red, Logan nodded and tried to relax.

Roman hummed softly. “Not easily… Skinny but like just not a lot of natural padding? He is super cold though… Shivering.”

“Yeah, like I said, you gotta warm him up. Use friction.”

Chuckling, Roman cuddled Logan close, hands sliding under his clothes to rub gently. “Got it, V!”

They brought him back to his holding cage, Virgil holding out his old clothes. “Go ahead and get changed, I need those.”

Turning for modesty even though he knew it was useless, Logan nodded. He held out the robes to Roman. “Here… Might I request something warm for food? It helps.”

“Of course. We have some soups that are safe for humans. I’ll be right back.”

Roman grinned and settled Logan in his lap, stroking gently. “Soooo… Do you want to talk while V’s doing the boring stuff?”

He blushed and cuddled into Roman’s chest. “Sure?”

“Awesome!” Petting Logan’s hair, he bounced a little. “So, what do you do for fun? Do you live alone? 20 is above the age of leaving your parent’s territory, right?”

“It varies from person to person. It’s not an abnormal time to be on your own.” He shrugged a little. Somehow, thinking of his old life seemed… Bleeker. “I read a lot. Um, I did a lot of exploring, obviously. I liked finding things I didn’t know about and taking it home to run some tests, see if there’s anything interesting. And, uh, yeah. I lived alone.”

“Oh! So humans’ life patterns vary? There’s no set time to leave your first home, find a mate?” Roman’s eyes were wide, fascinated.

Logan nodded slowly. “Yeah… I mean, you can do whatever you want, really. Do you… Have a ‘set time’ to find a mate?”

He blushed. “Kind of? My species has a limit on how long you have to search. We have a token that we’re to give to our mates after courtship… and if you don’t, we kind of… fade?"

Logan frowned deeply. “That’s horrible. What if you don’t want a partner?”

Roman’s head tipped in confusion. "Who wouldn’t want a life partner? The world is lonely sometimes!”

“Well, plenty of people upstairs.” Logan turned to face Roman, wrapping his legs around him. He was slowly warming up, but not quick enough for his liking. “I mean… Well, are we talking about ‘life partners’ or ‘mates?’”

“Oh! You separate the sexual pairs from the companionship ones?” Roman chuckled. “That makes more sense now!”

He nodded, hesitantly resting his head on Roman’s shoulder. “Yeah. Some people only want one or the other, or neither. I mean, most everyone wants someone to be with for their lives, but… More separated. It’s hard to explain. People can just do whatever they want with their own relationships.”

Roman hummed, sliding off his outer covering layer to hold Logan closer, fingers playing with his hair. “It’s complicated. We do have some help, though? Our tokens can act as a guide, giving a nudge if we’re blind to our feelings!"

“Hmm… That’s really-”

“VIRGIL? ROMAN? ARE YOU BACK YET?”

Wincing, Roman groaned and tucked Logan against him. "Son of a sea cow! GO AWAY!”

Janus appeared in the light, looking flustered. “Oh- Logan! You’re out of your cage!” He smiled shakily. “How did you sleep? Oh- Are you cold?” He started to shrug off his jacket.

Logan snickered softly. He patted Roman’s hair as he hissed at Janus and bared his fangs.

“I am,” Logan said, “I slept some… Roman is taking care of me, but, thank you?"

“Oh, I don’t mind!” Janus messily grabbed some gems out of one of the pockets and stuffed them in his pants’ pocket, then held out the jacket. The inside was covered in patches of various fabrics, some of those patches with patches of their own. “I was hoping you’d be more up to talk today? Are you busy?”

Deciding it to be rude to refuse the gift, Logan slid into the jacket carefully. It wasn’t very comfortable— Scratchy, the material stiff. "Well… Um, I don’t think I’m allowed to before presentation day? I don’t want trouble.”

“Janus.” An irritated voice echoed through the tunnel, and Virgil came into view. “Why are you back?”

“I’m trying to talk to Logan.” Frustration bit into his voice, Janus’ hands curling into fists. “Is that a problem?”

“Yes,” Virgil snapped. “He doesn’t want you. You can bid on him tomorrow like everyone else.”

“Thank you for your interest, Janus… But perhaps some other time?” Logan set his head on Roman’s shoulder, confused by the odd snake creature’s persistence.

