#for the second image i thought that drawing action and injury could give me more ideas but i lose interest. so i leave them in death pose

[cursezoroark]

man whatever

[the-travelling-witch]

𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬

summary: kissing your friend aka your crush

pairings: riddle :: jamil :: vil :: idia x gn! reader

warnings: none! just fluff ♡

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

Sunlight was falling through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Heartslabyul Lounge and reflecting in your tea cup as you stared at the paper in front of you. Tapping the pencil against your chin you read through the assignment again only to lean back against your seat and sigh.

“Prefect, is there anything I can help you with? Please, do not hesitate to ask me if anything is unclear.” Riddle’s voice rang through the quiet room, the scraping of his pencil momentarily stopping as he looked up at you. “I’m sure it must be hard having to study an entirely new curriculum, especially when you can’t draw on any practical experiences with magic. As a housewarden it is naturally my duty to help my peers in their education.”

You were sure Riddle’s offer to help went beyond just his housewarden duties, having become pretty close friends with you after the overblot incident in your first month. Since then, he had gradually warmed up to you, inviting you over for unbirthday parties, study sessions or a stroll through the rose labyrinth. 

So, quite inevitably, you slowly felt your feelings for your friend change. What used to be gratitude for getting the Adeuce combo off your back or joy at having someone to eat lunch with shifted into excitement at seeing him again or disappointment when you thought you had caught sight of him in a crowd, just for it to be someone else. Once you realised the situation you were in, it became even harder to hide those feelings, especially when you could feel the heat crawling up your neck when the housewarden reached over to fix your tie or straighten your uniform.

“Thank you, Riddle. There actually is something I don’t understand,” you sheepishly scratched the back of your head. Sliding over your Applied Magic homework, you pointed out the question you were struggling with. “Why is it dangerous to use a spell like this in that situation?”

“Ah, I see.” Taking a moment to reflect on how to explain it best, Riddle’s steel grey eyes flitted to the roses outside for a moment. “Try visualising the question’s context and the effect of the spell you're casting before your mind’s eye. What kind of environment are you in and how would the magic affect it?”

“Hmm, the energy released from the spell could… shake the unstable structure of the walls and ceiling and cause it to collapse? And even if it doesn’t collapse, the falling debris could still cause major injuries?” 

“Yes, that’s correct. A lot of offensive magic packs more energy than defensive magic and therefore has a greater impact on the environment rather than the caster themselves,” Riddle explained further. “Now, consider all previously used magic. In this example, a few spells have already been cast, like this shielding spell for example. How straining are they on the caster and how long do they linger in the area?”

“Uh, let's see… The elements of previous spells might react with that of the current one, causing unpredictable side-effects. And in a stressful situation like this casting an unstable spell could put more pressure on the magic user, leading to… faster blot accumulation?” The last part was a total stab in the dark and you nervously watched Riddle’s unreadable expression before he gave you a satisfied smile.

“Correct again, Prefect. It is very impressive that you have such a nuanced understanding of Applied Magic, despite not being able to use it yourself.” The gleam in his eyes was genuine before he let out a defeated sigh. “If only some of the Heartslabyul first years would give magic a second thought before leaping into action…”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at that, having a pretty good image of just who he was referring to. Now, with your work out of the way, you could finally let your thoughts drift. And almost immediately they went to the housewarden sitting next to you. 

Looking at him, it was almost as if time stood still. In the afternoon sun, his hair was positively glowing and his grey eyes seemed even brighter than usual. As always, his posture was perfect and poised and there was such an elegance in the way he carried himself. You wouldn’t be surprised if he was actual royalty.

When he put the tea cup to his lips and took a sip you suddenly remembered the videos you had seen back in your world where people kissed their best friend to see their reaction or to confess. Riddle probably wouldn’t approve but when he turned to you, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from his lips. You’d bet on the fact that they were soft with the taste of tea…

“-fect! Prefect! Are you alright? I’ve been calling your name multiple times now.” Blinking back into reality, you came face to face with a concerned Riddle who was leaning over. Putting the back of his fingers against your forehead, his brows creased even more. “I wanted to ask if you want to try the strawberry tarts Trey baked but you’re burning up. Perhaps you should go and rest up. The rules might not state it but you can even stay at Heartslabyul if Ramshackle’s too–”

Before the thought process registered in your brain, you had already pulled Riddle closer by his collar and connected your lips. You were right. As with every aspect of his life, his lips were properly cared for and pillowy soft and after you parted, you thought you could make out a hint of sweets and lemon.

With a shocked yelp of your name, Riddle snapped you back to the present once more. Under different circumstances, the sight of the usually put-together housewarden staring at you with saucer-wide eyes and his face decorated with a rose-red hue might have been endearing but, right now, it chilled you to the bone. 

Jumping up from your seat and noisily scraping the chair over the floor, you hurriedly stuffed all your belongings in your backpack, ready to book the hell out of there. “I’m sorry, Riddle, I really have to go water the cat and feed the plants–”

“Prefect please wait.” A hand gently wrapped around your wrist and made you turn around. The short-tempered housewarden wasn’t yelling (yet), which you took as a good sign. In fact, he wasn’t meeting your eyes at all. “I have to admit that was quite the surprise. But… not an unpleasant one. Prefect, if I may be so bold, do you have feelings for me?”

“Well, I don’t kiss just anybody I meet,” you awkwardly chuckled but you quickly abandoned the idea of joking yourself out of this situation at Riddle’s unimpressed reaction. With a sigh, you conceded. “Yeah, I do have feelings for you. Look, I am really sorry, I don’t know what–”

“I’m not,” he quickly interrupted. “I’m not sorry this happened. I, too, like you. More than a friend, that is. I might not have the most experience in this field but I’m willing to try if it’s with you. However, I do believe there is a proper protocol to be followed.

“Prefect, before you spring another surprise kiss on me, may I take you out on a date first?”

JAMIL VIPER

The sound of boiling water and knives moving over a chopping board filled NRC’s kitchen. At this time of day -or should you say night?- nobody but Jamil usually came here. Most students were probably already heading to bed or cramming in a late-night study session right about now but the vice housewarden of Scarabia was still diligently meal prepping for the following day.

“Could you pass me the turmeric please?” He didn’t even look up to see if you had heard him, eyes still trained on his task at hand. 

“Sure, here you go.” Sliding over the spice, you took another moment to study his side profile. As always, there wasn’t much of an emotion readable on his face but you noticed how his shoulders seemed less tense than during the day. Or maybe it was just your imagination.

After he hummed a ‘thanks’, both of you went back to working in silence. You really appreciated Jamil trusting you enough to let you lend a hand, knowing just how strict he was about being the only one to prepare Kalim’s food. The first time you asked to help, in fact, he had watched you like a hawk and your hands had never shaken more.

At first, Jamil had been a little annoyed, thinking he’d have to look after someone else instead, but as you swung by more often, he started to appreciate the company. Not only did you not cause any trouble for him but you also stuck by him even after his overblot, whereas the rest of his dorm gave him a wide berth. So he allowed you to stay and if he ever ‘accidentally’ made too much food he let you take the leftovers.

And you, too, started to enjoy his presence more and more. You didn’t necessarily need to do something together, just being in the same space while working was enough to put you at ease. That was when you realised your actual feelings for Jamil but you didn’t know what to do with them.

Besides fear of rejection, you were also well aware of his position as Kalim’s retainer. Acting out on your feelings could cause a lot of problems for him even if he were to reciprocate them. Could he even accept them?

Before you knew it, your thoughts had distracted you enough to where your knife was merely hovering over the poor vegetable in front of you. As you were about to shake your distractions away, two warm hands already took the knife and board from you.

“You shouldn’t handle sharp objects when you’re not feeling well,” Jamil sighed but you could tell he wasn’t upset with you, rather, he was concerned. “You could seriously injure yourself.”

“I’m feeling fine actually,” you said. It wasn’t like you were physically unwell.

“Are you now? I couldn't help but notice you spacing out a lot more often lately.” Quickly throwing everything into the pot, Jamil leant against the counter with his arms crossed, giving you an earnest once-over. He was quiet for a while before mumbling “It’s okay to ask for help you know. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

“That’s rich coming from you, Mr. Workaholic,” you snorted. “Between the two of us, the one in need of a break is not me. Anyhow, it’s nothing, so don’t worry about me.”

“So there is something after all,” Jamil cocked his head to the side with a raised brow. 

“Great Seven, if you must know. Yes there is something that’s been weighing on my mind,” you groaned. “Are you happy now?”

“I’d be happier if you also told me how I can help you.” 

“And if I told you you can’t?”

“Then I wouldn’t believe you.” This guy…

“Agree to disagree, then,” you deadpanned. Turning your back to hide your burning cheeks, you pretended to wipe your hands. This once, you had wished Jamil’s sharp senses would fail him but of course not. 

The irony of this situation wasn’t lost on you.

As you had your back turned, you hadn’t noticed Jamil stepping closer, so you nearly collided with him as you went to face him again. Quickly, he steadied you by your shoulders, his touch lingering perhaps a little longer than necessary.

“Prefect, let me be perfectly honest with you, I’m worried about you. You’re not normally this distracted or careless.” And whose fault was that? 

“You know it’s hard to keep saying no to you like that. But I really don’t think you’d want to know,” you sighed. 

Aside from the bubbling pot, the kitchen was quiet as you leaned against the countertop and examined your fingers. For a moment, nothing but you two in this moment seemed to exist. Jamil wasn’t bound to the Asim family and your future wasn’t so uncertain. If only it matched reality.

“Try me.” Jamil’s voice was a lot gentler now. You thought you saw his hand hover over yours for but a second, then chalked it up to wishful thinking. “You’ve shown me that it’s okay to be my own person and that it’s possible for me to have my own dreams despite my status; I’m very grateful for that. I also really like… spending time with you, so please tell me what’s wrong.”

Heaving a deep exhale, you braved yourself for whatever was bound to happen next. Maybe you were about to lose a friend.

“I don’t know if it’s wrong but… I like you, Jamil.”

As you looked up you caught a glimpse of surprise on his features before it was replaced by his usual poker face. “I’d hope so, seeing as you’ve referred to me as your friend.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know that.” If you took the leap you might as well see it through to the end. Leaning in, you placed a quick kiss against his cheek before turning and marching straight towards the door, leaving Jamil alone in the kitchen. “I like you like that.” 

Luckily, the next day was a Saturday, so you could stay in bed and pull the covers over your head. Ignoring the yelling cat in your house and the absolute flood of text notifications from what you assumed was the first year group chat might as well have been your signature spell.

Eventually, you did crawl out from under the sheets and got dressed, even if it was just because the growling of your stomach became too annoying to ignore. As you were rummaging your fridge for something edible that wasn’t tuna, the doorbell rang which was suspicious enough. Nobody ever rang the doorbell.

As you approached the door, you could already make out Jamil’s neatly tied back hair. Steeling yourself, you slowly opened the door to find he hadn’t magically transformed into someone else.

“Jamil, what brings you over at this time of day?” Forcing as much normality as possible into your voice, you hoped that maybe he had just forgotten.

“I wanted to talk about what happened last night.” So much for that. “I sent you a few messages but you didn’t respond.”

“Nya! What’s that? Are you the reason my henchman has been hiding in bed all day?” You whipped around at hearing Grim speak, promptly grabbing him by the bow around his neck and throwing him out of the dorm.

“Go play with Ace and Deuce for the day.” Ushering Jamil inside, you threw the door closed before Grim could protest. “Don’t mind him.”

“I didn’t see you at breakfast,” he started as he handed you a container with some of the food you cooked yesterday. “I thought you might be hungry.”

As on cue, your stomach growled rather loudly. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Jamil, but you didn’t have to come all the way here just for that.”

“I also wanted to apologise,” he blurted out. Ah, so he came to reject you once and for all. “I didn’t give you a proper response. Well, to be fair, you didn’t give me the time to do it.”

You bashfully looked away, standing with your back towards him, at the memory of storming out of the kitchen. Your response came out a lot more seriously though. “Jamil, I’m sorry for saying something so selfish, I know that your work–”

You were cut off by being spun around suddenly until you were looking into Jamil’s sharp eyes. “No, I’m tired of my work getting in the way of what I want. You said it was selfish of you to tell me your feelings? Then let me be selfish as well and tell you I reciprocate them.”

There was such genuine certainty in those pools of grey, you couldn’t help but reach out and cup his cheek. One of his hands wrapped around your waist to pull you closer as the other found yours. Bringing it up to his lips, he held eye contact as he placed a tender kiss on your knuckles.

“For once, I’d like something entirely to myself.”

VIL SCHOENHEIT

“Hold still.” At Vil’s commanding tone you completely froze despite not moving much in the first place. “Good. Now close your eyes.”

You did as he said and tried your best not to flinch as the cool brush touched your eyelids. While Vil concentrated on perfecting your eye make-up, you did your best not to think too hard about his fingers currently holding your chin or how the scent of his perfume invaded your senses.

Despite being close friends with the Pomefiore Housewarden, it was still quite the task not to shrink away under his scrutinising gaze, even if it was directed at his own work rather than you. How did Epel endure this every day?

Well, the first year was most likely not head over heels for Vil and didn’t turn into a stuttering mess every time he talked to him. So much for your plan to play this crush cool and be as graceful and elegant about it as possible. Yeah, there was probably a reason you weren’t a Pomefiore student.

But then again, this was Vil you were talking about. The walking, talking, breathing definition of perfection. On top of that, he was smart and hard-working with the skills to back up his confidence. Naturally, he had people falling at his feet, no matter how intimidating he came across as. Not wanting to be seen as just another one of the masses, you decided to hide your feelings to the best of your abilities.

And so far, it seemed to be working. You were a regular visitor at Pomefiore dorm, so much so, the guards already let you pass the gates as if you actually belonged there. Seeing the actor achieve loftier goals over time, surpassing others and himself on numerous occasions, was fulfilling in its own way. There was a spark  of pride every time he was chosen for a new lead role or when he had the chance to work on a new line of skin care. Yet, although you got to be close to Vil this way, it still kind of stung to know that this would be all there’d probably ever be between the two of you.

“My, I have to say, this is a job well done,” Vil concluded, giving you a content smirk. Turning your chair to face his pristine vanity. What could you say, he was right. Even though the make-up wasn’t all that elaborate or out there, you still almost didn’t recognise the person staring back from the mirror. “You clean up nicely, potato. I’ll permit you to stand by my side now.”

“You never fail to impress me, Vil. Just, how do you do it?” you chuckled, your eyes finding his in the reflection. “Normally, I would’ve called it magic, but I know better now.”

“Magic has nothing to do with this. It’s solely hard work and practice which makes perfect.” Spinning you back around, he came face to face with you again. “While you flatter me, I am far from finished. I will see this through ‘til the end and perfect this look.”

With that, Vil went back to work, prepping your lips to the point where you were convinced this would be the smoothest they’d ever be. Then, with a look of utmost concentration, he started tracing them with a lip liner before filling them out with lipstick and applying gloss after blotting it.

Despite being finished, the housewarden didn’t move away from you and you were suddenly keenly aware of the distance between you. Or the lack thereof, rather. Subconsciously, your gaze drifted to Vil’s mouth before snapping back up as you caught yourself. Your heart was racing so fast, you’d be surprised if he didn’t hear it. Was this how you died?

You knew you shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t, but screw it. The few months here had already put you through so much, at one point you stopped thinking things through twice and just leapt into action. If you’d learnt anything in this school, then it was that you had to take what you wanted because nobody would just hand it to you.

So, against better judgement, you closed the gap between the two of you. 

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise but a simple kiss from Vil was overwhelming; it was entirely too much and then again not nearly enough. If you had to find just one word to describe it, it would be intoxicating. He might be the death of you but you couldn’t care less.

Even after such a short contact, pulling away wasn’t easy. Especially because you didn’t get far before a hand at the back of your neck held you in place. Your eyes flew open to see the challenge and amusement written in his lilac ones. Not that you minded per se.

In the end, you were positively stolen of your breath whereas Vil looked as dazzling as ever, except for the slight smudge of lipstick in the corner of his lips. In your opinion it only added to his charm though. 

When you had sorted your thoughts again, your tone was slightly accusatory. “You did that on purpose.”

“Whatever do you mean?” His infuriatingly handsome smirk looked just a tad too smug for him to play coy. “May I remind you that you are the one who kissed me?”

“You weren’t even surprised!” You bristled at his act. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. I can read you like an open book, sweet potato. I just wanted to test if you’d be daring enough. Seems as though you’ve passed.” Reaching out a perfectly manicured hand, Vil wiped the stains under your bottom lip with his thumb while his gaze was trained on how your mouth parted at the movement.

“Hmm, it seems I need to do this again...”

IDIA SHROUD

Standing in front of Idia’s room, you firmly knocked on the door in a very specific rhythm to let him know it was you. Otherwise, there was a rather slim chance the housewarden would even open it. But luckily for you, you were one of the only people who were granted access to his abode. 

After grumbling a greeting, Idia widened the crack of his door just enough for you to slip through. The two of you might be friends but that still didn’t mean he was suddenly a ray of sunshine, especially when it came to social interaction. As you adjusted to the artificial blue light, you were already prepared to be tackled by a certain blue-haired boy but the anticipated weight never came.

“Huh? Is Ortho not here today?” you wondered.

“Ah no, uh… Ortho’s out running errands,” Idia mumbled, shifting from one foot to the other. “You’re probably disappointed now, right? It’s like seeing your bias is not at a fanmeet…”

“No, not at all! I was just noticing it. You’re the reason I’m here after all.” Winking at him, you were already grinning at his reaction for what you were about to say. “I’m Idia-biased after all.”

And he didn’t fail you. Instantly, his eyes widened and you could practically see him blue screen behind his golden irises. Meanwhile, the ends of his long hair tinged pink as he tried to hide himself by tugging the drawstrings of his hoodie tighter. “HUH?! I- You- What– You can’t just drop SSR dialogue like that on me…”

“Why not? It’s the truth and you’re supposed to tell the truth, no?” You tilted your head to the side expectedly. 

“What’s with you and your ability to turn a supposed buff into a massive debuff?” Idia shook his head miserably.

“Come on, I’m just teasing you. Although you are my fave, that part’s not a lie.” Nudging him back into the realm of the living as you pass, you plopped down on one of the gaming chairs in front of his PC. When had you asked him why he had two, he’d said that one was for Ortho, yet it was perfectly adjusted to your height. You just pretended he had fooled you though and didn’t comment on it further. “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”

“Uhm, that show we’ve been watching released a new episode today, so maybe we can catch up on that…” At your approval, he started setting everything up as you watched his fingers fly over the keyboard with such practised ease it amazed you every time. “You still remember the plot, right?”

“Of course, who do you take me for,” you playfully accused him. “The protagonist basically gets isekai’d to a mmorpg-like world and would die almost every two seconds if it weren’t for the cooler side characters.”

“Ya, cut him some slack. Everyone else grew up there while he’s a total noob.”

“Trust me, I know the feeling,” you deadpanned. “But even you have to admit his decisions are questionably stupid.”

Idia just looked at you as if you had grown a second head. “Is the outside perspective making you realise something or what?”

“HEY! I can go three minutes without being an orc’s breakfast.”

“Only because there’s no orcs on Sage’s Island,” he taunted with a grin, showing you his sharp teeth. In return you gasped in faux indignance before dissolving in a fit of giggles.

“Just imagine there’d be a show like this about NRC…” You tapped your finger against your chin. “I wonder what kind of tropes everyone would fall into. Like, Kalim and Jamil are your classic deredere and tsundere duo.”

“Riddle is the type of crazy skilled character you wouldn’t consider at first. But then he saves everyone by casting some seriously dangerous magic or something,” Idia sniggered.

“Meanwhile Malleus is the impossibly powerful, show-breaking character who is always conveniently absent when there’s a problem to be solved,” you sighed. Turning in your seat, you leaned your head against the back of the chair. “Say Idia, what kind of character am I?”

He tried to suppress his tiny squeak at the drop of your voice. To be honest, you had never been shy about showing your affection for the housewarden but you had come to the realisation he just wouldn't catch on, no matter how many hints you threw his way. Or rather, he’d convince himself you couldn’t possibly mean any of it.

“Y-You? Uh I guess, you always jump in to save the day no matter the risks, so you’d probably be some sort of knight in shining armour type. But with a serious case of ‘chosen one syndrome’,” he mumbled. “Seriously, only crazy people would play hard mode with those gimmicky stats of yours.”

“Aww, really?” you cooed before preparing yourself to strike. “What if I want to be the love interest though?”

By the look in Idia’s eyes it was a critical hit. 

“Lo-Love interest? You can be both I think… I mean there’s a lot of people you’re close to…,” the poor guy stammered. Seriously, how could one person be so smart yet so dense at the same time? But fine. If you needed to spell it out for him, so be it. 

Getting up, you slowly came to stand in front of his chair and propped your hands on the arm rests. You almost felt bad for him with how he was staring at you like a deer caught in headlights; Idia looked as if his life was flashing in front of his eyes. But you’ve had enough of your little cat and mouse game, it was time for the chase to come to an end.

“I was talking about your story. I want to be the love interest in your story, Idia. Hmm, how am I going to get that thought through your thick skull, I wonder…” You pretended to think about it for a moment before giving him a cheshire grin. “Ah, I think I have an idea.”

By now Idia’s hair was bright pink, matching the colour of his face, and he was radiating heat like a fireplace. As much as you wanted to see his reaction to a kiss on the lips, you were afraid it would actually kill him and you didn’t want this experience to end in giving him CPR.

So you settled for a sweet but lingering kiss to his forehead. Just as expected, his skin was warm to the touch and you felt him relax after the initial tense up. Maybe it were your own rose-red glasses but as you pulled away to cup his cheeks you could swear little hearts were flickering at the end of his hair. “Pardon the straightforwardness but I really needed to get my point across.”

“Wait, so you like me?!” Apparently his brain had kicked back into action at this point.

“I have for a while now,” you laughed, “but thanks for noticing.”

“So you were serious when you got me roses? And chocolate? And said I was your favourite?” The incredible tone of his voice was simultaneously endearing and heartbreaking. How could he not notice how amazing he actually was?

“I told you, it’s the truth,” you smiled. “So how about it? Can I be your love interest? Or is my affection already high enough to clear your route?”

“Woah you’re like straight out of an otome game,” he breathed. “Is this the super secret ending you have to play flawlessly for?”

“Oh come on, Idia,” you shot him another wink, paired with a teasing smirk, “You don’t really think this is the end, do you? If anything, it’s only the beginning."

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[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Hanged Man

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | eight

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: After some time apart, new conclusions are met.

Word count: 7.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT, fingering, unprotected piv sex, emo emo emo (are we even surprised any more), mature themes, abandonment/family trauma, loss

Notes: Friends, wow. I'm honestly embarrassed by how long this took. Thank you for your patience. I hope you find the reward worth the wait. This chapter is nearly all in Din's POV until it switches and blends in the last chunk. If you’re new to KOC, you’re more than welcome to start at this chapter! Love you guys x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

“Din.”

Familiar fingers brush through his hair, a hand he knew once combing over his overgrown locks. He feels the drag of nails across his scalp, tucking a truant curl behind his ear, and the act feels like home— like hearth.