One of Janus’ fangs poked into his lip. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to bother you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Virgil set the tray of food down and came over to Logan with a thick hoodie. They felt over Logan’s shoulders and frowned in confusion, then anger.

“Take that off,” they snapped.

Blushing, Logan quickly obeyed. “Sorry… It seemed rude to refuse?”

Virgil tossed the jacket on the floor, one of their talons catching and ripping another hole. “When Sylvia said you couldn’t be rude, that certainly does not apply to him. Don’t trust him. Don’t take anything he gives you.” Virgil wrapped the hoodie around Logan’s shoulders and patted him softly. “Let’s get back in your cage, okay?”

Janus picked up his jacket silently, and left.

“Oh… why?"

“He doesn’t deserve to be around humans. You don’t know how things work down here, so you wouldn’t understand, but trust us. He should not be around humans.” Virgil held out his food tray once Logan was in the cage.

Taking the tray, Logan leaned against the bars, wishing for Roman’s warmth again but sipping the soup happily. "Do you have any other advice?"

“You’ve been doing fine,” Virgil promised. “Just get some rest for your display day.”

"Are most humans bought after just one display day?” His forehead pinched at the thought of being uprooted again.

“No. There are usually four, and you’ll be waiting at least a month. How long exactly depends. Bids are open for at least a month, and depending on the popularity of the subject- You -the date might be extended to try and raise a higher price.”

“O-Oh… and I’ll be kept here, or a different place between displays?” I wish I had my notebooks, my things… I dropped all that outside the hole when I fell in.

“It depends on your behaviour. If you behave, you’ll be kept with us until you’re bought. If you break a rule, though, you’ll immediately be switched guards until you’re either bought or the superiors are convinced you won’t act out again.”

Shaking his head, Logan nibbled his bottom lip. “I meant is there a way to earn perhaps… Warmer space, things to distract myself with? I am used to activity, knowledge-seeking.”

Virgil frowned. “I’m sorry. No, that’ll have to wait. You can ask your owner when you’re bought.”

His shoulders slumped. “Oh… This will be a very long month then.” I’m to be bored and confused and scared, lovely.

Virgil headed back to Roman.

Blushing a little, Roman pulled out a small package and handed it to Virgil. “Oh, before I forget, I saw this new tea at the vendors! It’s supposed to be super calming and it smells really good!"

Virgil pressed the bag to their snout, sniffing it curiously. “Mm! Spicy! Thanks, Ro!” They jumped to their feet. “I’m gonna go make some, do you want any?”

Preening a little, Roman made a little chirp of happiness. "Sure!”

Logan arched an eyebrow. Is… Is Roman courting Virgil?!

Virgil squeezed his hand and rushed away. Logan arched an eyebrow. “So… You did say gifts were instrumental to the courtship process, did you not?”

Blushing bright red, Roman turned to Logan. “Yeah… Doesn’t have to be expensive, just thought out!”

Logan finished his soup and hugged his knees. “How many gifts have you given them? Do they understand what you’re doing?”

Roman hummed softly as he thought. “There was the material for a new hoodie, some repair on their clothes… The tea, a few meals. I don’t know if they do, but I hope so! They’re so sure that nobody would want them, silly Clawsian!"

“How long do you have until your, um, deadline?”

Looking down, Roman tugged at his cloak gently. "Six lunar cycles…"

Logan’s eyes blew wide. “What-? That’s- Tell them! You have to tell them!”

Roman blush deepened. "Well, I don’t want to make them become my mate out of a sense of duty, to somehow save me? They’re so honourable…. Kind.”

“That’s-”

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

Two mugs clanked against the stone and Virgil charged forward. They felt up Roman’s arms, his shoulders, neck, finally cupping his face, then tilted his head to kiss him hard.

Melting into the strong hands, Roman moaned, kissing back with equal passion as he revelled in the caring touches. “Virgil~”

Logan laughed. “I would agree… They seem quite amenable!”

Virgil slid their talons into Roman’s hair. After a moment or two, he pulled away, voice ragged. “If you ever put yourself in danger for me, ever again, I will break up with you so fucking fast, Princey-”

Face bright red, Roman nodded quickly and chased the touch. “O- Okay! I promise to tell you if I’m ever in danger again!"

Virgil poked his nose. “Good.”

They grabbed their mugs of tea and settled against Roman’s side. Virgil’s smelled approximately ten times spicier than Roman’s.

Nuzzling lightly, Roman smiled. "Does that mean we’re together then, you accept me as your mate?!”

“Depends on how good this tea is.” Virgil took in a long sip, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes, I accept.”

Laughing, Roman snuggled in and sipped his own. Virgil finished the mug and rested their head on Roman’s shoulder, falling asleep for a nap while Roman took watch.

The sub of this duo, Virgil, does commissions! Earn yourself 300 words for each coffee and the knowledge that you’re helping me pay the bills and start my own business

You can read my writing specifically here

#logan sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #janus sanders #prinxiety #sympathetic deceit #sympathetic janus #not safe for sanders #ds writes #cave boys #logan #virgil #roman #janus

18 notes · View notes

smallblueandloud · 4 years ago

Link

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Book of Dust - Philip Pullman Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Lyra Belacqua & Miriam Jacobs, Lyra Belacqua & Pantalaimon Characters: Lyra Belacqua, Pantalaimon, Miriam Jacobs, Syriax (Miriam Jacobs' Daemon) Additional Tags: Character Study, The Secret Commonwealth Never Happened And Is Not Canon, past/background Lee Scoresby & Lyra Belacqua, past/background Lord Asriel & Lyra Belacqua, past/background Will Parry/Lyra Belacqua, dealing with the complicated emotions of being a former YA protag Summary:

“Hey, there was a story today about the North," says Miriam. "You’ve been there, right?”

Pan, on Lyra’s shoulder, freezes. He’s always been the worse liar.

“Yes,” says Lyra, and smiles. “My mother took me when I was a child. She had some Magisterium work up there, and I’d always been interested.”

(or, lyra finally thinks through the events of her childhood - and who she is)

#his dark materials #the book of dust #hdmfic #lyra belacqua #lyra silvertongue #miriam jacobs #fic: bodies fashioned out of dirt and dust #sb and l writes #me?? actually posting fic?? it's more likely than you think!

13 notes · View notes

jehaatiade · 5 years ago

Text

Knight in Tarnished Armor

An Ezra x OFC fic

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Violence, blood, description of injuries, drug misuse.

Summary: Ezra makes a new friend under fortuitous but less than fortunate circumstances.

“Eight men,” Ezra mutters to himself as he slogs through the hip-high fronds of ferns heavy with sporangia. “I came to this hellacious veridian globe with eight men. Fourteen days from planetfall, and how many of them are left? Not a one. Just me.”

He kicks a fallen log in passing, trying to vent his frustration. The rotten wood crumbles unsatisfyingly under his boot, and tiny pseudocrustaceans flee for cover as their shelter is destroyed. “Somehow,” he tells the absconding insectoids, “I imagined being the monster to be more gratifying than that.”

He plods on, moving through the small clearing and back into the dense arboraceous embrace of the forest. “No one to blame but myself, I suppose,” he says, continuing his monologue. “I should’ve known better than to sign on with a crew of kips. But they promised me a twenty-percent stake just to teach them how to dig. That could hardly be a herculean task, could it?”

He huffs out a short laugh at his own foolishness, and almost misses the brief crackle of static from his comm. Almost, but not quite. As he fiddles with the modulation settings, the conversation slowly becomes coherent.

“- told you it was a fifty-fifty chance of the cat blowing, and you said hit it!” A woman’s voice, irate, is the first to come through clearly.

“I swear to Kevva, woman, if you don’t fix this then I’m gonna carve you up like an aurelac sac and use your guts for fishing line,” a man growls back at her.

“Oh, fuck you!”

Ezra keys his transmitter, cutting in before the man can reply. “Loath as I am to interrupt a spirited debate, I could not help overhearing your dilemma. It so happens I have some mechanical equipment I am seeking to exchange for supplies.”

“Get the fuck off our channel, floater!” the man yells.

“What is your problem, Pásovec? You’re gonna tell somebody who might have parts we need to get lost just because you’re in a bad mood?” the woman asks. “You’re welcome to join us, friend. We’re at eight-oh-four point fifteen by thirty-seven point twenty-” The number is cut short by a yelp. “What are you doing? Get off me!”

“I have had it with your big fucking mouth,” Pásovec snarls. His statement is quickly followed by a cry from the woman. Ezra’s already at eight-oh-four point one by thirty-six point five; he can make it to their location in under three minutes if he drops his heavy supply-filled pack. “And your bleeding fucking heart!” Pásovec continues. Another cry, this one a short, high scream of pain. “You’re useless to me, and I’m sick of you using up the oxygen I paid for!”