Somewhere beyond his open window a morning bird trills, perched in its roost nestled into the forked branch of the elm.

He breathes a sigh, the sound thick with sleep, and turns to his pillow, burying himself deeper into the linen.

“Din, honey.”

He blinks— lazily, molassesed— her shape clearing into focus.

Green eyes peer back at him, fine lines framing the corners of them, and crescents crease around her lips, pulled warm into a soft curve.

Small toys— wooden things, baubles and bits, dolls made from scraps of old fabric—litter the floor, spilling from the chest butted against the stone of the wall. A book, well-loved and dog-eared, rests on his nightstand—the one he insisted she read from each night, the story he couldn’t possibly fall asleep without hearing—the images written on the page, dancing in his small mind to the tune of her voice.

It’s all there now as it was then before.

“It’s time to wake up.”

She sits at the edge of the bed—his bed—the weight of her arm draped over his shoulder like a blanket— like shelter. Like never being fearful again. Like never dying. Like summer, forever.

“I am awake,” he murmurs, and it is with his own tongue that he speaks. Not that of a boy, but a man—unfiltered, unmodulated. Stripped of his helmet, he hardly recognizes the tenor of it, of its richness, but he feels the words reverberate against the hollow of his throat and he knows they belong to him.

Light casts through the window behind her—particles of dust, trapped in the tines. Floating there, suspended on strings.

She only smiles, and strokes a thumb across the sweep of his cheekbone, there in the room he last felt safe.

“No, not yet.”

It’s time to wake up. It’s time to wake up. Wake up wake up wake—

“Not yet.”

His eyes blur open with a flutter of his lashes, the lifeless durasteel ceiling coming into view—the jade of her gaze fading, fading. Blowing away.

He shifts a hand through his hair— through the long strands in dire need of trimming— lying on his bedroll, spine knobbing into the thin mattress. The cold metal overhead stares back at him.

His chest rises. Falls.

Din can still feel her, the warmth of her, there on his cheek.

///

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He knows what you’re thinking, he can see it in the guard you’ve encased yourself with— your glass walls, your glass house. Transparent but impenetrable, Din can only look. A spectator, watching as you go about your routines— a stranger on the outside.

And he sees how you look at him.

You think he’s fine.

You think he’s marble. Unbreakable. Impervious to time, to cold, and he does nothing to correct you; no, he allows the belief. He lets you believe the calloused veneer of his beskar— lets you assume he is more machine than man.

Din thought it would be simpler. Convenient. Din thought it would hurt less.

Because how can he tell you? How can he possibly communicate the imprint you’ve left on him— how his mind revolves around the imagery of that evening in vicious figure-eights. How he can’t unremember your heat curling around his fingers, how he can’t unbridle the pulse of his cock in your palm. How he can’t unspeak that which he called you, his virgin tongue flicking new and flighty around the word.

Cyare.

It tripped—in the midst of his pleasure, it sprang clumsy from him how the inevitable always seems to where you are concerned: transport to Coruscant, his past, his history, his identity— it just happens, reasonless, illogically. Some driving magic beckoning him to buckle, wishing him to give.

Your moans, your gasps, how you prayed his name— this is the white noise murmuring through the ship, harmonizing with the tinny mechanical beeps and settling groans of the bulkheads. You churn like smog through his helmet. Ever present, the memory of you is constant— invasive. It’s suffocating him.

He’s been dealt plenty of injuries and contusions— he has the scars enough to prove it— but it’s this. It’s this that’s killing him. It’s you.

All of these paintings, life-like and lurid, and yet it is this wound - untended, uncauterized - that scalds most: the moment Din, that beskar apparition, slipped away from you. You were there, hip under the weight of his glove, and he simply

went, like fog.

He watched your face crest and fall—felt your heart, skipping nervous like a stone over a morning pond, little waves rippling lightly, lightly out and out until it puttered quiet and

sank.

He abandoned you there. He left you before you had the opportunity to convince Din that you wouldn't do the same to him. Because Din has learned this, his suit of armor a trudging reminder of the inherent fact: good things leave.

You’ll be gone soon. You’ll leave him—he’s taking you home and you’ll leave him. His son will leave him.

He’ll be alone again. He’ll have the Crest, he’ll have the Guild—he’ll have the life he once cast in stone for himself, the life he’s worn as proudly as the Mudhorn emblem he boasts on his pauldron. But that was then - before - and he can never find his way back to that now; now that he knows what he knows—of breakfast and bitter caf and laughter like church bells and warmth and goodness and you.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

There in the galley, lamp-lit iridescence caressing your countenance, you asked him once if he was scared of anything and he told you he wasn’t sure— not yet.

Din lied.

As a rule, he doesn’t make a habit out of dishonesty; it doesn’t typically suit him, he is blunted to a fault— earning allies and enemies alike with the very attribute—but he lied to you then. Maybe his fears are the same as everyone else’s, maybe they’re simple. Human.

Maybe he’s scared that you’ll unchain him from his armor, of his shortcomings and tragic flaws and see the pulpy heart of him—that you’ll look and look and look, and you will like nothing that you find there. That he’s just a man.

And perhaps, he’d rather remain unknown than risk the chance of being unlovable.

For there is a certain hollow you befriend in the aftershock of loss—there is an aperture loss gores you with. There are some holes time can never fill; they remain trenched, dug from rusted trowels— left to fester, left to ill.

Sometimes, in the surly vacuum of space, in those dulled moments in which he has nothing but to count the seconds as they tick clocklessly away, Din attempts to conjure the last word his mother gave to him. He didn’t know it then—he didn’t know it was intended as a gift, boxed and ribboned and bowed. He didn’t realize—a child, wide-eyed with naivety, drenched in fright—that he should cherish it. Remember it. Keep it safe.

No matter how hard he tries, how hard he strains, he can’t recall it. He practices the nightmared memory of it, transports himself into that war zone, dodging shrapnel and brimstone just to catch sight of her face— and he can see her lips moving, can feel the fan of the flames as his world is reduced to cinders, but he cannot hear her.

Was it goodbye? Was it I love you? Was it be safe? Was it hide? Hide hide hide for me. Be good and hide, kind boy—

It dogs him. The nothinged mumble, his silent passenger.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He heard you. There in Valentia, the city buzzing cacophonously like an orchestra tuning their instruments, he overheard the Twi’lek translate for the older woman.

Family, she said. You have a beautiful family.

Din has never in his life considered forsaking his Creed— forgoing the thing that saved him, made him, honed him to tungsten, sharp as a blade.

But he did then.

It was a flash, something fickle and brief— like the flicker of a candle before it diffused to smoke— but in that nanosecond he saw himself ripping off his helmet. He saw himself going to you, pulling you close to his plated chest. He saw the surprise wash over you—the shock that bubbled to elation. He saw you smile, that crippling gorgeous thing, with his own naked eyes and—

And then suddenly you were there before him, snapping Din from his reverie, blanket snug to your chest, the child — his child— slung beside you. He wished he had an explanation, but before he could process his actions his hand was drawing itself to your body, tugged by some unseen force—robbed of his autonomy— and rapturously, he touched you. He felt you.

His knuckles grazed your arm—your warmth, radiating past the aged leather of his glove—and the wisdom that woman uttered, the plain truth only the ancient could learn— only a mother could know— rattled around his mind, unanchored and barreling.

Yearn for the past. Reclaim time.

Hold onto them hold onto them hold on—

Never let them go.

Ready? he asked you, arm resigned to his side, feigning monotony beneath the cover of his visor.

You threaded an even smile to your lips, as if Din were none the wiser— as if he hadn’t catalogued every lick of your expressions, every curve and bow and wrinkle as your emotions sung across your face. As if he didn’t know when you were lying. As if he didn’t know when you were falling apart.

Ready, you replied, swallowing past the disappointment welled in your throat.

Both your hearts broke then. Perfectly—the same.

This is the Way.

///

Din is gone over a week. It’s the longest he’s ever been away for a hunt—it’s the longest nine days of your kriffing life.

The ship feels vacant without him; she’s cumbersome, too cavernous for the likes of only you and his foundling. Her durasteel sidings yawn morose against the wind beating restless against her—her metal stretching like a lothcat in a patch of sun. The doors and hatches complain ajar and gripe shut, as if she’s recalcitrant to go about her standard operating procedures without Din’s presence. The old gal misses him, down to her steely bones and dual ion turbines, and in truth — and despite yourself— you suppose a small part of you feels the same, shares an inkling of that same loneliness.

The rituals and dog-eared routines you’d drawn comfort from are now rinsed in a forlorn wash.

The single bowl of food you prepare looks wrong without its twin beside it.

You scroll a finger over your display screen, flicking through various articles, the faint light from the holopad basking the contours of your face in a lonesome shade of inanimate blue.

Anything good you hear him ask, there in your inner ear— the memory of his voice leaving a nick among the many wrinkles of your brain.

You sigh, quietly— alone. Never.

Even Munch misses him, although he expresses it differently. He’s been a downright terror with Din gone. At first it was a vacation, a luxury retreat; you and the child gorged yourself on crackers and grava berries and dried bantha meat—mindful of sweeping up the crumbs on whichever surface you snacked. You giggled and ran amok and shared secrets in code only the two of you could decipher.

But one day grew to two, and two to three and three to four and by the fifth you were out of treats and your patience too had dwindled to short supply.

The child is special— unquestionably unique. And as much as you adore him, would lay down your life for him if it came to it, Maker he is uniquely qualified to send you round the bend twice over. He’s baffling, infuriating— just like his father. Of all the things he could have inherited from the man, of course he decided to latch on to his vexing penchant for mystery.

You lost him for half a day. He was somewhere aboard the Crest, of that you knew that for certain, but he managed to enact a stunt that could’ve puzzled even the most illustrious of illusionists with how quickly and effectively he vanished, seemingly out of thin air.

He emerged eventually for dinner, babbling wickedly. There was that, at least: you could always count on Munch to — well, munch.

Over a week of this— nine days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes, to be exact… But who’s counting.

The sky glitches with lightning, sparking like a bulb in dreadful need of changing, and veins of violet skitter along the horizon, chased by the clapping hammer of thunder. Fat drops of rain trace down the transparisteel, the metalled drum of their pattering against the Crest lullabying your eyelids to a slumbered close. You drift, weightless, waxing and waning in and out of a reoccurring dream that always blurs to mere suggestion - to shadow - as soon as you wake.

The harsh sound stirs you—the ramp’s gears springing to life, signaling the Mandalorian’s return. Rapidly, you blink clear the slog of sleep from your eye, re-emerging from the forgotten depths of your subconscious and half-roused, you bound from the copilot’s chair. You rally from your stupor, instinct urging you to meet the bounty hunter by the entrance—some tittering, foolish part of you still so glad and girlish just to see him.

Hobbling down the ladder with veteraned coordination - one leg one arm one foot one hand - you hop the last two rungs to land catlike on the balls of your feet, heading towards the stern of the ship and—

You don’t make it three steps.

He’s there. Din is there— nine days later and finally, like a hallucination, he’s here— ominous and backlit by the glow seeping in from the galley. An obelisk, undaunted.

Your gut somersaults, flipping until it dizzies.

Knee-jerked and reflexive, the basest part of you demands you go to him, to cross the threshold separating you— the time and space and uncertainty dredged like a moat between you two. But instead of greeting him as you wish— two arms thrown around him, welcoming him home—back to the Crest, to the child, to you—you stand there, dumbstruck and wanting.

The passage of the corridor is like a strait. It's so narrow you can smell him— his carbon musk, his petrichored sweat—and it furls thick into your sinuses, fogging up your vision, clotting the faulty wiring of your mind. He’s brought the wet in with him, drip dropping from his hulking frame to splat puddled onto the deck.

plop

plop

plop

A beat ferments, hanging ripe from its branch as the tempest rages outside the sheltered hull of the ship. Distantly, thunder booms from above.

“Din— hi.”

“You’re up.” He doesn’t move from the archway. Stiffened, composed from granite, the man hardly breathes. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily—untruthfully.

Din scans you: your obviously tousled hair, the drowsy flush kissing your jaw, the tell-tale crinkle of your tunic. Your tongue darts out to skip over your lip and his lungs pull, aching beneath his ribs.

Maker, you’re pretty even when you lie.

“Go back to sleep,” he assures, but you hardly register it; it’s scarcely above a murmur by the time the words hum through his modulator.

“Can I make you some food? Can I—"

There’s a tarred shake of his helm, tiredly dissuading you. “No, you—you’ve done enough.”

“But you must be exhausted, Din. Let me help you,” you urge, sincerity shaping the lilt of your voice. “Please, I—” You falter. Vision finally adjusted in the dimmed hall, it is then that you spot it.

Your mouth runs dry.

He’s dappled in a violent scarlet, foreign red splatters contrasted against all that silvered grey, bleeding with the rainwater to roll sanguined down the rounded edges of his armor.

Blood. He’s covered in blood.

Something pitted—something vital— in you contracts; horror, prickling the fine hairs along your forearm. “Maker, what happened?”

Eyes gaping fearful, you skitter around his breastplate, his vambraces, the paneling of his flight suit, roving meticulously in search for the source of his injury. Thoughtless, consumed with only one concern - is he hurt? - your hand flies to his chest where it rests—solid. Fretting. “Stars, are you—”

He can see it—he can see you, always—how your gaze swells, laced with a surge of adrenaline, of care, and Din lays his broad palm flat over your knuckles, grabbing your frantic attention. “It’s not mine—hey, it’s not mine.”

Your shoulders deflate, relief visibly relaxing the rigidity in your spine, and for the first time in what feels like minutes you release the breath you’d fostered high behind your teeth.

He doesn’t know what overtakes him. Perhaps it’s your sleep swollen lips or the soft petal of your cheek— taunting Din, daring him to feel you again, as he did before— or perhaps it’s the all too apparent fact that you simply give a shit about him— despite everything he’s done, all of that which he has left unsaid. That you worry. That you care.

Puppeted, arm hoisted by some invisible strings of fate—those unseen threads of inevitability—he reaches for you. Din’s thumb roams the slope of your cheekbone, the buttered hide of his glove gliding over your skin. Something rattles flustered in your chest, and you must look pathetic— how your eyes bat at him and your mouth parts, breathy and demure.

“Dala.” He sounds pained when he says it, as if it’s poisoning him; the very syllables like hemlock dripping down his tongue—slowly gradually, ending his life— this life.

This life as he knows it.

You nuzzle into the cradle of his palm, encircling a hand around his wrist, urging him still. You both know he could break away from you without an ounce of strength squandered, but he doesn’t; he listens, he quiets for you. Enchanted, neither of you dare move— neither of you, willing to shatter the profound spell of intimacy you’ve stumbled onto.

He holds you like this, and you hold him to you. His hand on your cheek; yours over the birdcaged throb of his heart— burning - devouring - its entombed aril like the heart of a dying star.

“Where’d you go?” you whisper, heathered, into the heel of his hand. There is something broken in your cadence, like the chipped rim of a fragile cup, and it punctures him just there beneath his sternum.

Where’d you go?

Where’d you go before? When you left— where did you spirit away to?

Why didn’t you take me with you?

A sick wave rots his stomach. He couldn’t answer you then, not when you were wobbly and coltish beneath him—Din can barely answer you now. His digits twine into your hair, cupping the arc of your neck. The gesture is not unkind. It is delicate— urgent, too—and the following hush you share speaks tomes for the both of you, the sob of his leathered fist admitting what he cannot utter.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Maker, if you could see him. See how his face folds for you, grief lined into the shallow grooves that mark him. The cycles of it— how they bend him into something contorted. Something in need - I need you I need you I need - something ugly, he thinks. Leftover. Hidden. Hide hide hide hi—

You turn, pressing a kiss into the rough of his palm. It’s a soft thing— trepid and cautious—too worried you might frighten him away to offer anything more than a chaste brush of your lips—too worried you’ll send him scurrying back into the cratered unknown he crawled out from.

But he doesn’t.

Din doesn’t turn tail and run, he stands firm—weaving his hand further into your scalp, guiding you closer to him with a throaty sound. The forehead of his helm sinks to yours, and through its filter you discern the tremor of Din’s breathing, made fuzzy by the tinny modulator.

This is nothing like before. Din was hot blooded and vicious then, possessed by the infernal likes of some great beast, but he has since been tamed, if only momentarily—coaxed into a certain meekness by the frail ache of his heart—by the grace of your kind mouth, kissing his gun-worn glove.

He groans your name, mumbled and brassy. The two of you so close, so merged, that if it weren’t for his helmet, you’d feel the tickle of the syllables as they sweep over your face. Din repeats himself, repentant—praying for forgiveness on the cross of your name—your kiss, a benediction.

Again, he calls you. I’m sorry.

Again, you kiss him. There is nothing to forgive.

Again. Again.

With a flutter of bravado, you sling a lumbered arm over the span of his neck, notching yourself into his chest, an interlocking piece finding it’s match. Din’s forearm comes to coil around your waist, wide hand spanning the small of your back, and if possible, gathers you nearer— a growl emanating somewhere from under his beskar.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, bullet riddled—grating—warring with the countless shards of himself he has yet to reconcile; but his body betrays his intentions as Din’s grasp finds itself lower, filling his fingers with the plush of your ass. “Tell me, please.”

Arousal rushes to pool in your depths—at the proximity of him, the hungered way at which he paws you—and it’s a reaction you feel mimicked by the iron rod straining against Din’s flight suit, pressing into your thigh. You shake your head, gaze colored earnest, and you shift, applying a grind of your hips against him in response.

Din lets out a defeated groan; weak to you, a fabled Mandalorian warrior brought to trembling knees by the guile of a good woman. And suddenly, like striking a match in a room swarmed with gas, you are incendiary.

He’s everywhere— groping and kneading your arms, your ass, your neck and waist. You are malleable beneath him, sculpted like wet clay under his eager touch—as if he is committing your form to memory; the fervor of his grip, reclaiming time.

He hooks a hand under the crease of your knee, yanking you to the column of his armor, sealing your bodies together. Gyrating your hips against him, your clit yearns against his thick outline as you dig into the cowl draped over his shoulders.

Sliding his hand down your backside, he presses his palm into your clothed heat from behind, pads of his fingers insistent as you saddle your spine into his touch, granting him better access. His cock brays, straining beneath his many layers, and a withered moan breaches past your lips.

“Gods, Din.”

Din. He can’t stand that—his name, lush in your wet mouth—and without ceremony, drops your leg from where he’d glued it to his hip. Like a beggar, impoverished and need-stricken, he begins to fight with your clothing, half tempted to rip the damn things off you, leaving you tattered; he’d happily buy you a new wardrobe if it meant having you as he’s wanted for these long months—naked and vulnerable and his.

Your tunic and pants come off in a flurry, your underwear too, discarded hastily in some forgotten corner—and with a hand on your chest, he walks you backwards until your bare ass connects with the durasteel, a jagged inhale tearing through you at the chill. A question knits your brows to meet as Din paces away from you, increasing his distance.

“What are you-”

He interrupts you with a groan. “Just - gedet’ye - just let me—”

His gaze drips like wax down your body—eyes dressing over your clavicle, the supple weight of your breasts, the gorgeous dusting of hair at your mound, the sweet press of your thighs as you clench them together, your pretty knees, your pretty ankles, your pretty feet, pigeoned inward nervously.

Pretty pretty pretty—fuck, all of you. So fucking pretty.

With the cock of his chin, his gaze returns to the heave of your breasts—tracing over your nipples pebbling in the everpresent draft of the Razor Crest— and you rile under him, heart stammering loud—so loud you’re convinced he can hear it with the aid of his helm. And Maker above, the way you’re fucking staring at him—all hooded lids and flushed cheeks. Din wants to fucking ravish you.

Dismantle you.

Pick you apart bit by bit until you’ve come undone completely.

And as if slogging through gravity itself, movements prowled, he steps to you. Din finds your hips, running the whisper of his gloves along the slopes of your sides; a master of patience, commanding time to his will, he crawls up your skin

slow

slow

deliberate.

You’re all but helpless to the shiver that traverses the planes of your body, zipping along your synapses like the fault lines of a quaking planet—cracking you open, exposing your molten core. You’re not proud of the noise you make when he cups your breasts. Starved, you whine as he takes you into his hands, pinching and groping until you’re pert and sore and you drive your pelvis into him, rutting yourself against his frame like some flea ridden slum-mutt in the prime of her heat.

Din seethes, mumbling in Mando’a—spitting curses you can’t pretend to comprehend, but that blot warmth along your cheekbones at the oaky depravity of which he utters them.

He seals over your mound, blood pumping at your seam, bundle of nerves pulsing steady against the heel of his hand. Immobile, he waits, hovering stagnant and teasing before his lust to feel you outweighs his desire to make you be good and wait—and parting through your curls, he kisses the tips of his orange gloves into your honeyed cunt.

It’s dirty. He’s dirty, he’s fucking filthy—covered in foreign blood and alien soil—and you feel depraved, unclean. Powerful. You feel, perhaps, as the Maker intended—wild and without shame, to roam his gateless garden and sully the soles of your feet.

You feel raw. Din Djarin sands you raw.

The pump of his wrist is merciless, pistoning in and out in shallow thrusts, knuckles angled to prod at that spot— that piece of primordial heaven sequestered at the channel of your cunt—and he keeps discovering it over and over again with a sharp shooter’s precision—zeroing in on his mark and releasing the trigger. Dead eyed.

You grab greedily at his bulge, at his cock begging for regard beneath the protective fabric covering him, and you squeeze the best you can. The angle is awkward and unweildy and it’s not nearly enough for either of you, but it conveys your intention well enough.

Can I have this? Will you give this to me?

Din growls his reply, leaving your pussy to fumble with the waist of his trousers, fidgeting over the pesky buttons—the final of the flimsy holdouts separating you and the tempered steel hanging solid between his legs. It bobs free from his pants, ruddied tip straining and pining for you, and without spending another moment idle, he rediscovers the warmth of your naked body— molding himself to your form, his grip once more finding the pit of your knee and bracing it to his side.

He ruts the underside of his shaft through your slick folds, his blunt head nudging at the swollen cleft of your center—each pitch of Din’s hips sending bolts of pleasure crackling through your core. He’s stifling a string of moans while he does it, while he undulates against you, the sighs and gasps digitized to near silence as he coats his cock in your gloss—and not for the first time do you find yourself considering how fucking colossal Din is. How fucking virile and engulfing, like blaster smoke and tabacco and cedar. Like coaled smog from a cremulator. Like giving life, like taking it away— like mercy. Vengeance.

Din swipes your standing leg up to match the other in a fluid motion, effectively levitating you off the ground with only his palms secured beneath your hamstrings and your strangled hold around his neck to suspend you.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He’s practically begging you now, anguish wrecking through the timber of his voice—grasping blindly for an excuse not to lose himself in you completely, not to bury his primal drives and fears into the chasm of your sex.

You’ll leave him you’ll leave him he’s terrified you’ll leave him

“I-I don’t want you to stop— I want this. Din, I want you, I missed you. I miss you.” You miss him. He’s right here, cock streaking through your middle and still, you miss him. You’ll never stop missing him—wanting him. An unscratchable itch at the median of your back, burning for his affection, for his touch.