Ezra shoves the pack under the bole of a toppled stump and runs.

The Green has never been more of an adversary than it is now. Vines underfoot grasp at his ankles. Broken branches snatch at his protective suit as he pushes through the trees. Dangling moss leaves protoplasmic ooze in smears across the faceplate of his helmet. Pásovec is muttering in a language Ezra doesn’t understand, but rage needs no translation. Every few breaths, the man’s rant is interspersed with another cry from his victim. Ezra is almost to the site, able to see a small ship through the trees, when her exclamations turn to desperate gasps: “No! No! Get off! No, don’t!”

He skids into the clearing, thrower already drawn, and sizes up what he sees in less than a second: one figure sprawled on the ground, and one figure kneeling on the other’s chest, trying to wrench the other’s helmet from them. He shoots the one on top, and they topple to the side in graceless languor mortis. The violent cacophony over the comms stops abruptly, leaving only the sound of someone hyperventilating.

“Are you all right?” Ezra asks. He holds his position, scanning the clearing for any other crew.

“Y-Yeah.” The woman’s voice belies her claim, shaking like a sapling in a high wind. The figure on the ground starts to leverage themselves into a sitting position, and she grunts with the effort. “You s-saved my life.”

The Green is still, other than the omnipresent dust, with no indication that there’s other living beings within any near distance. Ezra lowers his thrower and starts to approach. “It seemed in my own best interest to assist the individual amenable to trade,” he says as he moves closer.

She gives a sharp bark of laughter, then shudders and makes a noise akin to a sob. “He was gonna kill me,” she gasps. “F-Fuck, I knew he was an asshole but I didn’t th-think he was that crazy.”

“I dare say we have all misjudged someone’s character at some point.” He takes a knee beside the woman, his thrower pistol still in his hand but held casually at his side. She lifts her head to look at him. The inside of her faceplate is smeared with red from a bloody nose that still drips across her lips to trail toward her chin. Beneath the blood, her face is pale. She’s pretty in an angular fashion, especially with those sea-and-sky blue eyes. “Would I be far off the mark to surmise you’d welcome further aid?”

She swallows and shakes her head. “Help me get inside. I’ll make you a- a mutually beneficial proposition, how about that?”

“I do like a bold woman.” Ezra grins, holstering his thrower before he offers his hand to her. “Such a prodigious vocabulary is a marvelous supplement.”

“Oh, fuck you,” she says without malice. She clasps his forearm, and he stands to heave her to her feet. Something in the effort goes awry, alas, and she collapses into his arms with a scream that escapes from gritted teeth. “My knee,” she groans. “I can’t put any weight on it.”

“Don’t fret, now, little bird,” Ezra says, trying to reassure her as he draws her arm over his shoulders. He clasps his arm around her waist, taking as much of her weight as he can. “We’ll have you flying again in no time. Left foot first, now.” Her movement forward on her good leg is more like a hop than a step, but she makes it with only a stifled gasp.

Under mundane circumstances, the walk to the ship’s airlock and the lone step up would be a matter of no more than half a minute. Instead it’s a torturously slow process, punctuated with suppressed sounds of suffering from his new acquaintance. At last, the airlock doors close behind them and the filters begin to cycle.

“You know, you haven’t done me the courtesy of telling me your name,” Ezra says in the dimly red-lit closeness.

She’s still panting from the struggle of motion, and he counts her breaths, reaching four before she answers. “Leda.”

“A fine appellation, heavy with mythology. I myself am Ezra.”

“Ezra,” she repeats. The airlock doors in front of them hiss open, and she gestures forward with a nod of her head. “The med bay’s right there.”

“Then we had best proceed.”

The med bay door opens at a touch of Leda’s hand, and Ezra can’t help but take in the bounty with raised eyebrows. Spotless, sterile, and stocked with enough supplies for years, he can only imagine the amount of aurelac that harvesters would hand over for this level of medical attention. It’s far easier to picture the kind of violence they’d do to get access.

Leda shifts forward when he doesn’t move, listing precariously toward the examination table. Reminded of why he’s here, he helps her put her back to the table and then lifts her bodily to sit on it. She undoes the seals on her helmet, setting it aside, and Ezra follows suit. Free from the confines of the cover, her dark blonde hair just barely brushes her shoulders, and the evidence of her bloody nose is smeared all the way down her throat.

“I’m gonna need your help getting this off.” She pops the pressure seals on her suit, unzipping it down to her belly and shrugging out of the upper half. Underneath, she wears only a white tank top. Ezra notes with appreciation the corded muscles of her shoulders and arms; no mere miner’s mascot, this one. “I can push myself up, and you can pull it over my hips, yeah?”

“A sound plan,” he agrees. He moves closer, unzipping the suit a little more before he grasps the fabric at either side of her waist. “On three?” She nods briskly. He gives the count. On three, she pushes herself up off the cot, creating a few scant measures of space for Ezra to yank her suit down to her thighs. Without being asked, he crouches to remove her boots and free her legs from the heavy tangle. When he looks up, he’s on a level with her knees. He grimaces at the sight; her right knee is already swollen to half again the size of her left, and a dark angry red that heralds catastrophic bruising. “This is bad.”

“No fucking kidding!” she snaps, high and breathless. He raises a single eyebrow and stands once more. “Fuck, I’m sorry. That was uncalled-for.”

He accepts her apology with a nod. “It was hardly the most astute observation I’ve ever made.”

Leda returns his nod before she reaches for an item stored in a case on the wall. He recognizes it when she sets it in her lap: a diagnostor, latest generation, ten leads and a battery life of six months. It’s worth fifty thousand, at least. She unspools the leads from the body of the instrument, placing the unipolar heads on and around her knee gingerly. For the last lead, she pulls up the hem of her shorts to place the head on her inner thigh at her femoral vein.

Ezra catches himself watching and turns away before she looks up, stepping back and starting to remove his own protective suit. The further he undresses, the more he feels out of place; his clothes are grubby and stained, and he stinks of dirt and sweat. One day I’ll have all this, he tells himself, same as he always does when he measures up against the rich and successful and finds himself falling short. One day I’ll have all this, and we’ll see who’s out of place then.

“Hey, would you do me a favor?” Leda’s question pulls him out of his thoughts.

“I suppose that would be contingent upon the specific request.” Ezra tucks his thrower into the waistband of his pants before he steps out of his boots and sets his suit aside. Turning back to face her, he finds himself trying to measure her up. Is this her ship? Her riches? What woman with this kind of money would come to the Green Moon to grub for more?

“There’s gauze in the first drawer on the right over there,” she says, pointing at the cabinets along the wall. “Would you grab a square and get it damp for me? I’d like to clean up.”

He does as she asks, removing the gauze from its packaging and wetting it with water from a squeeze bottle before bringing it over to her. She thanks him, taking it and starting to remove the drying blood from her face. Still in her lap, the diagnostor beeps quietly to itself as it works. “I find myself overcome with curiosity,” Ezra says as he watches Leda methodically wash her jaw and throat. “This breathtaking craft. Is it yours?”

“No, Pásovec’s,” she answers without the hesitation that would betray a lie. “But when I make it out of here, a few thousand in the right pockets will put the registration in my name.” She meets Ezra’s eyes and gives him a wolfish smile. “I knew one way or another, I was making a fortune on this job.”

“Speaking of a fortune, I believe you said something about a mutually beneficial proposition?”

Leda nods and sets the dirty square of gauze aside. “To borrow your turn of phrase in return, would I be far off the mark to surmise you’re out here on your own?”

Ezra crosses his arms, considering his answer before he gives it. Trusting a stranger in the Green is the surest way to get to Kevva quick. But she’s unarmed, unless she wants to hit him over the head with the diagnostor, and he’s sanguine about his odds of outrunning her. “I might be,” he finally allows.

“This isn’t my first time in the Green, handsome. You wouldn’t be looking to trade components for comestibles if you weren’t neck-deep in some form of bad luck.” She raises her brows expectantly.

Ezra sighs and rubs the back of his neck. Caught out by a pretty face. “The crew I came with got themselves killed, to a man, and got our ship blasted beyond use while they were at it. I’ve been looking to barter aurelac for a ride.”

“I’ve got supplies for twelve weeks, enough for me and a partner,” Leda says. He blinks at her, taken aback by her forthrightness. Sharing information on your supplies is akin to hanging a sign around your neck saying This is how much you’ll get if you kill me. “I can pilot, I can repair, and I can harvest. But the way my knee looks, I think it’s going to be a while before I can dig. I don’t want to leave here empty-handed. And as thanks for saving my life, I’m willing to go sixty-forty in your favor on takings before overhead.”