He releases a husked sound at that, as if hearing it from you hurts— your words, purpling a bruise into the bloody beat of his heart—and like a dipping sun sinking below the crust of a darkening planet, the last of Din’s resolve fades to utter black as he finally - finally - buries himself into where you weep for him.

Oh Maker. Fuck, fuck—

You muffle a relieved cry, forehead collapsing to the slope of his shoulder. Your walls shutter, blinking and gasping around his cock as he rolls up into you, lips pulling taut around his girth with each drag through your cunt. Din fucks you slurred and languid—his pace, sweltering like a summer fever—heavy, punitive. Smothering and thick. You can feel every vein, every silken ridge, as he notches himself inch by inch— the cant of his hips meditated, aiming to melt you open with each wave.

Stuffed to the hilt inside you, he rakes in a ragged breath, calming the race of his bloodstream drumming percussive in his ears.

It occurs to you then that he might be trying to be careful with you, curled around him like this, crushed up against the bulkhead. You think he might be treating you as a jeweler would handle a rarified gem— gentle and tip-toed, afraid of letting you clatter to the counter, of scuffing your facets— devaluing you.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want cautious or considerate or any of those awfully pious things. You want to be owned. Devoured. You don’t want to feel anything else but him. You want him to need you so terribly, so primally, he bleeds. You want to forget your own damn name and replace the memory of it with his—just his, to sit besot like liquor on your tongue. Din Din Din.

“Fuck me— please - please - fuck me harder Din.” Fuck me like you need to. Fuck me like you want me— please just tell me you want me. Tell me I’m wanted. Tell me I’m worth this.

You can see the deliberation span over his mask, the light glinting off the steel there hesitant, wary. Are you sure?

“Fuck me.” I want this. I want you.

He wants to give this to you somewhere soft— somewhere you deserve. With a feathered mattress and molted down pillows and gauzy curtains billowing in a sea breeze as light dapples prismed patterns on your dewy skin. He wants to give this to you somewhere beautiful—perhaps on that planet you once probed him about - Adega - with its red trees and warm nights and friendly natives you’d cherish and keep aloft in your breast.

He wants you to feel safe. Adored.

But what he wants and what he needs are two vastly different things—two opposing extremes at odds with the other. Because he needs to fuck you here— it has to be here. Needs to score your backside with metaled bites from the Crest’s unforgiving interior; needs you crumpled and sloppy, panting out his name to echo shamelessly into the deviled bowels of his gunship.

He needs you charred for him. Scorched earth.

And with your panted pleas, lilting addictive and irresistible, he is all but helpless to deny you— to deny himself. Relenting, resolved, his voice bottoms out.

“I-I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

He fucks you frenzied. The snap of his hips drives you into the wall; he lifts you off his cock just to spear you on it once more, fucking up up up into you, unleashing all his strength— his neglected need—into the grail of your womb. The salted slaps of skin are loud enough to make a lecher blush. It’s a chorus of beskar rattling, wet and ugly and Maker, he’s splitting you open and all you can do is mewl.

You screw your eyes shut, lost to oblivion—crown of your head shoved back, jugular bared for him like prey before the slaughter.

“No.” Leveraging his mass against you, Din clasps at the nape of your neck to command your focus, forcing your chin. “No, look at me,” he orders, brutal and sinewed and there’s desperation there. Din needs you looking at him — seeing him— the embrace of your gaze like a life raft, tethering him here, grounding him to this plane of existence, the one where he has found salvation—if only fleeting, if only like hourglassed sand sifting through his fingers—within the temple of your body. Struggling and led-lidded, you pry your lashes apart, shivering as you drink in the punishing expression leering across his visor; and as you always do, you peer past the murky T there, meeting his eyes camouflaged in their sockets behind it.

“There you are. There you are, my pretty thing - hnng—” He silences himself with a hoarse moan, the sensation of you clenching firm around him, gripping Din like a man would a rope, dangling some feet above the ground, hiccuping him to stutter. “T-That’s it, dala—fuck, y-your pussy is so godsdamn tight.”

You go boneless at the praise—at how he tongues out those fond epithets, vehement and covetous and brined in sincerity—and your breathing quickens as you soak the coarse weave of Din’s flight suit, chafing your clit to shambles with each bow of his starved sex.

You’re close. Stars, you’re so kriffing close—reach out and touch it and you’re there, a promise fulfilled dancing at your fingertips—and you almost tell him; you wish you could - don’t stop don’t stop please right there Din - but you’ve lost your voice, vocal chords stricken with tension. More than that, you’ve lost the wedge of your brain that recognizes articulation all together. Speech itself. You’re wasted. You’re shattered. You’re being fucked within an inch of your sorry life.

Nimbled, without a word of warning, Din relocates— grappling under the plats of your thighs and bracing you featherlight to his chest—negligible in comparison to the ton of armor he dons cycle after cycle, weightless when compared to that of his Creed, hanging like a yoke around his gullet. You yip in surprise and scramble around him, calves digging into his back, forearms clamped around his shoulders—his cock remaining delved within your pussy with each footfall.

Four long strides and he’s reached his destination: a large crate, stranded just outside the hallway leading to the galley. Stooping at the waist, he lowers you down with astonishing ease until you’re flush on your back, knees flanking his frame. You heave a sigh, petulant and wanting, when he slips from you mid-adjustment, a lewd squelch accompanying the movement. It is to the fervor of your clawing, desperate nails scratching down metal - please please please - that he glides back into you with one deft sweep, a satisfied gasp tumbling loose from him.

He looms over you now— Din, a tower unyielding—thrusting into you rough and hard and perfect. He’s filling you in undiscovered places long gone unrealized, nooks you didn’t know you had—the length of him completing you, making you whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, orange pads of his gloves dimpling your hips.

With a tremor of your chin, you moan—broken and chirping. “Don’t - please - please don’t - shit - don't stop—” Your prayers convulse, dying in your throat, sentence cut short as he circles his thumb over your clit, catching at your slippery bud. Ever the marksman, he’s debilitatingly attentive to you, the hide of his glove snagging against your cleft, and combined with the steady rock of his dick shredding you open, you’re all but defenseless to the dawning of your release, crawling closer and closer and—

“Din,” you pant, ”Din Din Din, I think I—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna, oh Maker—”

The muscles in your stomach seize, a twisted expression cramping your brow. You scamper to his arms, reaching out for something - anything - a parcel of real estate to clutch onto while you unravel. You’re grappling with his pauldrons, the pulsepoint at your wrist humming over the symbol welded to his shoulder, and you mage into starlight. You’re fizzing. You’re blind. You’re atomic and phasing in and out of realities and you burn— a meteor hurtling through the upper atmosphere crashing crashing crashing and—

Language exhausted, all there is left for you to do is cry, the evidence of your orgasm ricocheting like a hail of gunfire against the Razor Crest walls.

“That’s a good girl, that’s a good girl for me—f-fuck." It’s like taking a jab to his solar plexus, how you cinch around him— the corset of your walls milking his cock until he’s shaking, stumbling. The drive of his pelvis has gone erratic, the throbbing bloom gnashing its teeth in his gut—that rabid thing desperate to be released, uncaged—teeters on the identical ledge you’d just leapt from.

“Tell me to stop - please - tell me to, tell me to stop—” You’re all eyes. Your whole face, swallowed by the sweet, glassy orbs notched below the quiver of your forehead, and you’re looking at him like he could hang the damn moon and it’s too much— it’s too much too much he can’t levee this raging need— and with a hurried gasp he pulls out of your heat to tug at his slicked cock— panting ragged as he gushes onto your stomach, your legs, your pretty pussy made pink and puffy with abuse.

His breathing is labored; you can see it in the mountainous rise and fall of his chest plate as his strokes slow, his other hand digging into your flesh, indenting you. He exhales, scraping clean the fissure between his lungs, and Din tips his head, angling it backwards— granting you a rare sliver of the stubbled swath along his neck. The sightly patch, treasured behind his silvered grotto, shouldn’t be the thing that plays upon your heartstrings like one would pluck a harp— not after he’s burrowed himself inside you, not after he’s carved you to his likeness— but it does. You’re butterflied and cherry blossomed and you grin— not so much on your lips but in your soul, and there is a purring warmth that’s radiating like candle flame from the anima alive beneath your breasts and—

And then, suddenly — like time, like memory— he is gone.

He leaves you. Mirrored, he does as he did that night—laying a squeeze into the meat of your hip, he transpires to atoms, dissipating round the unknown bend of a corner and you’re alone again—alone, with only the citric bile steeping in your insides to accompany you, threatening to rise up your windpipe.

No. No no nonono—

Din’s presence, a beacon in the moonless night, disappears— leaving you orphaned and moored and mortified. He’s done it again— he’s left you, he keeps leaving you— and it renders you sick; viscerally, you’re angered and ill and green-washed with naivety.

Fool you once, shame on them. Fool you twice, and what in Maker’s name did you expect? A declaration? An about-face? As if a Mandalorian could let the beskar from his blood. As if Din could reanimate the cadaver of his past—could slip into that old snakeskin he’d shed cycles before.

It paralyzes you. Immobile, you are chambered flat on your back in the resin of your embarrassment, bereft of your vision as you stare sightless into the steel. You’ve separated—your mind and your body disjointed like oil and water, and you don’t hear it. You don’t hear the tread of Din’s feet, you don’t register his aura, Illuminous in the archway; you don’t see the stray towel fisted in his grip, you don’t feel the clench of a frozen hand around your heart as he does his. For he sees you there—a tick in your jaw; eyes distanced, fogged—and he knows he’s done this to you. The scarring of how he derelicted you then tarnishing the new-leaf flesh of the present.

He steps towards you, closer now, and your alerted gaze pins to him. A surprised expression makes a home there, astoundment freckling your face— and although he hasn’t earned the right, it strikes him bullseyed between his plated ribs because it hurts— the obvious shock of him returning for you hurts. Din is not a good man— not all of him. Sometimes, you and all your heaven-lit gleam, you make him forget that.

But sometimes, you make him remember.

And Maker, if you don’t look good like this. Streaked with his seed, creamy white pearling the maps of your body, the shine of it catching in the cannistered shafts of filtered light.

There’s a word for this—for you, for how you look, splayed and painted with his cum—with him. It puffs up like petals would, there in the square of his center. He’s never said it. His mouth doesn’t know the feel of it, his lips don’t know its shape. It’s scribed in Mando’a, and as native as the language is to him—as fundamental as Basic, if not more so—the word itself is foreign. Gawky. The thought of it alone hobbles through his mind on foaled legs. Din keeps this word barred, its essence clinging to the iron partitions of his skull, its perfume clouding his senses, his better judgement, his confounded rationality dangling precarious by a string.

Beautiful. Mesh’la.

You shift under his watchful eye, knees steepling mousy, and gingerly, he prizes the two apart and you let him.

You let him you let him of course you let him.

Din runs a damp cloth up your seam, up those hypersensitive folds, towards the expanse of flesh leading to your belly, and you hiss—a startled chill icing through your body.

“It’s cold,” he informs you, well after the fact, and you chortle a note in response. He continues to lave you clean, the drag of the material smoothing over your stippled planes and it’s intimate—how he takes you under his care, how he unmakes his mess.

Your heart, silly flustered thing it is, it tells you the act feels worshipful—reverent, maybe—but your head convinces you to look away, to cower, to do anything but address the blaze left in the wake of the rag he’s swiping over you. It’s too much. You feel vase-like— fragile and dainty, for the bounty hunter to either fill with wildflowers or crush under the heel of his boot— and it’s too unbearable. Bringing a hand to your sweat-sheened face, you shadow your eyes, ostriching shyly— if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

A clipped tone escapes his helmet and it’s a sound you can’t place— it’s short, a blip—and you presume he’ll remain mum until he speaks. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

You don’t have to hide from me. I don’t want you to hide from me.

You nearly whimper at that. There’s something endearing and bronzed about how he says it, something torn, too—and you peak through the curtain of your fingers to watch him perform his ministrations. Almost begrudginly, you remove your hand from it’s shelf, resting it on the swell of your breast while he passes the cloth along your inner thighs, erasing the sticky traces of himself. There’s a quiet pause, a moment of distilled nothing before—

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” you admit, small.

He soothes his thumb into the crook of your hip, voice blunt with guilt. “I know.”

Sighing, you nod a little thing, a half-gesture, practically creeping under the Mandalorian's radar undetectable. Thunder shouts, lightning cracks— the bombastic storm outside apathetic to the lull within. Din clears his throat, rasping. “Was that okay?”

You resist the temptation to snort. Din is such a juxtaposition—one you don’t imagine you’ll tire from any time soon. He’s dangerous and protective and clever and strong and kind, despite his best efforts to snuff his compassion to ash like the butt of a dead cigarette. Lifting your palm from its perch, you extend to him, measuredly sliding your fingers against the crate— stretching stretching until he meets you, dubious and toddling like a child’s first steps, orange-dipped digits touching nude flesh. Your everbright grin brightens all the more— bewitching, back-breaking—as you entwine your hands to mesh.

“More than okay,” you say coyly. “Was that-was that good for you?”

Din huffs out an airy chuckle rich with disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re even asking him—like you’d even have to ask at all. “That was—that was good. Very good,” he confesses gruffly, never a man for poetry, breathlessness still apparent in the bleed of his vocoder. “Even better than I imagined.”

A feline grin unfurls your lips, boldly quirking the droll corners of your mouth. “You imagine this often, Mando?”

Smirking wry and devastating, Din ushers you up by your woven hands, your body pliable and easy to his will; uprighted, his hips slot between your pretty knees, and he expertly twists your arm behind your back, snaring it there. Spine swooped, breasts brushing against his beskar, your nipples pebble cold. “Don’t let it go to your head, dala,” he gravels, visor tilted down at your dwarfed form, tenting you.

“Well," you tease lightly, "I’ll try my best.”

And you look at each other with all the tender awkwardness of two people standing on the edge of a brave new unknown.

Nervous, girlish, you smile.

Fluttering, pussy-drunk, he smiles back.

///

Nested in the pronged branch of a tall tree spindling up from the graveled soil, Din— a man, a boy too— reclines supine against the bark. His feet dangle like they did then, back when he wasn’t so afraid, and the air is dusted with a rosy haze as dusk settles upon the tired day.

The sun sets. The world twinkles a midnight blue, winking starshine as she spins.

Somewhere, behind him, his mother calls him home for supper.

/

tags: @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey @severinsnape @kirsteng42 @justanothersadperson93 @mrsbentalmadge @radiowallet @librariantothejedi @whataperfectwasteoftime @babydarkstar @punkremus @mandobloggin @alma-rt1 @not-the-droids @pedrostories @kylieann0716 @jk7789

[itadorisgf]

YOU MAKE IT DIFFICULT TO NOT OVERTHINK.

note: fushiguro megumi pls reply to my text messages

word count: 1.5k

pairing: fushiguro megumi x gn!reader

warning: takes place after fushiguro gets his shit rocked by tōdō, blood, mention of injuries

The word plagues you the moment it falls from his lips.

“As long as a person is compassionate, then I don’t need anything else.”

What did he mean by that?

You glance sideways at Kugisaki and Maki who are too engrossed in conversation to pay you much mind. Good. You slip your phone, which managed to escape unscathed following your encounter with Maki’s rather unpleasant twin, out of your pocket and unlock it. It’s not as if you’re unfamiliar with the word, but you type it into the search engine anyways to look up its exact definition.

A definition pops up instantly after you press enter. “Compassionate: feeling or showing sympathy and concern for others.” Your brows unconsciously pinch together as you read the definition a second time. You gnaw on your lower lip, hissing when your teeth accidentally come in contact with a cut. You bring your hand up to your lip, tenderly pressing your forefinger against the thin cut, and then pulling it away to look at it. The cut still stings but at least it’s not bleeding anymore.

Your mind wanders back to Fushiguro’s words, and you can’t help but feel unsettled by them. It’s too…simple. How is it that the only quality that Fushiguro desires in a romantic partner is compassion?

It’s simple, but at the same time, it’s not. Compassion is intangible. It’s not a physical quality that you could simply check off if you had it or not. It’s a feeling that one possesses, and can only be seen through the actions that one takes. You kind of wish Fushiguro had said something shallow instead. Even if you didn’t fit his type at least there wouldn’t be any room to overthink it at all. You would be able to wallow in self-pity for a while that your crush on him would go unreciprocated and then move on afterwards.

But, that’s not who Fushiguro is.

“What’s the face for?” You lift your head up to look at Maki and Kugisaki. You answer Maki’s expectant gaze with a shrug of your shoulders while slipping your phone back into your pocket.

“Nothing. I was just thinking about the Exchange Event.” You slightly shrink under Maki’s unrelenting stare before she turns to look forward once more as Kugisaki launches all three of you into a discussion about the upcoming event. You’re thankful that Maki didn’t press you for more information when you both know that you were lying straight through your teeth. She’ll drop the issue for now and wait until you eventually come to her about it.

You mainly listen to the two converse, popping in here and there to add your own comment, but Fushiguro’s words continue to weigh heavily on your mind. You’re lost in thought once more when you hear Kugisaki gasp from beside you. Looking up to see what caused such a reaction from your friend, you release a gasp of your own as you take in Fushiguro’s bloodied state.

He’s holding a piece of cloth, soaked through with red, to the side of his head. His clothes are soiled and blood is smeared across the entirety of the upper area of his face. He looks like shit, but he’s standing up with the help of Panda and Inumaki, who each have an arm hooked under his shoulder.

“Fushiguro?” He raises his head at the sound of your voice. You rush over to Fushiguro’s side, replacing Inumaki, who slips out of your way with no complaint, and slide an arm around his torso to help support his weight. “What happened to you?”

“Tōdō,” he mutters, wincing when Panda jostles him a bit too roughly. You grimace upon hearing the name. You didn’t realize that Tōdō would have roughed up Fushiguro to this extent, but you weren’t too surprised. Tōdō was a fearsome opponent. The mere thought of facing him in battle was enough to send a shiver up your spine.

“I’ll help Panda bring Fushiguro to see Ieiri,” you inform Maki and Kugisaki. Inumaki joins them, standing off to the side of the duo.

Maki waves you off with a knowing glance. You dislike how it feels like she’s peering right into the depths of your heart as if she knows the secrets it holds. You inwardly groan to yourself. She most likely does have an idea and you positively dread the talk you’ll be having once this is all over. You’re unsure if you’ll be able to handle the inevitable teasing that will ensue.

“Do what you like, just don’t be late for our training session tomorrow morning.”

You nod and watch the trio walk off as you readjust your grip on Fushiguro. You remain quiet, lost in your thoughts, all of which center around the male whose weight you’re currently supporting, and listen to Panda happily discuss the Exchange Event that seems to be the topic on everyone’s minds. It’s not long until you find yourself at Ieiri’s door. The room you’ve visited a fair share of times for your own injuries in the past lies empty at the moment. As soon as Fushiguro’s eased into a sitting position, Panda disappears with a hearty goodbye, leaving you and Fushiguro alone as the two of you wait for Ieiri’s arrival.

“Let me get something to clean the blood off,” you mutter when the quiet gets to be too much for you. Fushiguro just grunts in reply as you flounder around the room, searching for the faucet and a clean towel.

You grimace and take the bloodied rag from Fushiguro’s dirtied hand and toss it aside before replacing it with the clean dampened towel you prepared.

“Close your eyes,” you murmur. Fushiguro’s eyes flutter shut in response to your quiet demand. You’re confident that the walls around your heart would have crumbled all too easily if Fushiguro kept his eyes open and trained on you. You swallow down your nerves and ignore the hammering of your heart as you gently swipe the rag over his eyes.

He scrunches his face up and clenches his eyes shut automatically at the cool sensation before relaxing again. The action is much too endearing and you remind yourself that this is no time to be admiring Fushiguro’s profile when he’s injured. Your hands are gentle as you drag the rag over his bloodied face, doing your best to not cause him any more discomfort than he’s already experiencing in his injured state.

“That’s the best I can do right now.” Fushiguro slowly opens his eyes once more as you lift the red-stained towel away from his face. You quickly turn around to place the rag in the sink, unable to face Fushiguro while you’re in such a flustered state. You hadn’t realized how close you were to his face until after you were nearly finished wiping off all the blood and dirt that coated his skin. “I’ll leave the rest for Ieiri to take care of.”

Your heart lurches when Fushiguro reaches out and loosely circles your wrist with his hand. He draws his arm back quickly as if he’s surprised as well with his sudden action when you turn around to face him.

“Thank you.”

The words come out stilted and awkward, and you think you may be more seriously injured than you originally thought because a stark redness paints itself across Fushiguro’s pale cheeks and you are sure that you cleaned all the blood from his face. It takes a moment for you to realize that this isn’t a figment of your imagination or a daydream. That sitting less than a few feet away from you, Fushiguro is blushing. His eyes are averted away from your form, but he does nothing to hide the scarlet hue of his cheeks. Oh. Your heart really cannot take this.

“It’s no problem.” Your voice cracks, and you internally scream because at this rate you’re going to make a bumbling fool out of yourself in front of the boy you like. “I’ll see you later, Fushiguro.” You rush out of the room as quick as you can, hoping that the way your face has warmed up goes unnoticed by him.

You don’t allow yourself to relax until you collapse on a bench far away from Ieiri’s room, all the way on the other side of campus. Your frame sags and your pulse races as the mental image of Fushiguro blushing flashes to the forefront of your mind once more. This is really not good for your heart. At this rate, Fushiguro is going to give you a heart attack whether he means to or not.

“So you and Fushiguro, huh?”

You visibly startle at the teasing tone, scrambling to sit upright and twisting your head to face the owner of the voice. An arched brow and a grin that promises nothing good greets you as you look up at Maki. You swallow in an attempt to dislodge the lump in your throat.

There’s no way you’re getting out of this unscathed.

[hansoulo]

whisper scarcely breathing

part four of “Pillar of Salt”

Pairing: Boba Fett/Princess!Reader (she/her pronouns, no Y/N)

Warnings: NC-17, NSFW, explicit language, mentions of canon-typical violence, fluff, hurt/comfort but without the hurt, bathing and/or being bathed, choking, female-receiving oral, loss of virginity, unprotected M/F intercourse

Word Count: 6.1k

Image Credit: (x) by @/365filmsbyauroranocte, not meant to be a representation of the reader

A/N: this one is for the boys with the boomin’ system 😩💦

༓ series masterlist ༓

The datapad that you’d left in the garden was thrust back into your possession one morning by the hurried hands of a maid. Truthfully, you had forgotten all about it. The mind, when faced with matters as pressing as the press of a mouth, tends to forget about inconsequential objects.

You’d never met the girl standing in front of you before, and she avoided your eyes while passing over the small screen. She seemed eager to be rid of it. You couldn’t say you blamed her. “‘S yours, miss. The bounty hunter said you’d lost it.”

Did he, now?

“Thank you,” you replied sincerely, careful not to let the datapad drop to the floor as you tucked it back into the deep brocade of your gown pockets. You didn’t have the wherewithal at first to ask her when he’d found it or found the time to return it. But you also didn’t have the common sense to keep your mouth shut. “Could I ask when he gave it to you?”

The servant ducked her head. “This morning, your Highness. I- I was in the loading bay when they left, think he was tryin’ to get a hold of you but didn’t have the time, told me- told me to keep quiet ‘bout it.” A bob of her throat signalled a nervous swallow. “Princess.”

Poor girl, you thought to yourself absentmindedly. Boba probably scared her half out of her wits.

“Really, I can’t thank you enough.” You touched a soft hand to the servant’s shoulder in an misguided attempt to soothe. She returned the action with a nervous smile, eyes still downcast and trying not to shy away.

You never realized how afraid they all were. Of you.

The realization made your tongue tangle in your throat, tripping over some lie about a fever and champagne-induced amnesia as explanation for your exchanges with a man so ill-acquainted.

Hopefully, the maid didn’t make a habit of gossip.

Hopefully, you stopped making a habit of Boba Fett.

⫸———————————————— ⫷

A chaincode, a datapad tracking number, and the rest of your life flashed in backlit neon. You silently cursed yourself for not putting an opening passcode on anything, including the datapad that you now held with slightly tremoring hands.

In your defense, it’s not like it held anything of interest. Mostly just holonovels and some pictures of things you found intriguing enough to want to paint or draw.

But now there was a thing of veritable interest stuffed into a new folder titled “Your Highness” and glowing in galactic basic.

BF-18378-3263827

You stared at the numbers until they morphed into a strong, stern-featured face, muddy in your imagination against the ink night invading your bedroom. Boba left his tracking number there for you. If you wanted to, you could use them to message him or comm him or leave a holoprojection message. Whenever you wanted. Right now, even.

When did he even find your datapad? Why he found it (and why he returned it with the aforementioned numerical contraband) was probably a more apt question.

There was quite a lot to think about. Best to take stock of the present moment, lest you lose your head and go completely mad. As if you hadn’t already.

The facts repeated themselves in a half-conscious mantra, screen slipping out of your hands and onto the pillow beside your head. Facts. Facts were good. What were the facts, again?

Boba Fett was arguably the most dangerous bounty hunter in the galaxy.

Boba Fett was not much of a talker.

Boba Fett was a piss-poor dancer.

And Boba Fett was an unfairly good kisser.

The beginning three points held little negative sway, with the first adding much more appeal than it should, the second a welcome relief, and the third being… sort of endearing.

It was on the last point that your mind lingered the longest.

You didn’t even realize you’d copied numbers into the screen’s communications system until its microphone crackled to life.

One breath, two breaths, stuck in your sleep-thick throat. No words from either side yet. Did you get the tracking code wrong? Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe you were dreaming already, imagining the wind outside to be the quiet, husky inhale that sounded from the other end of the receiver.

“Not falling asleep are we, princess?”

Your eyes shot open. “No. No, I’m…” the words croaked themselves out as you fought down a yawn, “I’m awake.” His low chuckle. “I called you didn’t I?”

“That you did,” Boba assented. Quiet amusement colored his accent. “And you called because…”

“I wanted to,” you said simply, without room for teasing. You were too sleepy to be ashamed of admitting you sought out his company, as foolish as doing so was. No use in hiding what both parties knew to be true.

He let out a noise of soft approval and it rumbled a pleasant sunburst between your ears. “You seem to want a lot of things, don’t you?”

Makes me want… want…

Want what, Princess?

Want you.

You can have me.

The memory snaked a fever flush down your neck, over the still-tender skin and lightly mottled marks. Boba was remembering it just as well as you were. You knew he was.

It gave you a rush, a weird sort of power trip. Because as stupid as you felt doing this, wanting this, he wanted it too. Enough to let your hands thread through his hair and around his arms, then to the scar above his left brow and across his mouth. Enough to let you do it again at the risk of being caught. Enough to leave you his tracking number, like you were two teenagers trading love letters and not legal adults with judgement better enough to do otherwise.

You stayed on the comm for two hours, and only went to sleep because Boba threatened to cut your link off if you didn’t.

⫸———————————————— ⫷

It had been almost five standard months since the first time you’d spoken. Typed words continued to be exchanged under your covers, day after day, night after night. Sometimes you’d fall asleep talking, peppering him with questions about his ship and his job until your throat ached with the effort of keeping yourself awake. Sometimes you did more than talk.

He never fell asleep. Never seemed to sleep, period.

What a strange man. Strange, dangerous, interesting man.

You often missed each other by a hair’s breadth. Courtly flurry and galactic bounty hunting didn’t make much space for private conversation. Boba was still taciturn. You were still naive.

And yet…

You liked him. He listened when you talked about botany and painting, neither of which you imagined interested him. He was arrogant and cocky and insufferable sometimes, but he listened. He told you about his job and regaled your sheltered curiosity with lurid, gory details. He told you about his father.

And one day he somehow, miraculously, had a set of Nabooan watercolors left for you in the garden.

Biting down a juvenile grin with every new message, you watched the quiet ping! of the datapad.

hi

Hello

are you busy?

In a way

how so

Had a brush with Hutt’s rancor

poor thing

Don’t get soft on me now

wasn’t talking about you

Very funny

I’m very, very sorry

Should be. The bastard nearly tore up my flight suit

… show me?

⫸———————————————— ⫷

BF-18378-3263827 HAS ATTACHED 3 FILES

⫸———————————————— ⫷

HOLOCALL DURATION: 02:45:35 HOURS

SAVE CALL RECORDING? PRESS YES/NO TO CONFIRM

Your damp hands tremored.

YES

⫸———————————————— ⫷

Six months, four days, and 20 hours. That’s how long it took for you to see Boba Fett again.

You’d started to think the entire ordeal was a mirage, an illusionary experience your brain conjured up for you as a one-time brush with what your life could have been. Who it could’ve been with.

But you did see him again. Foolhardy, reckless, and unplanned.

You didn’t listen to his explanation about having to leave in the morning, taking some third-rate bounty as an excuse to come back to Quas Killam for the first time in what seemed like ages—practically eons since his mouth had last been at your neck. He appeared on your bedroom balcony near midnight like an apparition, mounted by a still-burning jetpack that shut off with an arc of smoke.

You’d been sleeping, albeit fitfully, and woke the minute his knuckles rapped against the glass. You didn’t remember ever telling him where your bedchambers were, but given… everything… you couldn’t say you were surprised he knew. When he crouched down to shed the helmet, it made a soft thump on the plush carpet.

And then you kissed. And kissed. And kissed.

Boba’s fingertips dragged fire across your prickled skin with every pass. Whose breathing was whose didn’t matter. It was hard, heaving, and shared. Eyes closed, lips raw, every part of you dizzy. Dizzy.

The sneeze that left you was loud enough to knock his forehead against yours. Hard.

Feet stumbling until your legs hit the bedspread, you let your weakened knees carry you down into a sitting position atop the covers and tried to catch your breath. Boba only chuckled, seemingly unperturbed by the mild injury.

Of course your body had picked today to come down with a cold. And of course you’d forgotten to tell him.

In your defense (you seemed to do a lot of self-defending these days) you didn’t know Boba would be coming tonight. When you asked him a week ago—the last time you’d spoken—he’d said “soon.” Whatever “soon” meant, you hadn’t anticipated it being now. Your rumpled nightgown and deteriorating personal hygiene was evidence enough of that.

The day had passed in fitful naps, with you waving away all attempts at help until the servants who usually tittered about decided to give you a wide berth until tomorrow. They’d left the door locked and your curtains drawn, thank the gods.

“A hello would’ve been nice,” you mumbled. The lingering taste of him in your mouth mixed with the bitter medicine that you’d forced down a few hours ago.

Boba didn’t answer at first, only stalking forward with his silhouette glowing in light of the full moon. You brought your knees up to your chest to make room for him to stand in front of you. Every movement was bathed in slowness, in the reverence of caution and night-time silence.

His gloved hand brushed against your chin and tilted it upwards, thumb rubbing a small circle into your jawbone as he moved your face in one large grip. Left, inspecting a swollen mouth and puffy eyes, then right. Up to see the column of your exposed neck. Down to meet his bare, dark face.

He kissed you again, more gentle this time. “Hello.”

A soft whimper left your throat.

Oh, you hated it. Hated the way you sounded when he touched you, small and pathetic. Needy.

The balustrade doors were still open, and this fact was made known by a particularly biting gust of silver wind.

“You’re cold,” the man standing close to you noted with a deep downquirk of his mouth. Boba never had to conceal anything; his helmet did that for him. But when it was off, every thought flickered past his face in evening technicolor.

Your hands paused in their run up your arms to hold petulantly at your elbows, covered only by the thin fabric of your shift. Goosebumps rose against your neck with a new breeze and you fought down the urge to shiver.  “M’not.”

“And stubborn.”

You glared at him, but it held no real venom.

“I appreciate the concern,” you sniffled again and your body trembled slightly. “But I’m the picture of health. I really have never been—” here you sneezed rather violently, crumbling any remaining sense of composure and making the final words thick with congestion, “—any better.” Boba hooked two strong arms underneath your knees and around your shoulders. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“C’mon,” Boba grunted and lifted you to his chest in one swift, easy motion. “Up.”

“I’m already up,” you grumbled, a headache you’d thought was all but gone now throbbing from the quick movement. Armor pressed to your cheek and you let yourself go pliant, curling up into Boba’s broad chest. He smelled nice. Like the outdoors. The real outdoors—not manufactured gardens or stone courtyards. No, dangerous things. Like deserts and leather and guns.

You queried him as he walked in long strides across the room. “Where are you taking me? Should have you—” another sneeze burned your airways, “—have you arrested for treason. A high crime or misdemeanor of some sort, kidnapping royalty...”

He only scoffed, shifting your slack body into his one-armed grip when he arrived at the entrance of your adjunct refresher. The door opened with a soft click. “You talk too much.”

Your head rolled back to face him, pressed so close already that the attempt made you cross-eyed. “And you,” a polished finger jabbed lightly at his chest plate, “are up to no good.”

You were only joking, but Boba didn’t deny it.

Green was your favorite color, even before you met him. It was the color of gardens. Of mint leaves. Of insects and jewels. Of him.

Gods, he was beautiful. Did he know that? Would he ever believe you if you told him? He was achingly, painfully, humanly beautiful. It hurt like needles.

The man set you down to your immediate protests. Funny how quick you seemed to change your mind. “Don’t whine,” he chided when you did just that, pushing you forward by the small of your back.

You walked into the refresher confused, that same confusion compounding when Boba strode over to the marble bathtub in room’s center with a surety that belayed the fact he’d never once stepped foot inside here. Were all bounty hunters this self-assured? Or was he just so full of bathroom bravado that your sprawling floor-plan didn’t faze him?

Whatever the case was, said bounty hunter was now crouched down on the tile floor and twisting the tub faucets until they sprayed out a gush of hot water, quickly filling the room with heady steam.

 “Hot water helps.” A still-gloved hand dipped an inch into the filling tub and deemed it acceptable. “The steam’ll clear up those sneezes of yours. And the headache.”

“How did you know I-” your mouth opened and closed before you realized you didn’t do a great job of hiding your symptoms. Maker knows you looked a sight, all mussed and tired and sticky with cold sweat. He should make a run for it now, you half-joked to yourself. He’s only ever seen me stuffed into a corset and done up half to death.

He got up with a grunt and turned back towards you. Beskar and durasteel and tactical fabric suddenly made you feel, for the first time in your life, underdressed. “‘S not hard to tell, princess.”

“Oh,” was your only response as you pushed off the sink counter, fisting the fabric of your nightgown in an unconscious display of hesitancy.

Boba’s heavy boots made for the door.

It was probably just to leave you some semblance of privacy, but you panicked, not wanting to be left alone now that he was finally here. “Wait!” you burst out, reaching a palm onto his shoulder before he could exit. “Wait. Can— can you stay?” Of course he won’t stay, you dolt. He probably came to sleep with you, not babysit you. “Please?”

Both of his hands curled into themselves when he turned back to you, their leather squeaking in the tight flex. Then, they released limp by his sides. Each word was carefully measured, slow-simmering like a pot about to boil over. Like a trigger finger twitchy on a blaster. “If you want me to.”

You answered with a bobbing nod and a swallow. “I do.”

⫸————————————————⫷

Boba Fett had long since forgotten he was a man. Instead, he was armor. He was a code, a set of  strict (albeit grey) morals, the steadfast honor he’d been imbibed with from the years with his father and then the years of tearing emptiness after.

Bounty hunters had no time for attachments. They couldn’t afford to humor every batting eyelash with more than a self-serving flirtation, and he’d had his fill of those already. He’d overflowed his cup ten times over with shallow pleasantries and quick release.

But those days were long-gone. Had been for years now. Now he was practically puritanical.

Had been, anyway.

He didn’t like thinking of himself as impulsive, wanting to leave the trait behind in his younger years but not being old enough to shake it off completely. But he wasn’t impulsive anymore. He wasn’t.

You were going to destroy him.

Low-ranking royalty on some Imperial-occupied factory planet; sheltered and pretty. You had the brightest eyes he had ever seen and a temperament that took no prisoners, and you were going to destroy him.

Boba thought you’d make him leave, but you didn’t. You wanted him to stay and told him so.

So he stayed. His armor was peeled off in your presence for the first time— carefully placed on a chair in your bedroom—and he walked back into the refresher to see you untying your flimsy nightdress like it’d done you a personal wrong.

When it dropped beside your feet, it took every ounce of self-control Boba possessed to stop himself from eating you whole.

He heard you kick it to the floor (his eyes had since been very determinedly fixed on a fascinating piece of groutwork near his left foot) before you stepped into the bath, sighing in a way that made breathing a work harder than it should’ve been.

His looking away wasn’t a request on your part, you didn’t seem to mind either way, but he didn’t trust himself to do otherwise. Not until the sounds of splashing had subsided somewhat, signalling your stilled motion. “Boba?”

Now there was permission to walk. Look down. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, the clawfoot of the bathtub. He had reached his destination.

A wet hand tugged at his belt loops and he finally allowed himself to look, meeting the sight of you sitting bare in the clear-blue water with legs pulled up to your chest. The arm not touching him was roped around your calves. Your chin rested on the wide, curved lip of the tub.  

If Boba had any self-respect, it had been snuffed out the first moment you opened your mouth, six months ago in that cavernous palace hallway with your failed attempt at bravado. It was haughty, short-lived, and adorable.

Maker, you were beautiful. Did you know that? Would you ever believe him if you told you? You were blindingly, effervescently, humanly beautiful. It hurt like needles.

The position of your chin forced your lips into a slight pout. As if you needed another weapon in your arsenal of ways to make him question his judgement. “Could you bring me the tray on the counter?”

Of course he could. He could bring you anything you liked. He would bring you a rancor, a dozen rancors, a fucking sarlaac if it meant you would smile all soft-like the way you just did when he answered yes.

Boba Fett, mercenary feared farther than he would ever live to travel and hunter too expensive for the Imperial payroll, was now a bath attendant. It was torturous in its sensual irony.

The tray was brought over in short order, cluttered with tiny vials of Maker-knows-what and bars of who-knows-how. Individually they probably all smelled nice, but crowded together the heavy scents only made his head spin. He set the tray down on the floor with a rattle and held up each mystery soap for your inspection. No. No. No. No, not that one. Gods, you were picky. No. No. Yes, please.

You were Miss Manners tonight apparently.

“It’s floating archidia,” you told him, mind running through an endless backlog of plant indexes as he handed over the soap. You sounded clearer now, less congested and more alert. Needed to drink water, though. “The flower that this is made with, I mean. Native to the planet Nubia, rumored to have euphoric properties.” You snorted and ran a thumbnail along the bar’s waxy edge, bringing up a curled pink piece. “Whatever that means.”

“Do you think it does?”

“Have euphoric properties?” you hummed, considering it for a moment. “Maybe. But maybe it’s just wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking,” Boba parroted.

The meaning of words can change when they’re repeated. Neither of your minds were on flowers.

His jaw tensed when you reached your other hand to his forearm, baring the rest of your body to the dim orange of the refresher lights’ night settings. The water rippled, warm now instead of steaming, and your fingers curled around the scarred skin of his wrist. “Take off the gloves,” you echoed, your voice suddenly desperate and distant as you traced over pale leather seams. “Please.”

He had refused the first time simply to toy with you. You weren’t used to being told no, and it showed. But he let you take off his helmet in a moment of thoughtless self-indulgence, scratching the part of his subconscious that itched to be touched, stroked, held. Shedding the helmet in front of someone else didn’t really mean anything in an honorable sense—at least not to Boba. Nothing tied him to the habit except a desire to keep himself and his motivations unknown. It was easier that way. Less messy.

He acquiesced. "Since you asked so nicely."

Wrinkling your nose, you guided newly-bare palms to knead gently at your shoulder blades. The skin there was soft and warm, pliant under his sandpaper touch. "Keep mentioning it and I'll go back to being difficult."

The soap made foamy bubbles across your back, over your arms and the velvet slope of your hips. Fingertips ghosted through the space between your jaw and ear, where he remembered sucking in a soft bruise.

He liked being known by you.

⫸————————————————⫷

You clambered out the tub with all the grace of a baby krugga deer and about as much shame. Which is to say, none at all. The subsiding cold had left you tired, bones like jelly and mind sloshing its thoughts around with no real order. Boba was here. Had stayed. Was standing in front of you now, watching tiny water droplets trail down your feet and letting you balance on his arm to keep you from stumbling.

A towel was wrapped around your shoulders. The press of his hot mouth against your forehead followed close behind. “Go sit on the bed.”

For some reason, you didn’t mind listening to him this time. Chalk it up to moldable exhaustion, you thought. Definitely not the fact that his voice sounded especially nice tonight, or any number of other questionable reasons.

He was going to ruin you. Or you would ruin yourself. Any way it was construed, Boba would play a part.

Still only in a towel, you drank the stale tea that sat on your bedside table and watched in mild interest as the mercenary’s shadow emptied out tepid bathwater with the thick glugluglug of the drain. It washed down soap and all your shared secrets.

Was it wrong that you still wanted him? More, now that he’d done this for you? Now that it wasn’t just cruel kisses and groping hands? What sort of a person did that make you?

Your mind whispered it when Boba walked back towards you. Someone lonely.

He helped you slide a new chemise on when you asked him to, quick and steady over the thin linen ties. I bet you do that with all the girls, you’d teased. No, he answered simply. Just you.

He was going to ruin you.

“Do you have to go yet?” you asked quietly and climbed under the covers. They were green today. Life enjoyed coincidences like that.

Boba crouched down on the floor beside your lying figure and shook his head. A wide fingertip smoothed away the crease between your brows. He was doing lots of touching. You were not complaining. “Not ‘til morning.”

“You might as well then,” you mumbled and lifted up the embroidered blankets with a sleep-slack hand. “No one’ll bother us, I promise.” you answered the empty air, too heartsick to comprehend any possible insinuations and too tired to realize the fingers tracing your brow bone had paused. “I told them all not to come back until tomorrow.”

His shirt and pants were shed in an unceremonious pile. You were already half-asleep when he climbed into the other side of the bed, slotting his legs against yours like puzzle pieces. Two question marks curled into each other, his chest to your back and his lips brushing your head.

“Goodnight, princess.”

⫸————————————————⫷

You were dreaming about him.

He was the burning sun that every single one of your thoughts had orbited around for the last six months and now he was invading your subconscious, dream-talons taking the form of dark hands rubbing soft circles against you and then invading your open mouth.

In your dream, Boba touched you softly and not at all, a tease even in your self-serving imagination.

Then you woke up, and it wasn’t a dream anymore.

Two thick arms encircled your waist with a grip unyielding in their strength. They’d pulled you impossibly close, pressed up against his sleeping body until every ridge of his muscled stomach could be felt against your back. Something else was against your back.

Your head reeled in its effort to sludge through the fog of sleep and reach the reality of masculine hips. They shifted in an unintentional grind against your legs until you couldn’t bite back the gasp that bubbled out from your voicebox, the sound quiet, keening, and lost in the shuffled sounds of fabric. It was still dark out. The water-clock in the corner of your room read 01:25:02.

You hadn’t put on anything underneath the new chemise. Why bother, when he’d already seen everything? Your body had grown to be a thing for display, a clothes-hanger and object to be prodded by strangers, and you’d long since rid yourself of any precocious modesty.

But this was different.

When Boba touched you, it wasn’t to sew flowers in your hair or drape a sash over your chest. It was simply to touch. The thought made you light-headed with newfound embarrassment, wiggling in his grip until you turned to face his sleeping form.

All the heavy things he carried on his shoulders during the day were gone now. His bottom lip pillowed out when he slept and he looked younger, the perpetual downturn of his lips now settled below the black hair at his temples. You felt a sticky sort of fondness settle in your chest.

“Boba,” you whispered, two hands placing themselves on his tanned cheeks. They traced the divots of scars and premature lines with all the reverence of worshipfulness.

“Mmm,” his voice rumbled with eyes still closed. A warm mouth kissed the side of your palm.

“Boba,” you repeated, more desperate this time but not knowing what you were desperate for. The space between your legs already knew what it wanted, hot and pulsing with a familiar dampness. Traitor.

“What do you need?” The question wasn’t accusatory, nor annoyed at your waking him. It was known that he would give you whatever you liked. Eventually.

You. Just you.

“I don’t,” you huffed, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to your now overheated body as you squirmed, “I don’t know.” Lie.

“Think about it and tell me,” he whispered, eyes opening in their dark, heavy-lidded expectation. The moon and stars suspended outside offered light enough to see the smirk on his face. His skin was the color of burnt earth and of gods. Somewhere, far away in the canopy of carefully pruned trees, a single lark let out its warbled cry.

There was an old adage about being like a lamb to the slaughter. You’d never touched a lamb. Never seen a slaughter. But somehow, you knew it was true.

This lamb, dumb and tender-hearted, was willingly sacrificied.

"I...'' the word left you in the arc of your exhale, one whoosh of air that rattled your chest already wracked with fevered tremors. "I- want you to-"

"You want me to what, pretty thing?" His voice was low, dangerous. It made every part of you want him more. "Say it."

You weren't used to cursing. It was never tolerated and you barely ever heard it, but you'd learned enough to know what he wanted you to say. Which word he wanted to hear, and what it'd mean he would do.

"F-fuck. Me." you choked out, biting your lip to muffle the embarrassment of having to speak it out loud. The word was filthy and raw between your teeth. "Please?"

⫸————————————————⫷

You were dying. Possibly had already died. Were ascending up or barrelling down, you didn’t care as long as his wet mouth stayed between your legs and never, ever stopped.

Wide hands cupped at your skin and kneaded wherever they could reach, simultaneously rough and supplicating. Every pass of his tongue was enough to make you feel possessed. He was killing you.

“Good. Good girl.” he said against your swollen skin when your hips arced off the bed, your spine and toes stiffening for what seemed like an eternity during the damp lightning finish. It sounded like a growl, animalistic and vibrating. A burning, sweet hurt.

Some people call it “little death,” a lady’s maid once whispered underneath her hand in a giggle. “Little death?” you repeated incredulously. That seems a bit dramatic, don’t you think?

You understood now.