A smile slowly creeps across Ezra’s face. “I suppose it is my deed that has put you in the market for a new partner. Perhaps it would be only equitable to fill the position myself.”

“Shake on it?” Leda asks, holding out her hand. Ezra clasps it and gives her a firm shake. As soon as he releases her, the diagnostor trills to announce the completion of its task. Leda picks it up and starts to read from the screen: “Grade three medial collateral ligament injury. No surgical intervention required, estimated six weeks recovery time. Son of a bitch.”

The last, Ezra presumes, is her own judgement. “What do you need?”

Leda huffs and starts to remove the diagnostor’s leads from her leg. “There should be crutches in that locker,” she says, pointing. “I need to get into the workspace and get the printer started on a brace. That’s going to take a couple of hours.”

“Anything else?” he asks as he retrieves the crutches.

“There’s a cryotherapy unit in the locker two to the left of that one,” she continues. The unit is about the size of a shoebox, but considerably heavier; Ezra tucks it under his arm to carry it and the crutches over to his new partner. Leda sets the unit on the cot and accepts the crutches with a sigh. “And a painkiller shot, in case I fall off these things. First cupboard, bottom shelf, on the right.”

Ezra finds the box of syrettes easily and gives a low, appreciative whistle as he digs one out. “The good stuff. You are exceptionally well-stocked, my friend.”

“When Pásovec hired me, he said to send him a list of supplies. I wasn’t expecting him to buy everything on it. Not exactly an unpleasant surprise, though.” Leda takes the syrette and raises it in a parody of a toast. “Here’s to rich idiots, huh?”

“To rich idiots and the riches they leave behind,” Ezra agrees.

“I like you,” Leda says, and slams the syrette into her thigh with no further ceremony. She gives a groan and rolls her eyes as the medicine dispenses automatically. When the cartridge is empty, she removes it and places it in a sharps bin on the wall. “Okay. I need you to carry this-” She holds out the diagnostor. When Ezra takes it, she taps the case of the cryo-unit beside her. “And this, please.”

“Reduced to menial labor so early in our relationship,” Ezra sighs dramatically as he tucks the unit under his arm again. “This could bode ill for our continued collaboration.”

“Maybe I ought to bat my lashes and say how I find myself in desperate need of a big, strong man,” Leda replies. She shifts forward as Ezra laughs, carefully putting her weight on the crutches. After testing her balance, she moves toward the door, her gait punctuated by the click of the crutches. In the narrow ingress beyond, she turns to the right and limps through another door.

Ezra bites his tongue to keep from whistling again at the workspace. It’s state-of-the-art, more something he’d expect to see in a slick hi-tech zine than in any ship to set landing pads on the Green Moon. In the near corner, a printer large enough to fit a small child in its bay hums quietly to itself. There’s a workbench along the same wall, the space above it taken by shelves of neatly organized bins. Opposite the workbench is a modest kitchen unit, more storage, and a plush-looking L-shaped couch. A sturdy metal table stands in the middle of the room, flanked by plastic-and-steel-tube chairs.

“Do you know how to plug the diagnostor into the printer and tell it to make the recommended brace?” Leda asks, pulling his attention away from the extravagant accommodations.

Ezra eyes the printer. “At a guess, connect the printer’s data input cable to the diagnostor’s cat-six port and hit the big green button?”

“Look at that, beauty and brains.” Leda turns away and starts to click toward the couch. Ezra, in turn, approaches the printer. He’s only just taken the input cable from its slot beside the controls when there’s a thump and a groan behind him. He glances over his shoulder to see Leda slumped on the couch, her injured leg stretched across the cushions. He looks back to his work, but he’s still able to hear her speak, softly enough that he isn’t sure if she’s talking to him or to herself. “I should be more useful. I’m making a bad impression. First day back on the job, my boss breaks my leg and I make friends with the guy who shot him to death. At least I get the ship for my troubles.”

The printer cheerfully beeps confirmation of the design order and whirs to life. Ezra sets the diagnostor down and hefts the cryo-unit before he crosses the room to Leda’s side. “Where do you want this?” he asks.