Boba didn’t let up, never once letting his touch waver even as you buckled and swayed, all sense lost and all sensation compacting.  “Another,” he ordered. Your body listened, bending to his touch without complaint with eyes rolled back into your head.

You were dying.

⫸————————————————⫷

Boba let you lay against him in the downturn, rubbing mindless shapes into the bone of your wrists as you struggled to breathe. Your neck was cradled in one of his broad, bronze palms. It gave one tiny, imperceptible squeeze. An accident. A test.

You pawed at the hand resting heavy on your nape until it moved to leave completely, but was caught instead by your fingers and guided—slow and curious—to cup at your bared throat.

“Dirty,” the man noted in a dark rasp and rolled over to face you. There was a slight smirk in his voice, but that could’ve just been your imagination.

“I don’t see you...” your voice trailed off into a wheeze as Boba’s thick fingers pressed into the sides of your neck, “—see you complaining.”

He kissed you. And kissed you. And kissed you. An eternity was spent opening the seam of your mouth while he choked you softly, baring your pulsating soul with only your bedroom walls as witness to the present depravity. The air was filled with begging and grunting—simple noises that stuttered and left your sheets ruined.

You wanted more. You couldn’t help it.

His chuckle morphed into a groan when you reached down to touch him with widening eyes, squeezing him curiously after pulling down his boxers. “You’re a brave little thing,” Boba noted with a hint of greedy pride. “Never done this before, have you?”

Your own hands served as poor substitutes all these years. You shook your head no.

“D’you want to?”

Of course you did. This was the only thing you wanted. The only thing you would ever want, over and over until your body turned to dust under him. A million grains of fizzy, burning blaster powder. A million comets passing by a supernova.

You nodded and tucked your face into the space between Boba’s shoulder and neck, rolling onto your side and hooking a leg over his hip. Your chests met, damp with sweat as cool air flowed over bare skin. The covers had long since been pushed aside. “Safe,” you said in a heady moan over the shell of his ear. “Implant.”

Thank goodness for modern medicine.

⫸————————————————⫷

It hurt a little at first, but most of the discomfort melted away as he whispered to you, sweet and cloying praises alongside filthy things that you’d be hard-pressed to repeat in public. They wove together in an endless stream of baritone vowels, lapping over each other like ocean waves until everything was a gyrating, syrupy playback.

He let you move against him, mouth open and sloppy against your temple when you whined at the stretch. The hands at your back didn’t push. Only placated. “I know, I know,” Boba assured you with fingers rubbing sympathetic desire into your flesh. It would bruise, but you’d come to like the marks. Your hips bucked at their own accord when he pressed up against something tight, the friction burning a bright, numb spark. “Slow down,” he mumbled into your hair, “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Never in your life did you think this was how it would be. Your first kiss, more of a battle than it was a kiss, served as fuel for the expectations of your first time. Never in your life did you think he would be the one telling you to go slow.

It was for your sake, you knew that. But it was still surprising.

You huffed and bit the shell of his ear in childish revenge, blowing a puff of air where you knew it would tickle. Boba only growled and tightened his arms around your waist, rocking into you slow and deep. “Don’t tease,” he warned.

The new movements robbed you of the ability to speak until all you could do in response was lift your head from where it had rested on his shoulder, meeting impossibly dark eyes in lust-addled vision as a building pressure colored the entire world in shades of black, red, and green.

In a moment of complete and utter lack of propriety, you leaned forward, smiling like a woman deranged, and pressed a kiss to his nose.

Boba came undone the same minute you did. It was a rush of wet, rocking pleasure, spreading like thick webs of lighted fire from inside your blood and out to fill the room with quiet devotion. Panting, bursting, close, messy. You’d never felt so whole.

Your foreheads met and you went cross-eyed trying to look at him again. That’s all you wanted to do. Look at him. Uttered underneath his jaw, where the skin was smooth, was your finishing admission. “I love you.”

You didn’t say it to hear it repeated. It was just to give it a shape. Make it concrete. Said more to yourself than him, really.

But Boba did repeat it. Over and over and over. In the tangle of your arms. I love you. In the kiss to your breasts. I love you. In the towel brought between your legs. I love you. In the settled silence of new sleep. I love you, I love you, I love you.

⫸————————————————⫷

The watery light of dawn melted through heavy curtains and you awoke, body weighed down with lead and gold. Sweet soreness had made its home in your muscles and you were loath to get up, but the man you’d been using as a pillow had very rudely left his post.

“I have to go,” he said, already awake and standing sentry by your bed. You raised your head up from the pillows in groggy protest to meet his blurry figure. If you squinted, there were three of him standing there at once.

A shake of your head rid your vision of the doubles, leaving the lone man. He kissed you—quick and dirty, with tongue—and squeezed your exposed breast, prompting a low moan to tumble from your mouth before he slipped his blaster into the holster at his hip. It wasn’t even 6 in the morning and you were thoroughly debauched. What a scandal, you thought (not for the first time) with passing amusement. A bounty hunter and a princess.

Watching in a dim haze as Boba finished strapping on his amor, you tracked the reflection of the sun in the metal’s lazy movement.

He leaned over you. “I’ll be back soon.” Soon. What did soon mean? Another kiss, slow and careful on the bow of your mouth. One more on the slope of your forehead. For luck, you supposed. Whether it was for you or him didn’t matter much. “Promise.”

Slowly, as he climbed out onto your balcony and was gone with a flash of jetpack light, you wondered if it was a mirage; a dream, maybe. The entire night a hallucinatory haze, a figment of your overactive imagination and reckless romanticism.

But the towel left discarded on the floor and the pulsing ache between your legs was very, very real.

[blonde-freckles]

And darling I will be loving you 'til we're 70

He can feel the building begin to shake under his feet before it comes down. He only has a split second to dive under the closest table, with barely a moment to check his surroundings before it happens. The room shakes, windows rattling as the walls come crumbling down around him. It’s all a blur, thick dust clouding his vision. He can hear the screams echoing out across the building before it falls to silence, he’s trapped encased in rubble and dust. He hears the faint squeak of his radio struggling to pick up a channel through the collapse.

He can feel the panic starting to crawl up his lungs as he shifts his weight, so he's no longer holding it all on his knees.

He’s half way through calling in his location when Hailey’s voice cuts off the radio. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? What the hell Jay? I thought you were waiting.” He can hear the desperation in her voice as he squeezes his eyes shut trying to control his breathing.

“I’m okay...really, it’s barely a scratch. I’m just a little stuck right now.” He lets out a shaky breath before pulling the radio close to himself, he’s not sure who’s he’s trying to convince, himself or Hailey. “I thought...I thought I could talk him out of it.”

He really thought he could. He thought he had this. There was something about military cases that stirred something up in him, something no amount of hour sin therapy could ever fix. His need to help his brothers. The belief that what they’d seen bonded them in a way that would never be able to be broken, and no matter how many times he got burnt by this belief he never gave up trying.

The radio falls silent but he knows she’s there, he can hear her quiet breaths through the radio. “Fire is on the way Jay.” Her voice is quiet and controlled and in full work mode but all Jay can hear is her quiet breathing. This morning he’d spent the first few minutes of his day just watching her breathe, his arms wrapped so tightly around her, their legs tangled under the soft white sheets as the sunlight filtered through. Their warm little bubble, so safe and secure.

“Help...” A quiet voice breaks out drawing Jay's attention, it’s faint but he can hear it. “Help me please...”

His eyebrows furrow as he tries to work out the direction the pleas for help are coming from. He makes out a small gap in the distruction where the light is filtering in, carefully he reattaches his radio to his duty rig, shuffling down on his stomach, he pulls himself forward through the gap.

A steel beam lays across an elderly gentleman's legs, he looks late 70s maybe, with light grey hair now covered in dust, his hands holding tightly around the beam desperately pushing against it.

“Sir...” Jay jumps into action, crawling faster as he makes his way through the gap. “Sir are you all right?”

His brain kicks into work mode, shutting off any lingering thoughts on not making it out of here alive as he assesses this situation. The mans bleeding pretty heavily, his legs crushed on the beam that might be the only thing stopping him from bleeding out. It’s far too heavy for Jay to lift or even try to shift, instead he manages to use his belt as a makeshift tourniquet.

He calls through the radio, listening intently as Brett comes over the air waves to get an idea of the gentleman’s injuries. When Jay does manage to finally slow the bleeding the radio crackles back to silence and Jay looks down at his blood stained hands, wiping them on his jeans in the hopes the gentleman won’t see just how much there is as he sits beside him.

“You’re a detective you say?”

“Yes...erm sorry I never got your name.”

“Arthur Brady...I would say nice to meet you but...” The man half chuckles as Jay gives him a short nod wondering how he could be so chipper in a moment like this, surely he can feel the extent of his injuries, even if he can't he can definitely see the severity of the situation.

“Whatever you do Jay keep him talking until we get there.”

Bretts words echo in his mind.

“Arthur...Arthur talk to me...tell me what brought you here today.”

Time seems to tick by slowly, the faint crackle of Jays radio fading in and out every so often. Fire had arrived, but it was gonna be a long wait until they could get to them. The building was not on steady ground and the aim was to get as many people out alive as possible, however long that took. Hailey's voice had only come through the radio once more in that time, just to say the bomber's body had been pulled from the wreckage near the exit...he hadn’t made it. In the meantime Jay continues to probe Arthur with more questions in the hope it will keep him awake, but he’s also glad for the distraction that it provides him. Sitting still, having nothing to do...that’s never been Jay's speed. He learns that Arthur was at the bank to get some cash out for his granddaughters 21s birthday, he has two daughters and a son and 6 grandchildren. He was a wedding photographer for 47 years before he retired 10 years ago.

“My wife Katherine...oh she’s beautiful. You know we’ve been married 53 years this year..." Arthur explains as he pulls a worn leather wallet from his top pocket, handing it over. Jay could see the old photo inside, it’s slightly faded but he can make out the image of a bride on her wedding day, the vail thrown back over her hair to reveal her smiling brightly at someone behind the camera.

"So what's the secret to making it work?" Jay questions, his gaze falling back to his own phone and the photo of Hailey that lights up his background. He’d dragged her along on a hike a while back, with the promise of getting doughnuts after. She’d been laughing at something he’d said as the sun went down behind her, making her blonde curls glow and he’d snapped the pic before she’d had a chance to protest.

"Marry your best friend. Marry someone you can laugh with. The kind of laugh that makes your belly ache, and your nose snort. Marriage is hard. Life is harder. There are days when you'll wanna walk but as long as your relationship is buried deep in friendship you'll always find your way. You think you might know someone like that?" Arthur asks with a slight twinkle in his eye as he nods towards the phone in Jay's hand.

Jay nods, a soft smile growing on his face as he runs his thumb across the photo on his screen, handing Arthur back his own photo. “Yeah I think I do...and she’s almost guaranteed to be just outside this building right now, she’s gonna be so pissed at me for being here.”

“I don’t think Katherine will be too happy either...will you...will you tell me about her?...what’s her name?” He nods down towards Jay's phone again.

“Hailey.” Jay whispers softly, he can already see her arms folded across her chest, tapping her foot impatiently on the street, eyes trained on every person emerging from the wreckage. Honestly what he wouldn’t give to hear her knowing tone telling him that she’s sick of hospital waiting rooms right now.

“She sort of came out of nowhere, I wasn’t really looking for anything when we met, actually...there was someone else when we met. I couldn’t even tell you the moment everything changed...trust me I’ve tried to work it out but it’s just like one day she was my partner and friend and the next she was the one person I could never live without. I remember looking over at her years ago and thinking I could lose all this...this job. This job that I’ve let define me for so long but it wouldn’t matter as long as I was with her.”

“Sounds like you’re in deep...How come you’re not married?”

“Oh we haven’t been dating that long...I...we still have some things to figure out.” Jay swallows, if he’s honest he’d marry Hailey tomorrow. He’d have married her six months ago given the chance. As soon as they started dating he knew he couldn’t ever imagine spending his life with someone else. He knew it a week in, he’d come in from an early morning run to find her sitting on the kitchen island coffee cup in hand, his t-shirt hanging loosely on her body as she read the morning news. She’d handed him his coffee without so much as a second glance and he’d known in that exact moment. It had taken everything in him not to get down on one knee right then and there.

Things had changed since their first I love you, he was even more careful with her. He didn’t want her to be overwhelmed, he wanted to help her in any way he could. She was trying, really trying and she had gotten good at letting him know when she felt flustered by their relationship, when she needed space or when she needed reassurance. He was all too happy to comply, he was happy to do whatever it took to make this work.

“Don’t waste time...not with the people you love.” The sad look on Arthur’s face like he’s almost defeated makes Jay think the elder man might be close to giving up as his eyes flicker shut briefly.

“Tell me more about Katherine.” Jay urges, he wraps a hand around Arthur's wrist, checking his pulse as he does. It’s weak.

“She’s the dream. I was a New Yorker you see, born and bread...was only here for a wedding 54 years ago when I saw her through the window of a cafe”

“And you knew right then and there?”

“God no.” Arthur begins to laugh but it turns into him choking as he struggles to catch his breath. “I don’t believe in love at first sight. Love...real true love takes work and a lot of it. You’ve got to choose that person every single day.” He croaks out, his eye sparkling as he recalls the memory in his mind. “What I did know was she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I was a young man at the time, full of a confidence I had no real right having.” Jay chuckles, he’s been there, the cocky confident guy in his 20s thinking he knew it all. “I could never have known the love that would’ve formed, so deep it almost shook me to my core. I’d never been in love before, but I’d seen others, especially in my line of work and then I got it, I got why people behave the way they did. I remember thinking if this is what love feels like I get why it starts wars.” He’s words trail off and Jay watches the way his head drops slightly.

“Hey, Arthur...Arthur we’re almost out you hear me. Stay with me now Arthur. Katherine is waiting, she's still waiting for you.”

“Will you tell her...”

Jay shakes his head furiously. Leaning up as he twists his radio, calling out for an update. “No no...I’m not going to pass on any messages.” He mumbles, grabbing hold of both Arthur’s shoulders. “You’re gonna tell her Arthur...Katherines waiting for you.”

“You tell her I loved her and that she made my world a better place.” He mutters before his eyes roll back and Jay begins to bark down his radio desperate for anyone to respond.

It is only seconds later the loud ringing of a drill sounds and Kelly Severide’s voice echoes around them. Jay can feel the relief flooding through him as the familiar uniform comes into view.

-

“Jay...” The bright sunlight is a stark contrast from the darkness he’d been buried in the last few hours, the buzz of the scene hitting him is almost deafening as he hears orders being shouted out. “Jay...” Hailey’s voice stands out amongst the noise. As he steps out away from the building, he’s ushered past the destruction zone and he can hear Brett asking him to sit but he’s too focused on finding Hailey as he scans that area.

He hears more commotion behind him watching with bated breath as Arthur is pulled from the rubble, he’s attached to a bodyboard, as the next set of paramedics rush to his aid.

He doesn't even see her approach before he feels her arms wrapping tightly around him, he releases a breath he’s been holding since the building first blew as his arms wind themselves around her waist, he sticks his face into the side of her neck letting the wisps of blonde that’s fallen loose from her ponytail tickle his face as he does. They’ve never been ones for any type of public affection, while they’re on the clock anyway but right now he can’t bring himself to care. He breaks away after a while, already missing her touch but he knows they have an audience. He watches as they lower Arthur down onto the gurney wheeling him their way.

“Is this her...is this your Hailey?” He coughs, struggling as they place the oxygen mask over his mouth.

Jay can see Hailey glance his way, shooting him a silent question. “Yeah, this is her.” Jay nods, crouching down closer to Arthur.

“I’m gonna go get Katherine okay? I’m gonna bring her to you Arthur so don’t go anywhere.” Jay grips hold of Arthur’s hand, making sure the man sees the sincerity in his eyes as Sylvie lets him know that they need to move now. “Take care of my girl and I’ll take care of yours okay?” Jay asks, glancing back at Hailey who’s just watching silently.

“Deal...”

He steps back letting them get him into the ambulance as he turns back to Hailey. He can see from the look on her face she has a lot to say and he’ll happily listen to everything but just not right now. “Hey I’m okay I promise I’m okay and I'll sit and get a full checkout at the hospital just to please you but first I have something to do, please just trust me and keep Arthur company until I get to the hospital.”

“Erm sure okay...”

Jay smiles as she agrees without question, pressing a firm kiss on Hailey's forehead surprising her before he’s rushing off through the crowd without another word.

-

Hailey loses sight of Jay almost as quickly as she finds him, her heart is still thumping in her chest as she tries to keep reminding herself that he's alive, he’s alive and safe and doing whatever the hell he does. She'd done as he asked, joining the man he'd been pulled from the rubble with into the ambulance.

The ambulance roars into life and she watches as the elderly man begins to pull down his oxygen mask much to the dismay of the newest recruit to 51, his hand shaking as it reaches out for Haileys.

She takes his hand in hers. It’s cold but it squeezes onto hers tightly. She’d heard the tail end of their conversation. “You take care of my girl...I’ll take care of yours.” She’s not sure what Jay has planned but she trusts him, no questions asked.

“That man loves you more than life itself dear.” Arthur croaks and the tears that she refused to let fall in front of all their colleagues finally fall, splashing against her cheeks, his words catching her off guard.

-

The E.R is a mess, overrun with victims from the blast, no one can tell her anything as Arthur is rushed off for surgery, she’s not family, she has no right to know. So instead she takes a seat in the corner out of the way of the chaos.

She thinks she might be dreaming when he finally emerges through the doors, still dressed in his blood-stained clothes, an elderly woman holding tightly to his arm as he leads her through the crowd and towards the front desk. His eyes find hers quickly like he doesn’t even need to search for her, he just knows where she is and the small smile that plays on his lips as their eyes meet is enough for her.

-

It’s hours later when Katherine and Arthur are finally reunited. Jay helps Katherine towards his room, stopping in the doorway as Hailey hangs back. She’s still not sure what the infinity with this couple is but she’ll go along with it if that’s what Jay wants.

“That’s gonna be us one day.” He mutters quietly as the door slips shut and he steps back out into the hallway. Hailey raises her eyebrows in surprise as Jay makes his way around her, his arms encircling her waist as he leans his chin on top of her head. Both of them watching the elderly couple through the window. The way Katherine caresses Arthur’s face as he presses a kiss to her hand. The look of pure joy to see each other is so evident in their faces.

“Minus the major bleed and building collapse I hope.” She hums, leaning back into his embrace, finally feeling at ease as the weight of the day seems to slip away.

He nestles his face into her neck, pressing a light kiss to her skin. “I make no promises...”

“Hey...” she laughs, shaking her head as she places her hands on top of his, she can feel his lip quirk up into a grin against her neck and it makes her own lips turn up. “How are we going to grow old together if you keep being so reckless?”

“That’s what you love about me.”

Hailey turns in his arms, slipping her arms around his waist, one hand stroking his back softly. “I assure you it’s not...but I do love you.” She whispers the last part, she still struggles to say the words but each time she does it feels a little easier, like the words that were once so dark get a shade lighter each time she says them or hears them fall from his lips.

She watches as Jay takes a sharp breath, before resting his forehead against hers, closing his eyes softly just breathing her in. “I’m gonna say something. It’s not a question it’s just a thought...okay? I’m giving you fair warning for when the time comes.”

Hailey narrows her eyes but nods anyway, letting him pull her to the side as the hallway becomes busier. “I love you...you’re my best friend and...”

“And?”

“And I’m gonna marry you one day.”

Her blue eyes widen for a second and Jay bites down on his lips to stop the smile that comes every time he looks at her. He can see the thoughts whirling through her mind like waves crashing around the ocean. He feels her arms squeeze his waist a little tighter before she simply shrugs. “Okay...” she mumbles , laying her head back against his chest as she turns her gaze back towards Arthur and Katherine. They stand there for a moment in silence and he wonders if she can see what he can...a glimpse at their future. His thoughts are confirmed when he feels her lips pressed to his cheek curling up into a smile against him. “Okay...I’ll marry you one day.”

[one-boring-person]

Can You Do Me A Favour?

Barney Ross (The Expendables) x reader

Warnings: injury, drinking, sexual content implied, mentions of violence, swearing

Context: the reader is a member of the Expendables and has a crush on Barney. After a job, the two have some time together.

A/N: as promised, here is some Expendables stuff! I hope anyone who reads this will enjoy it! (Just a heads up: I have more Rambo and Escape Plan stuff coming, and most likely some more TLB content, too.)

Masterlist

(I'm also going to tag @yuhhhhhhhhhhhhhh in this, because they expressed interest in Expendables stuff earlier😊💛)

The cold water is pleasant on my heated skin as I cup my hands under the steady stream flowing from the tap, splashing it into my face when a suitable pool has formed in the space. A gasp escapes me from the stark contrast in temperatures, using my fingers to rub slightly at my skin, trying to work out the headache that has set in, only to hiss when I accidentally press into one of the new scars on the side of my face. Pulling back, I repeat my action, doing my best to distract myself from the plaguing thoughts in my head, still disgusted at myself for having them.

But even now, as I massage the contours of my face, I can't get the images of my boss out of my head. Not the sight of him taking out a ring of attackers using his revolver and sharpshooting skills, not the way his exposed arm muscles flexed with each movement, not the determined look on his rugged face and certainly not the fierce eye contact he made with me when he turned around again. At the mere memory of this, a flush of heat goes through me, eyes squeezing shut to force myself to blank them out, not quite realising that his stare is branded into my subconscious. Biting my lip, I shake my head, forcing down the picture of his muscular body and large hands on my body as he dragged me from the collapsing building, not five hours ago.

Growling, I reach over and grab hold of the beer bottle nearby, glancing at my haggard features in the mirror before taking a deep drink, wincing at the stale flavour, having had the drink for far too long. I can see the tension in my body, each muscle tight and uncomfortable, my posture ramrod straight and clearly wrong, my eyes clouded with exhaustion and what I can only assume is loneliness. 

As soon as I'd gotten in from the last job, I'd headed straight into the bathroom, grabbing a beer from the fridge as I went, needing to clear my head. Nothing I did could help, my head always circling back to that one person. Frustrated, I slam the bottle on the counter top, wincing when it shatters from the force, a particularly sharp shard slicing into my palm.

Damn him. Damn Barney Ross for getting into my head.

I clean up my hand, just bandaging it up when my phone buzzes, the screen lighting up. Frowning, I look over at it, confused. Nobody calls me. Nobody, except my boss.

Picking up the phone, I groan to myself as I realise it is, in fact, Barney. For a second, I debate letting it go to voicemail, before I finally give in, accepting the call and placing the phone to my ear.

"Sir?" I greet him politely, wondering what he needs.

"How many times have I told you not to call me "sir"?" Barney's gravelly voice sounds through the phone, a low chuckle evident in his tone. I have to ignore the effect his voice has on me, the sound giving me butterflies in my stomach.

"Sorry, sir- ah, shit." I sigh at my own habit, "You alright?"

"Yeah, guess so. Just lonely. Figured you might be, too." He admits, tone going soft as he speaks.

"Bold of you to assume that." I tease, but continue, "Though you are, as always, right."

"Should tell Christmas that, might listen to you." The veteran laughs again, the joke drawing a similar reaction from me.

"We all know he listens to no one but himself." I quip back, still waiting for him to tell me why exactly he called.

"True, true." Barney's grin is almost audible, my mind instantly bringing up an image of that particular expression into my head, much to my chagrin, "You got any plans for tonight?"

Surprised, I take a second to reply, unsure of where this is going.

"No, it's too late. Ain't really got many friends outside work, anyway." I inform him, going out of the bathroom and into the lounge.

"Fancy coming over? I've got a couple of beers that need drinking, and the hangar is pretty lonely this time of night." 

His offer stumps me for a moment, though I am quick to recover, my mouth working before my mind can catch up.

"Yeah sure. I'll be over in twenty." 

"Great. See you then." He hangs up, leaving me wondering why the hell I accepted that, knowing how much I spend too much time thinking about him (in totally inappropriate ways considering he's my boss) anyway.

Annoyed at myself, I steel myself before going and grabbing a coat, pulling on that and my boots as I leave the flat, taking my motorcycle keys with me. I lock my door behind me, leaving the apartment block quickly, glad to have the fresh air on my face as I make my way over to my motorbike. Looking on it fondly, I climb on and kick out the stand, easily getting it revved up, the vibrating engine beneath me a pleasant feeling. 

Thankfully, the roads are mostly clear this time of night, cutting the twenty minute drive short by five minutes as I go at speed through the nearly deserted outer city. The hangar is usually a pain in the ass to get to, the traffic in the roads leading up to it almost always horrific, so I am only too happy to be able to go much faster now that there's not many other drivers around. With the wind rushing around me, I find that my head clears a little, my attention on navigating the roads rather than the thoughts of my boss doing things to me I'm sure he'd find grotesque in nature. 

I arrive quickly, pulling into the hangar slowly, knowing Barney is most likely in the plane, as he usually is. Stopping the bike, I put it in park before climbing off, hanging my helmet on the handlebars as I do so, taking the keys with me as I walk over to the old plane. Nearing the aircraft, I frown a little at the sight of the new bullet holes riddling the side of it, unaware that we'd taken so much damage earlier in the day. Sighing, I go inside, ducking in through the small door, only now hearing the music playing from the stereo in the cockpit.

"It's gonna need a new lick of paint." I call out to Barney, who I can see sat in his seat, the muscular man turning to look at me as he hears me.

"It's been a long time coming, so I'm not complaining." He replies, grinning at me as I walk into the cockpit, dropping into Christmas' usual seat, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach from his stare on me again. As I enter, he rakes his eyes over my body, subtly taking my every curve in from where he is.

"Fair enough." I shrug, leaning back slightly, having missed his look, "Got a beer?"

"Yeah, here." Barney hands me a bottle, opening it for me as he does so.

"Cheers." I thank him, taking a deep drink from it as he chuckles lowly, voice sending a bolt of heat through me.

"You're starting to sound like Lee." He remarks, sipping his own bottle with a smirk.

"Should I take that as a compliment? Or an insult?" 

"Up to you." He looks over at me.

"Eh, I'll take compliment. You two get along like an old married couple, after all. Must mean something if you're comparing me to him." I decide, teasing him.

Barney laughs at my comment, lifting his bottle.

"I can agree with that." He hums, staring out of the front window.

For a couple of moments, we sit in companionable silence, drinking our beers, Barney eventually lighting a cigar. Taking a deep inhale, he offers it to me, which I decline, choosing to finish my drink instead.

"What do you usually do after a job?" Barney suddenly asks, glancing back at me.

Surprised, I think over the question for a second.

"Nothing, really. I get myself cleaned up, have a drink, then get some sleep. I don't do much else with my life." I tell him, knowing how pathetic I sound.

"What, you haven't got anyone you can hang out with?" He questions, seemingly confused.

"No. As I said before, I don't really have any friends outside work."

"Really? No boyfriend? Girlfriend?"

I shake my head, grimacing at the turn in conversation, just missing the slight darkening in his eyes as he looks me over once more.

"Huh. That surprises me." 

Lifting an eyebrow, I look across at him.

"Why?"

He shrugs, making eye contact with me.

"Well, you seem like the person who wouldn't struggle to make friends. You're kind, funny, pretty. You know how to behave in the right situations, you're a good friend to have." He clarifies, seemingly unaware of the impact his words have on me, my heart throbbing as I listen to him, longing building up in me again.

"You think so?" I ask, not quite believing him.

"Yeah, I do." He frowns, looking over at me, "Why, don't you?"

I don't reply, knowing my answer well. He doesn't push it, observing me carefully, his gaze making me blush furiously.

"What'd you do to your hand?" The veteran suddenly asks, gesturing to my bandaged appendage.

"Hm? Oh, I just cut it on some glass back home." I inform him, flexing my hand a little, only to wince at the sharp spike of pain. 

Wordlessly, Barney reaches across and takes my hand in his, his touch setting off sparks through me despite the gentle nature of it. Pulling my arm closer to him, he runs his fingers lightly over my skin, the rough calluses rubbing over the palm of my hand, each stroke making it harder for me to fight off the rising need within me. Being this close to him, able to smell him in nearly every surface around me, feeling his hand on mine has sparked the feelings I've been suppressing as long as I've worked with him. 

Awkwardly, I pull away, swallowing tightly, trying to suppress the urges I'm suddenly feeling, needing to get myself together again. He doesn't stop me, his dark eyes regarding me quietly, observant as always as he seemingly considers something, his gaze sliding over me once more. After a moment, he puts out his cigar, leaning back in his seat.

"Mind doing me a favour?" The muscular man cocks his head at me, a small smirk playing at his lips.

"Er, sure? What do you need?" I agree hesitantly, knowing that expression means only one thing: he's got something up his sleeve.

"Check that control panel up there, would you? It's been giving me trouble for weeks." Barney's eyes are glittering now in the dim light, clearly up to something.

"What, now?" I frown, confused by the instruction.

"If you wouldn't mind." 

Lifting an eyebrow, I place my beer down and get to my feet, awkwardly reaching up to check the panel, which just so happens to be right above his head. I try to keep my body from leaning across him too much, but this is made difficult when I realise that the particular problem lies in the switches even further over. As I go to flick them, a pair of hands takes hold of my waist, suddenly yanking me down towards the chair.

Yelping in surprise, I feel my eyes widen as Barney pulls me down onto his lap, hands tight on my hips, pressing my back flush against his chest. His nose instantly finds my neck, the older man nudging at my skin until I tilt my head to give him access, goosebumps spreading across my skin as I try to process what the hell is happening, my brain short-circuiting with every one of his breaths. They fan out over the sensitive area, my own hitching in my throat as his scruff scratches over my skin, his lips not quite touching me yet, though I can feel their every movement. 

I try to get back up, unwillingly, only for him to loop one of his arms around my front and slip his hand under my shirt, flattening his palm on my stomach to hold me against him.

"I'm not blind, you know, (Y/n). I've seen the way you look at me, the way you behave differently when you're with me. You're not as subtle as you hope." Barney practically purrs into my skin, his smirk obvious against my neck, sending shivers down my spine as I try not to groan.

"I- I don't know what you're talking about, sir." I manage out, not quite catching the sound of anticipation that escapes me when he suddenly presses his lips against my ear, whispering into it.

"Really? I think you know very well what I'm talking about." He grins to himself, the hand on my stomach running down to ghost over the waistband of my jeans, my body tensing in his grip, "Want me to demonstrate for you?

[queerbrujas]

then it vanished away from my hands (part three)

pairing: nate sewell x eva navarro rating: T word count: 4k (10.1k total so far) warnings: angst (with no happy ending, though there’s a lot of comfort in this chapter). discussions about mortality and loss of agency. murphy trauma and flashbacks.

After discovering the reason why she can't turn, Eva tries (and fails) to come to terms with it.

part one | part two | read on ao3

this fic was originally meant to have three parts, but uh, that didn’t happen. current plan is to have it be four or five, depending on how the writing goes.

—

part three: my sense of self I lost somewhere

Eva’s eyes squeeze shut.

She’s all out of tears.

How long has she been sitting here?

This is—this is not working.

She can't be alone right now.

She can't be here right now, in this place that was once home to her and where there is nothing left that is familiar or comforting. Nothing but void, a shell filled with what’s left of the covered furniture she couldn’t get rid of.

The only thing here is—

is—

fuck.

The only thing here that seems alive and vivid is the image playing behind her eyelids of the apartment flooded with bright red smoke, the sounds of crashing and breaking, of Rebecca telling her to run, of Nate—

And a cold, cold voice that rings in her head, louder than every other sound.

She’s back outside in the rain. It soaks her to the bone, makes her shiver.

You are rather special, after all, Detective Navarro.

Why, why the hell did she think of coming here, of all places?

I do so prefer the quiet ones.

There isn’t enough air, she’s not getting enough air. She tries to gasp for it, to take deep breaths, but it’s not enough. When she opens her eyes the white walls of the apartment are closing in and her vision is blurred, hazy (not smoke, it’s not smoke, it’s not). A trapped scream tries to fight its way up her throat.

She wants to let it out. Scream. Thrash.

Tear her skin apart and climb out of her body.

This is not working.

This is not working—this won’t work.

She’s not going to be able to make it out of here on her own. Not out of the apartment, not off of the goddamn floor.

The sudden moment of clarity, tenuous and brittle as it is, spurs her into action.

Her phone. She pulls her phone out of the pocket of her jacket: her hands are still shaking, and it takes her at least three attempts to get hold of it. Once she has it, it slips between her fingers and clatters to the floor.

She flinches at the noise. She’s going to start sobbing again.

She flexes her fingers. Breathe. Breathe.

Eventually, she manages it.

For just a split second, she considers calling, then decides against it. That won’t do. She doesn’t trust herself to speak without bursting into tears again.

I'm at my old apartment. Can you come over?, she writes, hits send. Then a second text: Please.

The reply comes before she’s had time to lock her phone again: there in 2 seconds.

She loses track of time again after that, closes her eyes and would not be able to say, later, how long she spent like this. What is left of her rational brain tells her not more than a few minutes can have passed before Farah is already there in a whirlwind.

Alarm is evident in the way her eyes shoot wide open as soon as she sees her, in the way she's kneeling down by Eva's side faster than her (human, human) eyes can register.

“Hey, hey.” The words tumble out of her quickly, blurring together. “Eva, what happened?”

Farah has seen her cry before, she’s seen her desperate and distressed and upset, but she’s never seen her like this.

She examines her, the way she’s sitting on the floor with her knees held to her chest, the sorry state of her—clearly looking for signs of physical injury. When she seems satisfied she’s found none, she takes a breath: the alarm fades, but the concern deepens.

“What’s wrong? Did something—” Farah interrupts herself, purses her lips and waits for Eva to answer.

Eva’s throat feels raw; her thoughts scrambled, paper-thin. Connecting them, stringing them into something so complicated as language seems a monumental, almost impossible task. Just the thought of it makes her throat start to close up again.

She shakes her head. “Don't want to talk about it.” Speaking hurts, physically—even more than she thought it would.

Farah nods, as though having been expecting it.

She knows her well, after all.

They all do.

Farah reaches out, slowly, and lets her hand hover just over Eva’s knee. She doesn't touch her, knows better than to touch her, but it's close enough that Eva feels the warmth through her clothes.

“Do you want me to just sit here with you for a while? We don't have to go back home yet.”

Eva barely manages to choke back a dry sob at the mention of home, but unexpected relief washes over her all the same. Relief and gratefulness to Farah for putting into words what she certainly wouldn't have been able to think of. Not now.

She gives a quick nod. “Please,” she croaks.

Farah attempts a smile that manages to be warm despite the evident strain in it. She moves then, with a grace that Eva has envied before and which makes something in her chest constrict now, to settle more comfortably on the floor, legs crossed under her, facing Eva.

“Then we’re not going anywhere until you say so,” she says.

Soothing. Calming. Farah always knows how to be comforting.

“Thank you,” Eva sighs. Farah hums her assent.

With her here, real and solid in front of Eva, the red smoke and the crashing sounds and the voices seem to fade little by little into what they are: a distant memory, years old by now. Not real. Not something that can hurt her now.

(Except it lives under her skin, the consequence of it, the result of it, she’ll never be free of it—

Stop.

Stop, stop, stop.

Stop that thought dead in its tracks.)

A while later, Eva’s breathing still hasn’t gone back to normal. It’s still quick and ragged, shallow.

“Hey,” Farah speaks quietly, a low whisper that barely breaks the silence.

She waits for Eva to open her eyes—when had she closed them? How long has it been?—before speaking again.

“Give me your hands?” She says it as one would a question, extending her own, palms facing up.

Eva hesitates for a second—but only for a second.

The hesitation is instinctive, but the action is conscious. She places her hands in Farah’s, and Farah smiles at her.

With the warmth of the touch she’s reminded of the few times she’s done this before, in other circumstances.

Farah taking her hands and teaching her to dance, despite her initial, half-hearted protests.

Farah dragging her to celebrate her birthday because it was on the same day as hers and of course they needed a celebration; no, sneaking away with Nate to the library did not count, what part of it’s our birthday and we should have a party did she not understand?

Farah helping her stand up after a bad injury she’d sustained during a mission, the fear in her eyes eclipsed by the quick resolve to get her away.

She’s reminded of this, of all this. Of Farah’s liveliness and warmth but also of the way she always seems to understand how she feels, long before words are spoken.

Eva doesn’t quite manage to return Farah’s smile, but her lips twitch a little.

“Good,” Farah says. Her thumbs rub circles on the palms of Eva’s hands, and something soft in her eyes seems to make them glow golden, brighter than their usual amber. Something soft and sad and old, because as young as Farah seems, Eva is all too acutely aware (especially now, especially here, with a sting that doesn’t seem to go away) that she is still close to three times her age.

“Breathe with me?” Farah asks, before Eva’s thoughts can spiral too far in that direction.

Eva nods.

Farah breathes. Eva breathes.

It’s a deeper breath than any she’s taken since she got here.

They spend a while like this, until exhaustion finally settles in, weary and bone-deep. Until she’s staying here out of pure stubbornness, and when Farah quietly asks “home?” Eva does nothing but squeeze her hand and nod.

—

She tries then, she tries to adjust to the new information.

To move forward.

It’s what she’s always done. It’s the only thing that can be done.

She lets the rest of Unit Bravo know about the results (thinks for half a second about not saying anything, but she could never hide anything like this from them) and then refuses to discuss them at all.

It is what it is. If there is nothing that can be done to change it—and it has been made very clear to her that there is nothing that can be done, not about this—then there is no point in wasting time and energy thinking about it.

Because if she starts thinking about it, she’s not sure what she will do.

If she starts thinking about it, it’ll be back to the apartment, back to the rain, back to that other warehouse.

And if she starts thinking about it, she’s going to have to think about how all the reasons she had for wanting to turn in the first place are still there. They have not gone anywhere, except that now she has no way to deal with them.

She’s not sure if she feels numb or if she only wishes she did.

She thinks about it, anyway, whenever her gaze falls on the faint, jagged marks on her wrist, paler than the light brown of her skin.

For years she’d almost forget the scar was there, the memories associated with it pushed back to the deep corners of her mind. Now it seems to exert a gravitational pull of its own, drawing her sight to it without her permission.

She thinks about it whenever she remembers—and she remembers it often these days, can’t seem to pull the thought from her mind—that the blood in her veins is not her own. The whole of her body has been made into a foreign object; unrecognizable, enactor of violence upon itself.

The nightmares are worse than they’ve ever been.

—

It takes three days for Nate to bring it up: he’d been waiting for her to do it first.

He does it as gently as ever, as softly as ever. With a kiss to her forehead and hands seeking her skin, brushing down her arms. Perhaps hoping his touch would soothe the sting.

He seems almost apologetic, as though she could break at any moment.

Who’s to say she won’t?

“Joonam,” he whispers. “Will you tell me what’s on your mind?”

(Joonam, he calls her.

He calls her many things in many different languages, but this is the one he always, always comes back to.

Mi vida, she calls him.

Not as often as he does—she was never one for pet names—but often enough.

The thought forms before she can crush it: it seems almost cruel, now, that they’ve dug so deep to call each other my life when he will outlive her by an infinite amount.)

And the look in his eyes makes her want to cry all over again. He’s pleading with her, keeping the emotion from his voice but it’s clear in the way he looks at her.

Fuck, this won’t work.

She can’t keep doing this. She can’t do what she always does, not with this.

Because being with Nate has never been easy.

It has been many things—it has been love and passion and comfort and truth, but it has never been easy or painless. It has never been natural or effortless or uncomplicated.

They don’t fit together like that.

What it has been is a choice, constant and conscious. A choice to go against her instincts—her instincts that tell her to hide, to never stop moving, to raze what’s left and never look back—and open herself up in ways that leave her raw and exposed but so vibrantly, painfully alive.

(A choice that she’d been willing to make for the rest of eternity, even if it never got easier.

A choice that he makes for her, too.)

Poke around in the wound to dig the bullet out.

Her instincts tell her to pull back, and there are words on the tip of her tongue that she swallows down.

Slowly, she takes one of his hands in hers, brings it to her mouth to brush a delicate kiss against his knuckles.

“I will,” she says, eyes closed. If she opens them the words might not come out. “We’ll talk about it, I promise. Just—give me a little time, please. Just a little time.”

Nate breathes out a sigh that sounds like relief drowned in concern.

“Of course,” he says. “Anything you need.”

—

The water in the bathtub has cooled around them; the steam dissipated long ago.

Even in the cooling air, they have not moved in a while: Eva leans back against Nate’s chest with her eyes closed, his arms wrapped loosely around her as he presses sweet, barely-there kisses to the birthmarks on her shoulders. He follows paths he has mapped and memorized countless times before, ones that feel familiar on her skin.

Ones that should be soothing.

As slowly as ever, Nate lets his kisses trail up the side of her neck. They are soft, featherlight; his lips ghost over the multiple marks that have accumulated there before lavishing her with an attention that makes her shiver.

For the longest time, this was something he would not allow himself.

For the longest time, he would shy away from Eva’s neck as though burnt, and the first time he let her see the fear in his eyes as his fingertips traced the line of her throat is a moment that remains imprinted on her mind.

(She took his hand and pressed it more firmly against the side of her neck, against the beating pulse there. Gentle, almost as gentle as he always was with her—and always offering him the choice to draw back. He almost stopped breathing, but his eyes never left hers, and that single instant stretched out into moments, into something she still struggles to name.)

A lifetime seems to have passed since then.

He does not shy away from it now. Not now.

“I wish we could stay like this,” Eva murmurs.

Just this, right here.

A single moment, endless. One where nothing else matters or even exists. One where the thoughts that have been plaguing her have no power or importance.

“We can,” Nate whispers in return. His breath is warm, still close to her skin, and he follows it with another kiss directly over her pulse. “As long as you want to.”

She lets out a sigh. It would be so easy.

God, so easy.

So easy it’s terrifying.

The temptation to never talk about it again hasn’t gone away.

But thoughts become corrosive. They seep into every last piece of her sanity that she’s tried to keep safe. Into every dream and every waking moment until nothing, nothing remains untainted.

The way she flinches when she sees the scar, when she barely paid attention to it before. The way she looks at herself in the mirror and finds flaws she hadn’t noticed, the way she sometimes wants nothing more than to open her skin and drain out the blood to get it all out. Maybe that would help.

No, it would not be that easy.

“Not that long,” she forces herself to say. The words are always stuck in her throat, and they will not come out on their own. “Not forever.”

Nate’s kisses stop, and the briefest moment of tension tightens his embrace—something Eva might not have noticed if she didn’t know him like she does. But he speaks into the crook of her neck, tenderness the only thing in the softness of his voice. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

It has only been a few days since he’d mentioned it.

“I don’t think I’ll ever want to talk about it,” Eva admits. “But I have to stop acting like it’s something we don’t have to talk about.”

She sighs again, sinking further against him. Her own hands come to rest on his arms, wrapping them more tightly around her. “I just don’t know what to do. Where do we go from here?”

Nate hums, a soft sound she’s come to recognize as a contradictory mix of subtle exasperation and patience, tempered by love and concern. She’s been on the receiving end of it more than a few times. “We’ll get to that part. Let’s take it one thing at a time.”

Unspoken: For now, just tell me how you feel.

Also unspoken (because it has been spoken too many times): You don’t have to solve everything by yourself. You don’t have to solve everything right away.

He knows her too well.

It makes her want to cry, that he knows her this well.

“I just never thought about this.” Didn’t think it wouldn’t work. “I didn’t even consider it.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. Small. So fucking defeated.

Because if she can’t do anything—

“None of us did,” Nate says, and that cuts deep, too.

He does not have defeat in his voice like she does, but the barely concealed pain is enough to make her eyes sting.

The fact that he’s trying to conceal it at all.

For her sake.

Dammit, Nate.

Because if she can’t do anything, then what’s left?

(“Nate, I don't get to have a normal life.” She’d been trying not to raise her voice, to rein in the tremor in her words. Trying, and failing. “Not with this blood, not with these scars. Not with everything that's happened to me already. Do you think anyone can be normal after that?”

One of the many times they’d argued about this. He had tried, wanted to show her value in humanity that she could never see.

He’d turn back, he’d choose to be human, to be mortal, if only he could.

“Even if I could have that,” she’d added, more quietly. “I don’t want it. If this all went away, what do you think would be left of me?”)

She shifts in his arms, turns around until she can face him.

“I wanted this, Nate.” She lifts a hand to close her fingers around the pendant that hangs from her neck, the one she never takes off, the one he gave her. She closes them so tightly her nails dig into her palm. “I wanted us, like this, forever. I wanted it so much I don’t know how to be anything else anymore. Nothing else makes sense even if I try.”

Nate covers her hand with his own, both closed around the pendant. He hesitates before speaking, examining her with eyes that betray the depth of feeling in them, but eventually, he does. “I know nothing can dull the pain of having the choice taken from you,” he says, careful, too careful. He’s been through this. “I know that. I would give everything I have to spare you that hurt.”

“But I’m—” A soft breath escapes his lips, something that is not intentional, something that is far less controlled. “I’m not going anywhere. I will make that promise a thousand times over. It will still be… it can still be forever, for you. You still have us. You still have me.”

“And you’ll just watch? You’ll watch me get older, weaker, god knows what else? You’ll be okay with that? With watching me die?”

The questions leave her mouth like bullets, one after the other.

Harsh. Too raw. The things neither of them wants to hear.

She’s the one panicking, now.

She’s said this before.

And Nate flinches, flinches at the bluntness of it—she wants to take it back at that, even when she knows it has to be said—but it does not make his voice waver when he speaks. “I love you,” he says, as though that answers all her questions. “Nothing can change that. Every second you’ve chosen to give me has been something precious, something I have treasured, and it will continue to be, no matter what.”

One of his hands moves to tangle in the wet locks of her hair. To hold her in place, staring into the depth of his brown eyes, eyes that reflect back the same hurt she feels even if he will not say it.

“Before we talked about this, before you decided to turn, I—I knew I might not have you forever. I didn’t dare to hope I would, didn’t dare to think of it. But loving you is worth any pain that might come from it.”

Her throat constricts, and the emotion in Nate’s voice dulls the edge she’d imparted to her words. Of course Nate would say this. Of course he would think this, would feel this.