“Just on the floor is good,” she says, still speaking softly. “I’m sorry, that shot was a lot stronger than I thought it was. I should’ve only done half.”

Ezra chuckles. “Flying high, little bird?” he teases as he pulls the tubing and straps from the unit. Leda sits up with a grunt when he places them in her lap, and starts to wrap the apparatus around her knee. “If you don’t need anything else, I had best head out and retrieve my pack. Won’t take me but a little while.”

“If you want a clean filter, they’re, um-” She gestures vaguely at the storage on the near wall. “Um. Third shelf, on the… left.” Instead of going to grab a filter, Ezra sits on the low metal caf table, watching Leda thread and tighten the straps with the excessive caution of the intoxicated. When she completes the task, he switches on the unit rather than make her lean over to get it. She hisses as the pressure in the tubing increases, the cryo-unit pumping ice-cold gel through the tubes and over her injury. “Thanks.”

“I do happen to have a few inquiries before I go, if you wouldn’t be troubled to resolve them.” Ezra cocks his head and gives a winning smile; Leda glances at him and gives a vague nod before she lays back down. “Now, I would be the first to confess that I rarely lay all my cards on the table in a negotiation, and it is not so much an accusation as a recognition of good business practice when I insinuate you may have done the same.”

Leda only blinks at him. It seems if he wants to take advantage of her brief pharmaceutical-induced vulnerability to interrogate her, he has to pander to her temporarily reduced faculties.

“What haven’t you told me?” he rephrases. “Do you have other crew?”

“No, it was just me and the asshole. He was convinced there was a deposit near here worth hundreds of millions, but he needed somebody to do the prospecting.” She sighs and closes her eyes. “I figured he might try to kill me if I found the deposit, but I didn’t think he’d try before then.”

“What else? You were arguing when I found your channel.”

“The LXH catalyzer is bust,” Leda says, eyes still closed. “I can put something together to replace it, it’ll just take me a few days. I wouldn’t want to try and break high orbit on it, but it’ll get us up to the transport.”

“And the deposit? Do you know where it is?”

Leda shakes her head slowly. “It was Pásovec’s secret. He had a notebook he always kept on him.”

“Anything else? Anyone going to come looking for Pásovec?”

She opens her eyes to blink up at him for a moment before she shakes her head again. “Nobody knew anything. I’m pretty sure he killed the guy who told him about the deposit.”

“I’ll look for that notebook, then,” Ezra says. “You gonna be all right here on your own? Want me to grab you a thrower in case any uninvited visitors drop in?”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Armory’s over there.” Ezra stands and retrieves a pistol from the locker beside the workbench. When he gives it over to his new partner, she checks the cassette with the swift muscle-memory of a professional. She sets the pistol on her stomach, her hand draped over it with a feigned nonchalance that conceals her readiness to draw. “I might fall asleep before you get back. Just shout when you come in so I don’t shoot you.”

“I will most certainly do that,” he promises.

Leda watches as he moves over to the nearby shelves to search out a new filter. The one currently hooked into his suit is adequate for a few more hours, but being forced to repeatedly purge and re-use the handful of functional filters he salvaged from the destroyed pod has left him with a vexatious persistent cough. A clean filter, fresh out of the packaging, is just what the non-existent physician ordered. “Would you do me another favor?” Leda asks as he starts to comb through the other storage bins to see what else he can find.

“I offer no guarantee but an inquisitive ear.” Ezra delves deeper into one container, digging out a shiny new hunter’s knife with a sheath that should attach nicely to the leg of his suit.

“If you’re going to take care of Pásovec’s body, would you give him a kick in the ribs on my behalf?” The request startles a laugh out of Ezra. “I know he won’t feel it, but it’ll make me feel better.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he assures her as he shoves the crate back into its place.

“Okay,” Leda says quietly. When he glances over at her, her eyes are closed again and the thrower on her belly rises and falls with her slow, even breaths. “I hope you don’t rob or murder me. You seem nice. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

“There’s no call to impugn my honor, now,” Ezra scolds, no more sincerely than she had spoken. “We shook on the deal, didn’t we?”

She smiles faintly. “You’re right. We did.”

(If you liked this fic, the best way to show it is by sending me prompts and requests! Tagging a few friends: @rzrcrst @tarrevizslas @lannister-slings-and-arrows @pascalisthepunkest )

#ezra #prospect #jehaatific

40 notes · View notes