He would break himself to keep her.

He would break himself for her, without even a hint of hesitation.

(I won’t do that to you. She’d said that.)

She looks away, blinking to get rid of the tears that prickle at her eyes. She fixes her stare on the edge of the bathtub: gleaming, burnished copper misted over with condensation.

Instead of following that line of thought—she doesn’t trust herself to—she grasps at something else. Something that stabs with equal force at her chest.

It sounds like someone else speaking when she says, “I don’t want to be less than you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the way he frowns.

“Being human doesn't make you less, Eva.” Nate is resolute, his voice firm even in its warmth, echoes of a recurring argument neither of them had ever won.

“But it does,” she counters, voice cracking and desperate, turning her face back to meet his eyes. “Don’t you see it? It does, and it will always feel that way. I already have to try so hard just to keep up. What happens when I can’t anymore? What happens when my body gives up, when I'm too slow, too weak to go on missions?”

Why won’t he see it?

She has tried. Tried to make up for her lack of abilities, for her humanity. She has tried to attenuate it, to make sure it does not become a burden.

She has learned combat from Morgan and Adam, spent hours upon hours in the training room with them until she can barely stand, until Adam smiles at her after a well-placed hit, until Morgan throws a towel for her to catch and there’s nothing but pride in the look she gives her.

She has studied the supernatural world in every way she can; submerged herself in it, let it coat every cell of her body and every neuron in her brain.

It is what she breathes.

And she’s been forced out of it.

“That still wouldn’t make you less, nothing could.” The affection, the love in his voice burns. “There is so much more to you than what you can do.”

She shakes her head.

“I swore I wouldn’t be a burden to this team. And you know how I am, Nate, I couldn’t bear—I don’t want to get left behind. And I will. You’ll keep on being who you are and I… won’t.”

The tears aren’t pricking at her eyes anymore. They are falling.

The words aren’t stuck in her throat anymore.

“Everything I told you I didn’t want, all of it, that’s going to happen and there’s nothing I can do about it. And I have this thing inside me that’s making it all happen and my body isn’t mine anymore. I don’t get a say in any of it.”

She leans forward to rest her head on his shoulder, seeking the comfort of his touch even when it won’t, it can’t be enough. Not for this.

She is instantly enveloped in his arms, drawing her closer against him.

“I’m sorry, mi vida,” she whispers against his skin. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he answers, quiet, almost too quiet, into her hair.

And there is a thought.

Because if there is nothing she can do—

But this is one she refuses to even entertain. To acknowledge.

I won’t do that to you.

She’d said that.

[yuckydraws]

A writing prompt, hmm? Why don't you try writing some fluff with horror sans? (he's one of your favorites right?) Maybe going on a picnic?

He very much is one of my faves<3 thanks for the prompt bro!!

Okay so this is mostly fluff but I threw the tiniest bit of angst in there, but it’s very mild (tbh I’m not sure I could even call it angst). Just to give it some plot;)

Also sorry for the awkward spacing I pasted this from Google docs and tumblr is being difficult >:(

(HT!Sans/reader)

•••••••

“Hey, how willing would you be to put on this blindfold and come with me?” You ask your skeleton boyfriend as you lounge on the couch, blindfold in hand.

“.... huh?” Sans blinks at you in confusion. He was on his way to sit on the couch when you spring the question on him. It stops him in his tracks, leaving him to stand awkwardly in the middle of the living room.

“I said, how willing are you to put on this blindfold and come with me?” You repeat yourself, holding up the blindfold excitedly. Yeah that might not be the best way to phrase it, but hey, you’ve made it this far - might as well commit. He stares at the offending object, squinting a bit with his one eyelight.

“... no.”

“C'mon, please?”

“no.”

“Please?”

“no.”

“Why not?” You pout and he gets a twinge of maroon on his cheekbones.

“... why do i need… to wear a blindfold?” He asks while averting his gaze from your pout. You take it in stride and instead shift your position on the couch to meet his gaze again, smiling up at him.

“Because it’s a surprise!”

“don’t like surprises…” Despite his words, it’s obvious you’re wearing him down.

“It’s a good surprise!”

Sans doesn’t look entirely convinced. You stand up and grab one of his large hands in both of your small ones (at least small compared to his), and give him a reassuring squeeze.

“I promise.” You both don’t use this word lightly.

Sans stares down at you.

You stare back.

“... ok.” He caves.

“Yay! Now lean down big guy, I need to be able to tie this.” He complies, staring at you until his sockets are eventually covered. You’re careful of the gaping hole in his skull and make sure not to tie it too tight - to avoid potentially irritating his dead socket. When you finish you take advantage of his close face and kiss him on the cheek, causing him to purr and lean into the kiss.

“Pfft- you dork! C’mon, you’re gonna love it!” You say as you pull away and grab his hand to start leading him out of the front door. He was wearing his slippers, so thankfully you didn’t have to awkwardly attempt to put shoes on him. You hold back a snort at the mental image of yourself sliding shoes onto his gargantuan feet like a princess. Though you are quickly sobered when you almost trip on a porch step, leaving you to focus on helping Sans down the porch steps and leading him to your shared vehicle.

You help him get situated in the seat. In hindsight, perhaps the blindfold could’ve waited until your huge skeleton boyfriend was already in the car? Ah well, guess you both could be scatterbrained sometimes.

You smile, amused, as you remember how you both had to buy this huge van just so Sans could sit comfortably.

It’s a struggle but he’s eventually in his seat, buckled and relaxed, while you start the van and back out of the driveway. As your drive begins you turn the radio on low - hoping to ease any nerves he may still have by giving him something to focus on, while not being loud enough to give him a headache. You glance at him, feeling a bit nervous.

You guys have been dating for about four years now, and you couldn’t be happier! After three years of dating (and Papyrus going off to medical school) you both bought a small little house in the outskirts of Ebott city, and the past year had been domestic bliss for the two of you. Of course, you’ve had your ups and downs, but overall Sans has been the sweetest boyfriend you’ve ever had. He may not be much of a conversationalist, but he makes up for that with his actions. That one game you had mentioned you wanted to play once? It was on your shared nightstand a few days later. That snack he knows you like? The house is always stocked with them. Having a bad day? He will not hesitate to draw you a nice bath, pamper you, and/or initiate cuddles and kisses.

No matter what, he always finds a way to express his love for you, and lately you’ve been feeling undeserving of this almost? No that’s not the right word. You just felt like you could be doing more. Because you, on the other hand, are amazing with your words. You enjoy watching his face turn that beautiful deep maroon and hearing his purrs stutter the more he’s flustered by your words. You love to see him relax in your arms as you give him words of affirmation and assurance on bad days. You remind him of your love for him everyday and you give him all the sweet nothings he could ever want, but acts of service has always been a struggle for you. Of course, Sans never seems bothered and he’s never given you the impression that he wants more from you, but you want to try because he absolutely deserves it.

You also may have found his little pocketbook full of notes he takes throughout the day full of notes about you, your jokes, your stories, and little things you had mentioned. Due to his unfortunate head injury, he wasn’t always the best at remembering certain little things. You knew he was working on getting better, but you never pressured him to tell you how - it seemed like he didn’t want to share. You honestly felt bad you had found the book and snooped, but seeing just how much he writes about you in the notes more than anything else was just too sweet. It almost made you cry. Almost.

Ah who are you kidding? You definitely teared up.

So, you planned a little surprise date, full of his favorite things combined. The outdoors, food, and you - a picnic by the lake a little bit away from your home. After the hell monsters went through underground, most of them have a deep appreciation for the sky and full bellies (or what would be akin to a belly for them). Sans is no different, so you were hoping he’d take a liking to it.

“... how long... will the surprise take?” The question surprised you a bit, not only because it pulled you out of your musings, but because he’s usually very patient. That is, until you take in his stiff posture and realize the issue. Dinnertime is soon and he doesn’t quite know when you both will be eating.

“Don’t worry hon, we’ll have food soon,” You feel okay letting that bit of the surprise known. Despite being on the surface for almost seven years, Sans tends to get very nervous when you guys don’t stick to a schedule with meals. No need to keep him anxious. Especially considering you were pulling into the clearing of the lakeside. “In fact, we’re here!”

You put the van in park and tell Sans to wait for a second. Hopping out, you walk to the back of the van and open the back doors to grab the picnic basket you had packed. Once you make your way closer to the lakeside you quickly lay out the picnic blanket as well as place a folded blanket nearby in case it got a bit chilly. You then set up the food for a cute presentation, leaving the last part of the surprise you had for Sans in the basket. Jogging back to the van, you open Sans’ door to see he had already unbuckled himself. Guess he’s a bit more excited for the surprise than he let on earlier.

“Come on big guy, you’ve waited long enough” You grab his hand, help him out of the van and start leading him to the blacket set up.

“Can you lean down again?” You ask when you get to it. He does so and you gently take off his blindfold, making sure the fabric doesn’t catch on his skull injury or the rough bone near his dead socket. Once it’s off you gesture dramatically to the blanket. “Ta da!”

Sans stands straight up again and blinks a bit, overlooking the blanket at first, expecting something more near his sightline. Following where you're gesturing however, his eyelight eventually lands on the picnic blanket below. He still looks a bit confused. You were prepared for this type of reaction, many human activities such as picnics can be completely foreign to monsters - same for some monster activities being completely foreign to humans. You guys have had your fair share of these moments where you both have had to do a bit of explaining.

“what…?” He looks at you for an answer.

“It’s called a picnic. You pack food, take it to a scenic area, lay down a blanket, sit down, and eat. It’s sort of considered a cheesy romantic date idea, but I like them and I thought you would too... in fact I should’ve thought to take you on one of these sooner in our relationship! I actually had this idea last month, but it was too cold… also, most of the time picnics are a lunchtime date, but I like them during the sunset. It’s been awhile since our last date, huh?” You look up at him after your question to see him looking at the blanket with his face slightly red.

“... yeah i guess it has.” He has a small smile on his face and he stares down at the food.

You remember him getting very flustered when you would give him or buy him food at the beginning of your relationship. Since it was a scarcity down below, being willing to share food had a deeper intimate meaning for monsters. It meant that you loved them enough to offer a lifeline - food - that they so desperately clung to in its rarity. He still gets a little flustered now, but he’s been exposed to food sharing and he’s even come to enjoy it as a normal gesture. Though he seems a bit flustered now? Maybe because of the romantic undertone? Hmmmm, or maybe it’s because-

Your stomach decided to make itself known, growling loudly. You laugh, but Sans gives you an anxious look of concern, leading you to say:

“Well come on! Let’s eat!”

You don’t have to tell him twice, you’re both quickly seated and indulging on the yummy food you had made earlier today.

Sans makes sure you eat a good few bites before he digs in. There was a lot of it because, unsurprisingly, your mate has quite the appetite. But he still likes to wait for you to eat first no matter how much food there is. You didn’t even notice when he did that at the beginning of your relationship and when you finally did question him, he just said it was polite to wait for your mate to eat first. He didn’t elaborate more than that. When you researched into the topic you found that when there was a significant appetite difference and on the off chance there was access to food, it was polite for those with the bigger appetites to wait for the ones with smaller appetites to eat a bit first. Then it went into monster rankings, common folk monsters, boss monsters, different magic levels, etc. to which you got confused and pretty much gave up on the issue with a simple “fine, keep your secrets then” to your computer screen. You figured if Sans thought it was important for you to know he would have told you.

You both quickly fall into your normal dinner routine of you talking Sans’ nonexistent ears off about anything and everything and him listening closely, chuckling at your jokes and stories. You ended up telling him a story from highschool about your babysitting experiences.

“- and I mean she was freaking out. I was too. We were both responsible for this kid we were babysitting and we lost him. It was also super stressful because we had taken the kid all over town doing fun stuff like going to the zoo, the park, getting lunch - this kid could be anywhere! So we both decided after searching all over the house that we would drive and retrace our steps, starting at the last place we were.” You were telling your story with animated hand gestures, and Sans follows the movements with his eyelight. The sun was setting at this point, all the food was eaten, and you both were just enjoying each other's company.

“So, we get in the car - still freaking out mind you - and I asked my friend ‘should we just call his mom?’ and before my friend could answer I heard a little voice say, ‘why would you call my mom?’ I whipped my head around to see the kid just chilling in his carseat. Turns out we just forgot to unbuckle him and he had fallen asleep during the car ride! We were flipping the house upside down trying to find him and we hadn’t even taken him inside!” Sans broke out laughing at your dumb story, leaving you to grin.

“Oh sure it’s funny in hindsight, but I about peed my pants when we thought we lost him! I was so scared, what was I gonna tell his mom? ‘Hey Lisa, um it’s going great! Uh just thought you should know, we can’t find your kid and we may have lost him?’” Sans couldn’t stop laughing. You egged him on.

“Oh yeah, and wanna know the worst part? The little shit was old enough and clever enough to figure out what happened and we had to bribe him with ice cream to keep him quiet.” Sans let out boisterous laughter and fell back so that he was laying on the ground. You couldn’t help but join in at that point. You didn’t particularly think the story was all that funny but when Sans laughs like this, it’s infectious.

After you both calm down a bit, you look at Sans to see him gazing at you lovingly. You love this content expression he makes, when his eyelight gets all fuzzy and dilated, it makes you feel so special and loved. It’s his expression reserved only for you (and maybe that stew you made last week, he seemed to be pretty taken with that as well).

“... thank you, for tonight.”

“Dawww you big softie! Of course! It was the least I could do for you, you always make sure I’m happy and content. I wanted to give you something like that.” He blushes, but he also furrows his brows a bit.

“you don’t need to feel… like you owe me more, i do it because… i love you.” Of course, you knew this, but hearing him say it? It had you tearing up a bit. He reaches for you and you lean into his embrace, leaving you both cuddling on the ground. You sniff a bit, trying to stop the crying before it really starts.

“I know, I’ve been trying to drill that into my head, but you deserved tonight and I’m glad I went through with this. It was fun! I might plan more dates in the future. In fact I think I’m pretty good at it!” You jokingly say with all the unearned confidence in the world. Sans chuckles and pulls you closer and despite your efforts, a few happy tears do fall, leaving him to make a concerned noise.

“you okay?” He asks, and you wave away his concern.

“I’m fine, I just love you too.”

“heh… now who’s the softie?” He gently teases, pointedly ignoring the fact that he’s blushing again.

“Pfft- I guess you’re right. Literally too, I’m the one with the flesh and skin!” He erupts into laughter again.

“Easy crowd tonight.” You joke, causing him to laugh harder and you chuckle with him.

Once he calms down, you both lay in comfortable silence, before you remember your last surprise. You shoot up into a sitting position, making Sans - who was resting his eyes comfortably - let out a surprised growl. You laugh at his reaction, reassuring him that everything is fine.

“I just have one more surprise that I thought would be fun.” You dig into the picnic basket, pulling out the surprise and grabbing that extra blanket. You lay back down with Sans and pull the blanket over you guys.

“I think it should be dark enough for this,” You hand him the surprise - a handheld telescope. “It’s not as nice as the big one you have at home, but it’s a lot easier and lighter to carry around, plue we don’t have to stand.”

Sans smiles at you.

“... do you want to learn some more… constellations?”

“Absolutely I do!”

He begins to show you the visible constellations, and you proceed to make him laugh with the made up stories for them that you swear are the true origin stories. Just relaxing and goofing off, it’s moments like these where you remember just how lucky you were to be with your gentle giant, Sans.

[duskamethyst]

shatter.

a/n: kirishima is best boy so when he is sad, i also get sad. god i wish he is real. anyways, i wrote this with that one image of him in my mind. you know, when he cried. oh, and happy new years eve.

word count: 2.7k

genre: angst

warnings: some guilt tripping?, toxic behavior if you squint, mentions of death

pairing: kirishima x gn!reader

summary: kirishima just couldn’t stand seeing you always getting hurt from doing hero work and he constantly persuades you to quit– through words and action.

“you’re gonna be a great hero, babe!” kirishima had an arm wrapped around your shoulders and he pulled you in to kiss your forehead.

three years in U.A. and it was finally graduation day. you both had your heart and mind set on your desired agencies, ready to serve and protect the society from evil as pro heroes. 

you and kirishima work under different agencies but your relationship with him has remained steady ever since your last year in high school. now, you are together for almost three years with a small and cheap apartment to reside in though your schedules aren’t exactly the most favorable as a couple. 

when kirishima has a day off, you have to be out for work and the same goes the other way around. even when both are at home, you barely get to speak to him since one of you is already sleeping while the other just got home. be that as it may, both are still very optimistic. it makes each moment together not to be taken for granted and it serves as a reminder to appreciate each other more. even when you are lightly awake from feeling the mattress dipping from behind, the moment he holds you close as he dozes off to sleep is something you greatly treasure. 

but sometimes, one of you has to be out of town. far away from your home and one of you is bound to get some scratches and ugly bruises– which seems like you’re more a victim of. kirishima tends to be a worrywart and he gets upset that he can’t stay at home too long to take care of your needs and you need to assure him every time that you’ll be fine and that a good rest can get you back up on your feet.

the reassurance and the constant worrying tends to turn into a regular argument at some point. not forgetting when he suddenly starts to blame himself for how useless he is. when will he ever understand that this has nothing to do with him but your own carelessness? it’s getting all too mentally draining.

the nauseating feeling of not being good enough is already shitty and you don’t need the pity look he throws at you every now and then. you know he means well but it ticks you off when you have to say the same thing all over again and he needs to focus on his job. the villains out there are not going to shove their asses into prison by themselves and every argument in the house is a waste of time.

still, you have an admirable passion for your job and he respects that (or used to?). as a hero himself, he understands the risks pro heroes need to take and the kind of danger that they have to face everyday. kirishima knows that you’ve worked hard to be who you are today but certain times he fails to convince himself that you are fit to work in this field. kirishima doesn’t mean to disregard your work and all but hell, this sure isn’t the first time that you got a bad bruise on your body– though the broken foot is new (still doesn’t change the fact that you needed a cast for your arm before). 

“please? retire for me?” he mutters under his breath, his eyes are wavering with worry from the other side of the room as he looks at you sitting on the couch with a crutch resting close to you. the words that come out of his mouth seem to already be scripted from saying the same thing over and over again.

“not this again. eiji, we’ve talked about this before.” you groan, sinking down further into your seat. you just got back from the hospital and your body needs a good rest before you can heal properly.

“i know but,” he sighs dejectedly. “i can’t stand to see you like this.” 

you shake your head, your voice firm. “no. eiji, this is just a fracture. it’ll heal soon.”

“baby, you know i can protect both of us.” kirishima’s voice is soft as silk in hope to be able to persuade you into something you clearly defy time after time.

“are you saying i’m not capable of defending myself?” you raise your voice a little, clearly vexed and kirishima’s gaze meets the floor, trying to construct words so it doesn’t sound wrong or offend you any further. 

“you’re not answering me, eiji.” you snort, his hesitance giving him away.

“i’m not the one injured here.” kirishima glances at your bandaged foot and the crutch next to you. his heart throbs at the sight of you needing to use a crutch to help you walk. 

“oh, good for you.” it feels as if he’s adding insult to injury. it’s all thanks to his quirk that the scratches he received only managed to look like mere paper cuts because he won’t be saying that without it. 

kirishima knows that you can be stubborn sometimes and it reminds him of a certain friend of his but he just wants you to listen and understand from his point of view and not to take it any other way. it undoubtedly makes him upset that you’re hurt but he’s more… scared. so scared to the point that he finds himself being so grateful from you just sitting there in front of him, breathing and alive. he doesn’t want to lose you. he can’t bear the pain if– if you’re not in his life anymore. his world would crumble and there would be nothing left of him.

“do you love me?” kirishima asks out of the blue, deliberately using the question as his last resort to either make you feel guilty or to force you to obey him as some kind of proof that you are true to your words.

“don’t you use that, eijirou.” you sigh in annoyance, knowing too well where this conversation leads. undeniably, you do and he knows damn well too. you’re certain that he is just using that as an excuse or a way to end this argument and it just seems very tacky.

“well, do you?”

“you know i do!” you practically shout before quickly regaining your composure again. “i love you, eiji. so much.”

“then if you do, you would listen to me!” there’s a pitch higher in his voice, a mixture of sorrow and anger in his tone and his eyes begin to look glassy. 

it almost startles you and you know he’s about to put on the waterworks but as the hard headed person you are, you still continue to stand on your ground. 

“and if you love me, you would understand!” you shout back from your seat. you would walk away if you could but you know you’d be too slow before he catches up so there’s no point in that. instead, you shift your gaze somewhere else and force yourself to tolerate the tense and stuffy ambience of the room.

“babe,” his voice croaking. “i don’t.. i don’t wanna lose you.”

“and what about you? would you quit your job for me?” you snarl, still refusing to look at him when he takes small and slow steps towards you.

kirishima falls silent for a second before answering, “i– i told you. i can protect–”

“see? you wouldn’t even do the same.” that should be the end of discussion. if he’s not willing to give you the same energy, why would you? as a hero himself, you believe he should understand the love you have for your job because you understand him too, so why can’t he? 

an exasperated breath draws out from your nostrils as you reach for your crutch to stand up. “eiji, i’m tired. i’m gonna take a rest.”

kirishima just stands quietly in the middle of the room as you start to walk to your shared room. he knows he has lost the argument but he’s not going to let it end like this again– not this time. 

“you don’t love me.” he suddenly breaks the silence, making you stop in your tracks to turn around and look at him– which none of you know would be the last time. 

“what?” you murmur in disbelief, though you heard him very well. even though your heart is wrenching inside your chest, the anger that hasn’t yet subsided from prior rushes through your veins even greater.

“why won’t you ever listen to me?!” he suddenly shouts as tears begin to roll on his cheeks. “i want the best for you– i– you’re everything to me!” 

your own vision suddenly starts to blur and you realize that tears are starting to pour out from your eyes out of your own frustration.

“how do you know what’s best for me?!” you scream back angrily. 

“i’m your boyfriend! i know– i know you’re too weak for this!” he blurts out as he walks towards and stands in front of you.

“why? because i got hurt?!” you push his chest with your free hand though you know he won’t budge considering how shredded he is.

kirishima grabs your wrist to stop you from pushing him as he continues to look at you with irises that burn with rage. “because you’re not fit to be a hero!” 

amidst your struggle to free your wrist, now you only stare at him, too shocked to utter any more words. is that how he thought of you all this time? like a fool trying to play hero? a weak hero that keeps getting injuries and unable to defend themselves let alone the lives of others?

your head hangs low and kirishima panics and lets go of his grip as he slowly realizes what he just said to you on the spur of the moment. 

“babe, i’m sorry. i didn’t–” 

smack.

the sound reverberates throughout the room and it falls silent again. your breathing has gone erratic and able to give him a good slap him in the face earns you some sort of satisfaction. none of you are the type to get physical during a heated argument but that was the final straw. even if you reconcile after this, what then? it’s not like you asked to get beaten up and if it does happen again, you both are going to go through the same thing again. you can’t take it anymore and it’s leaving you with the last option.

“i think,” you finally choke after taking a deep breath. “we’re not on the same page anymore.” 

“w-what do you mean?” he sobs, having the urge to pull you into his embrace and apologize over and over albeit knowing that you’d push him away. 

your lips purse into a thin line. must you spell it out for him?

“eiji, i’m–” 

“baby, no. please– d-don’t say it–” kirishima starts to cry again as he drops to his knees and holds your uninjured leg tightly to his chest, sobbing through your pants. “i’m- i’m sorry!”

“eiji, stop.” you weakly try to shake him off. “maybe if we– if we part, you don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

kirishima looks up at you through the tears in his eyes, “i don’t want– babe, i love you! please don’t– don’t leave me!” he stands back up on his feet and his big hands reach to gently grab your face so you can look at him. “let’s... let’s talk about it, okay?” 

“no, eiji. you can’t even trust me.” this time you start to sob. “a-and we keep on arguing about the same thing.”

“t-then, please? we’ll work it ou–”

his phone suddenly interrupts as he gets a call. he takes out the phone from his pocket and his face drops when he realizes it’s from his agency. he knows he can’t possibly ignore it. with a sniff and cough to alter his voice, he picks it up. kirishima continues to talk to the phone, sparing you glances once in a while as if to analyze the weight of importance between the emergency and the current situation you both are in.

you know very well that the people still need a hero and right now, they need red riot. with a heavy heart you whisper, “go.”

that last option probably isn’t the best but kirishima really couldn’t come to terms and you both failed to reach a mutual understanding. you’re persistent– the kind of person that knows what they want in life and that no one can get in your way. the fact that your boyfriend, out of all people, doesn't seem to show you support like he used to back in the days in U.A. leaves you disappointed. 

the longer the fight carried on, the deeper you drowned in the pits of self loathing. comfort and reassurance weren’t the things that kirishima provided. no, all he kept on doing was putting you down further. especially after he said that you aren’t qualified enough to live the dream you’ve always wanted. oh how it’s going to be stuck in your head for a while.

maybe, two people are better off without each other than being secretly unhappy together.

his lips are pressed flat as he hangs up the call. he doesn’t have much time in his hands but he doesn’t want to leave you either. afraid that once he walks out the door, it’ll be done forever. kirishima only wants to hold you again, to assure himself that it’s alright– that all of this is just a mindless fight and you’ll stay with him. 

but you take the first step away from him and kirishima only watches you quietly as you walk away and disappear into the room. lots of thoughts are running through his head and things he wants to say but couldn’t. his selfishness made him take things too far but it’s all out of love (or probably his best interest). he knows that you’ll be mad at him if you knew that he went to great lengths just to make you change your mind. but now, his efforts proved to be futile because he still ends up losing you and he has no one to blame but himself. 

kirishima doesn’t mean what he said about you not suited to be a hero. he watched you over the years, he knows what you’re capable of and he admires your determination but being in the real world opens his eyes. he had seen death and almost tasted it himself, and that made him realize how precious you are to him– how every moment with you counts because he knows that you could be gone in any moment. 

and you were just so damn obstinate. why couldn’t you understand his feelings? he even talked nicely but you just wouldn’t listen. he almost gave up before an idea suddenly struck in his head. kirishima didn’t want to get his hands dirty but you probably still needed a little push.

he had connections and he got the money.

you were on your shift while kirishima just got home. he spent some time on the couch, glaring intensely at his phone– particularly on the few digits on the screen. his heartbeat was running a marathon as he stared at the phone icon in rumination. the shaky thumb hovering above the screen seemed like forever before he groaned and clicked the off button instead. 

multiple times he had tried and each time he failed to find the will to simply click the call button. he doesn’t want to hurt you, not at all but you were definitely leaving him with no choice.

so he took a deep breath and typed in the numbers again, this time immediately pressing the phone icon and waited for the other line to pick up. though the longer he waited, the more he felt the guilt and wanted to hang up the phone. shortly enough, his call was answered. 

he had a script ready in his head from the first time he tried to call them. it should be no problem. just tell them that he wanted them to hurt you, but not until the point that they could kill you. he sighed. even saying that inside his head made him queasy but what’s love without a little pain, right? 

“hey, i need a favor.”

kirishima hoped that his wicked scheme would work and even if it didn’t, he’d just have to give them a call again until your will to stay a hero shatters.

duskamethyst © 2020 • do not modify, translate or repost anywhere.

[bookwyrminspiration]

Do you think that anyone is going to die in Book 9? We haven't had a death in a while from the "good guys." (I believe the last one was Forkle 1) The only people I can think of could die would be Dex, Linh, (Maybe that explains the short POV), or maybe Amy. idk, I feel like Sophie is gonna have a hard time in the next book, with the way that the last book left off. But, Shannon might not have time, so I have no idea.

[Image: Screenshot of an anonymous ask. In all caps, it reads: "Sandor will most definitely die at the end of the series I don't want him too but ive been going thru the books and there is so much evidence it will happen." End description.]

I hope you two don't mind me combining these asks, they're just so similar and my thoughts cover both of them!! Because Sandor dying is one of the one's I feel is most plausible in the coming books, rather than talking about it in two different places it's easier to mesh both your asks!

The last death we had was, you're right, Mr. Forkle in Lodestar, but that was in book five and we're coming up on nine, so it's been a considerable length of time. It doesn't feel like we can keep going at this rate and have everyone consistently come out alive at the end of the day. You know all those kids games like Pie Face and Don't Break the Ice? it's like that. the longer things go on, the more the anxiety build because with each passing turn, the game gets more risky and you have a lower chance of escaping unharmed. In the same way, we've been moving along without incident through the series and we're just waiting for everything to blow up in our faces.

First, I'll discuss a few of the characters the first ask brought up! Dex is an interesting one; I could see there being an aspect of "he could only cheat death once" in reference to the time he was presumed dead. I think his death, based on how he's incorporated into the story right now, would serve as a way to make Sophie feel guilty and responsible because she wasn't paying enough attention to him. I don't think it would be a satisfying conclusion to his story, though. There's an element in writing when a character dies, generally you want it to be because it's an appropriate ending to that characters journey and story, a culmination of their triumphs and losses and their past. We had this in a sense with the first Forkle because all his accomplishments had led to a meeting with the leaders of the world alongside Sophie, and he had gone down protecting someone else and the future, and while part of that was for its impact on Sophie is does make enough sense with his character to be satisfying. I don't think we're quite there with Dex yet, so maybe it would take more of an approach of those sudden deaths that are meant to show that life isn't a story, that sometimes people die for no reason and you can't do anything about it. But enough about Dex, onto Linh!

Same as Sandor, who I'll talk about later, I think Linh might be more plausible as far as going down protecting her friends. We've seen in Neverseen and Nightfall that she has no problem going past some of her physical limits to ensure the safety of others, so I could see a scene where things are getting intense but she just keeps pushing herself further and further past the edge, just promising herself she'll hold on a little longer, just a little longer for her friends because they're counting on her. I think it'd be the kind of death where no one realizes what's happening to her until it's too late and she's given all she can give. Everyone would be so caught up in the fighting and just trying to survive that they wouldn't realize until a few moments later that no one can find Linh, that she hasn't said a word. I don't think she'd give any sort of final words goodbye, she'd just show her love for the people she surrounded herself with through her actions.

Amy I'm personally a little iffy on, just because we've already had so much drama with Sophie's human family that it might feel like "seriously?? you can't give them a break?" Sophie had to loose her human family, endure them being taken and tortured, then loose them again. Adding Amy's death on top of all that seems a little too close to older events to have the dramatic effect Shannon would want. There's also the matter of her being very disconnected from the elven world and all the drama, so there'd need to be a lot more connection back to her in the next book for this to be something more plausible. But! not completely off the table!

that's not to say all of these are completely improbably and can't happen at all, just that I think there might be some better options for deaths that would have a better effect on the story! But I do like all your suggestions and there's a lot I could talk about for each of them individually!!

So now, onto Sandor. Personally, he's one of the characters I can see dying the most believably. and the reason the second ask found "so much evidence it will happen" is likely because Shannon has literally admitted to planning to kill him off in every book since he's been introduced! I don't remember where exactly she said this, but I do know she shared this lovely bit of information a year or two ago. So not only have there been plans to kill him, there have been hints of those plans throughout the series.

some of my reasoning: he's a bodyguard; his line of work is literally in physical combat and protection, opening him up to a lot more opportunity for injury and disaster. I mean, he's already fallen off a cliff, and that was when he wasn't as emotionally invested in Sophie as he is now. On top of that, both Sophie and the fandom have gotten attached to him--he's been here even longer than Tam and Linh. So it would have that emotional impact and guilt from Sophie that Shannon would want to show us, same as it would have with Dex. The difference here for me, though, is that Sandor's death would be a better ending to his story than Dex's would (not that it was a bad suggestion! there's just a lot to it). In the same way I suggest Linh die protecting her friends, I think Sandor would die protecting Sophie. I simply have trouble imagining there's a more believable way for him to die.

He's been protecting her and getting hurt in her place for so long, I think it would be fitting for him to be doing the same thing he always does, but this time it's just...a little too much. A little too late. A little too bad. I think he'd be the kind to have a few final words instead of Linh, to thank Sophie for his time with her and to remind her that it isn't her fault. The little things like that.

and then jumping back to the first ask to round this out: I think we've had enough time and build up throughout the past eight and a half books that even if number nine is the last one in the series, Sandor could be killed and there would be enough time to figure all that out. he doesn't have a bunch of weird background stuff going on like Kenric or Forkle did that would draw out his death over several books, so I personally think Sandor specifically could be killed in the next book and it would make sense timing wise. All the others feel a little different though, so depending on who Shannon wants to kill, whether or not it would work out would change.

Those are just a few of my thoughts on death in the keeper universe! I don't know if it's possible to keep going and have everyone survive, but the tension has been mounting and we know Shannon is okay killing characters so there's a lot to take into consideration!

[rainbowsky]

The Wolf Reviewed

Spoiler-free section

My life is divided into two eras: ‘before seeing GG as Ji Chong’ and ‘after seeing GG as Ji Chong’. I will never be the same.

GG is magical in this series, and Ji Chong is among my absolute favorite characters of all time (I am actually in love with this character, which is heartbreaking given the fact that he’s fictional). The show also has many interesting characters and some exciting storylines, and in spite of some of its flaws this series is quite good. Highly recommended.

Of course there’s a lot more to it than that, but I can’t give a full review without spoilers. Here’s the rest for those who have already seen the series.

Spoilers under the cut

OK, where to start?

The Characters

There were so many great characters in this story and overall I found the performances of all of them well-acted and exciting to watch. I especially loved Ji Chong and Yao Ji. Both were complex, mysterious characters who stole the show every time they were onscreen.

Ji Chong was incredible. Everything about him was over-the-top amazing. I can imagine that GG must have identified a lot with Ji Chong because he has a similarly gallant, charismatic and kind personality. Seeing GG perform a character like this was mind-blowing because of the harmony between them in spite of their physical differences.

I could go on and on about how much I love Ji Chong as a character but if you’ve seen the series you already know how great he is. I truly fell in love with that man. He was everything I love in a person, and in such a beautiful package. I loved his nimble mischievousness, his rebelliousness, his fierce independence, his devotion to those he loves, and above all, his integrity.  With one exception that I’ll get into later, everything he did in that series was consistent with the image I had of him and it made my heart melt.

And it was pretty insane to see GG go from the thin, twinkish, bubbly and somewhat diminutive Wei Wuxian to the rugged, masculine, mature and level-headed Ji Chong. Not only because of the personality differences between the two characters, but also because of the physical differences. They look like two entirely different people. Ji Chong looks so tall and imposing in the series!

It’s impressive to see GG’s acting ability shine through in these roles. He has such a gift for acting, and for drawing viewers into the hearts of the characters he plays.

Yao Ji was another character that really impressed me. She had so much intensity and complexity, and her character arc was so strong. She was also just incredibly well styled and she looked breathtaking in every single frame she appeared in. The various headpieces and hairstyles she wore were stunning, and her sidekick Zi Shen was an aesthetic marvel.

I also really loved Ma Jing. Despite the fact that she was often used for comedic effect, her character was quite nuanced and multidimensional. I loved her loyalty and strength, and the depth of the love she had for Ma Zhai Xing really shone through in every scene she was in.

The entire Night Fury group was also amazing. I loved them as a team and as individuals, and the trajectories their characters went through were interesting and engaging. I was really invested in what became of them. When Wen Yan died I was gutted, and I was grateful that Hai Die and Mo Xiao had such a satisfying conclusion to their story.

I also adored Butler Shi. What a great character. He reminded me of one or two guys I know hehe. He had such a warm, endearing quality about him.

I’m realizing that I could sit here and name almost every character in this series. Despite some of the problems that I have with it, I’m reminded that the characters are exceptionally well-realized in this series.

The Story

Overall I have to say I was pleasantly surprised by the story. It was exciting and engaging, and there were some very interesting side conflicts and intrigues. There was an overall sense of adventure and plenty of action, some really emotional moments and even comic relief.

When you think about it, almost every character had something deeper going on outside of the main plot, and those side/back stories were really interesting and varied. There was complexity to the characters and their motives and experiences without it overcomplicating the plot.

The romances were not my cup of tea. I’ll get into that later on. But despite being the thread that ran through the entire story, they really didn’t feel central to it and it was easy to simply enjoy the show while putting aside the annoyances I had with the romances (I did this primarily by consciously choosing to take the story at face value, and choosing to believe that Ma Zhai Xing really was through with Prince Bo).

The show did a great job of getting me engaged and keeping me interested, giving me a story that was complex without being confusing, emotional without being too sappy (with some exceptions). The action, fight scenes, battles, etc. were exciting without feeling fake and cliche. There were some well-choreographed scenes.

I really can’t complain about much. I mean, there were times when I was watching this series that I thought I hated it, but in retrospect I can see that I really loved it in spite of some of the flaws, which I’ll discuss in a moment.

The Soundtrack

The soundtrack was quite good, even if it felt repetitive when I was bingeing the show. So many songs have stuck with me since I finished the series. I especially like Backflow by Jolin Tsai (second-last song on the playlist I linked). Of course I would have loved a song or two with GG, but the soundtrack we got was memorable.

What I hated

I really struggled with some aspects of this series.

I found Bao Na mostly unwatchable. She was incredibly annoying. As a character she had all the traits I dislike. Whiny, stalker, demanding, emotionally immature, jealous... I really couldn’t stand that character for a lot of the series.

It’s true that she started to redeem herself a bit through the course of the series but she never really evolved into someone I wanted to see more of. I definitely had some moments where I liked her and sympathized with her, but mostly she grated on my nerves.

I also hated Prince Bo through most of the series, and found it insulting that I was expected to view him as the protagonist and cheer for him to win the princess’s heart. I felt that the ‘love-hate’ thing between Prince Bo and Ma Zhai Xing was overplayed to a point where I lost all sympathy with Prince Bo and desperately wanted him to die a horrible death through much of the series.

His behavior didn’t reflect someone who was in love but wanted to protect her. Much of his behavior was excessive and gratuitous, much worse than was necessary to achieve its stated goal. He was incredibly emotionally and psychologically abusive toward Ma Zhai Xing to a degree that was often really hard to watch. Especially his near-rape of her.

This is a man that I didn’t want to see redeemed. This is a man I wanted to see burned alive. No one who truly loved Ma Zhai Xing would be even remotely capable of the actions Prince Bo took.

I will admit that he did begin to redeem himself in my eyes a bit later in the series, but not to where I could ever see him with Ma Zhai Xing. I don’t think that’s the sort of treatment one can ever redeem in a relationship. He might be able to redeem himself, but not the relationship. There are some lines, once crossed between people, that one can never come back from.

I actually felt that Yao Ji was a much better match for Prince Bo than the princess was. They were true equals with similarly difficult pasts, and similarly dark deeds to redeem themselves from. They were in so many ways perfect for each other.

Ji Chong and Ma Zhai Xing were a better match because they were more natural equals in terms of personality, values and life paths. There were tremendous parallels between the two of them. Although I ended up feeling she didn’t deserve him.

So for me, it was really difficult to get invested in the love stories I was presented with. Ultimately I found them all very unsatisfying. The people I wanted to see together were treated as unsuitable for each other in ways that were completely unbelievable, and the people I was expected to want to see together had unconvincing chemistry and incompatibilities that I couldn’t overlook.

Seeing Ma Zhai Xing die in the end was an OUTRAGE. Especially when I read about the director’s rationale for that decision.

“Her thought process on killing off “Zhai Xing” was that “King Bo” had done so much for her that it was time for her to do something for him. “Her character had matured the most in the series. Dying for Wolf Boy is the best ending for this identity of hers. To me, this perfect ending is even more in line with her character’s growth.””

I found that shocking. I couldn’t disagree more with this sentiment. She wasted so much of herself and her life for Prince Bo. He treated her like crap, and he didn’t ever truly do anything to redeem himself from that behavior. He should have been the one to die.

In my opinion, REAL character growth for Ma Zhai Xing would have been to see her overcome the fixation with Wolf Boy and with Prince Bo and just move on with her life.

I will say this, though: By the time Ma Zhai Xing died in the show, her character had already been so utterly and thoroughly decimated beyond all recognition via the Prince Bo housewife trajectory that there was no point in her surviving.

The absolute worst moment for me, though, was Ji Chong ending up with Bao Na. Talk about adding insult to injury. This is the one thing that Ji Chong did as a character that ran against my understanding of him as a character.

You could have done anything at all to Ji Chong, including killing him or turning him into a villain, and it would have been less of an insult to me than putting him with Bao Na.

I do try to interpret his invitation for them to travel together in a non-romantic way (despite the fact that in the world of the show there’s no way that a princess is going to go traveling with a prince without her reputation being ruined unless they are a couple). But when I tell myself that he took her traveling to get her away from court and give her some life experience - as friends only - then it becomes less of a bitter pill to swallow. I could see him doing that for her, and I could see them developing a strong friendship through their travels.

I just can’t see them as remotely romantically compatible. Not on any level.

I found it completely unconvincing that the most emotionally mature, honorable person in the entire series who had the healthiest boundaries and a lot of worldly experience and intelligence, would have any interest whatsoever in someone as emotionally immature, childish and inexperienced (and with no boundaries whatsoever) as Bao Na.

I would have preferred it if they’d framed that whole thing as him being a sort of big brother/mentor figure to her.

I felt like I saw chemistry and compatibility between Bao Na and Fourth Prince Chu You Ze, and I would have loved to see them end up together. They were much more at an equal footing. I was expecting that to be the outcome and it would have been a sweet one. They would have made a cute couple.

Final thoughts

The romances in this story seemed fixated on unhealthy, often misogynistic power imbalances and they were really, really hard to watch. Not just in terms of Prince Bo and Ma Zhai Xing but also the ugly Ji Chong and Princess Bao Na hookup they tried to get me to swallow at the end. I hate that kind of ‘love’ story. I prefer seeing actual equals find each other in the great wide world.

However, pretty much everything else about the series was excellent. Ji Chong owns my heart and I only wish I could see more of him. GG completely blew me away and far exceeded all of my expectations.

Overall, I really love this series and will definitely be rewatching it.

[swtorpadawan]

Backup

Author’s Notes: The following story takes place a few weeks after the Rise of the Emperor expansion.

Jonas Balkar’s eyes scanned the south balcony of the Star Cluster Casino on Nar Shaddaa.

From the nearby Strategic Information Service observation post, the senior agent had multiple angles to choose from on his monitor displays, both inside and outside the venue. Years before, Jonas and the Republic SIS – with the assistance of Havoc Squad – had remotely sliced the establishment’s nigh-impregnable security system ever since, giving them a backdoor to the casino’s entire network. Say what you will about the Hutts, but they weren’t stingy on surveillance. They wanted every credit and every gaming chip accounted for, and they were committed to keeping (unsanctioned) violence away from their lucrative hotels and casinos. There were literally hundreds of security holo-recorders and sensors throughout the Star Cluster, and Jonas had access to all of it. What’s more, he could adjust what the Hutts and their goons saw at their end, meaning they wouldn’t get wise to what Jonas was up to.

This had all made the Star Cluster the ideal location for a discreet handoff between their contact – a rather gullible Rodian information broker named Rox, who had a nervous demeanor – and a Nikto working for a Black Sun arms dealer who was (allegedly) supplying off-the-books weaponry for the new Sith Intelligence and their covert operations on the Smuggler’s Moon and other Hutt-controlled worlds. (Why waste time smuggling in ordinance that can be traced back to your government when you can just as easily buy large quantities of untraceable weapons after you arrive, and all at a reasonable price?) The plan was for the Rodian to pass a large bribe to the Nikto for a data-disk on these (alleged) shipments to Imperial safehouses. In one swoop, the SIS would pick up the drop-off points of the network.

But the plan got even better. If things went well, then two days from now, Jonas – through a proxy –would approach the Nikto – the fellow was named Fhentar – with all the information the man had illicitly provided to the Rodian, along with a recording of the hand-off. Using that evidence as leverage, he would turn Fhentar into an SIS informant by threatening to share what the Nikto had done with his boss. The Nikto would then realize that his future lifespan could be measured in minutes if that happened. With Fhentar in Jonas’ pocket, the arms shipments could be disrupted at the Republic’s leisure, forcing the Imps to resort to smuggling their own weapons to the planet. That would further antagonize the Hutt Cartel, causing the Empire even more problems.

Within a few weeks, the Empire’s entire Nar Shaddaa network – so carefully reconstructed by Lana Beniko, the new Minister of Sith Intelligence – would be compromised.

A beautiful plan. All it relied on was this handoff going well over the next few minutes. Just in case, Jonas had an SIS security team – disguised of course – standing by just a few minutes away.

The balcony hadn’t been the obvious choice for the hand-off, but Jonas was convinced it would work. When the action was going hot inside, most of the people tended to ignore the balconies; everyone liked a party, after all. He’d spent weeks surveying the surrounding buildings. A sniper from a nearby high point – should the Exchange or Black Sun or even Sith Intelligence choose to intervene – would find no clear shot of the south balcony. Surveillance – aside from that of the SIS, of course – would be problematic with these acoustics. Rox was wired, but any other audio monitoring would be suppressed.

It worked.

To ensure relative quiet on the balcony, a simple ruse had been arranged to distract any potential witnesses. At the appointed moment, a million-credit jackpot would miraculously (and conveniently) hit on one of the Star Cluster’s Kingpin machines to get the crowd’s attention. An undercover SIS operative would then create a diversion on the floor of casino, feigning drunkenness and staging a fight with the gambler who’d won the jackpot. The altercation would draw the remaining bystanders, all but clearing the balcony of potential witnesses and making it an ideal exchange spot. In Jonas’s experience, nothing drew eyes like a fight on the floor of a casino.  

Still, the SIS agent found himself nervous about this operation for some reason he couldn’t quite place. That’s why he’d called in backup to help him observe everything from his post.  

“You know, of the two of us, I’m supposed to be the one with the anxious reputation.” said the voice from behind him.

Jonas turned, giving Theron Shan a rather haughty smile. One of the top agents in the SIS and (technically) still a division head, Theron handed Jonas a steaming cup of caff, which he accepted with genuine gratitude.

“Well, maybe you’ve been rubbing off on me.” Jonas quipped. “I’ve seen you fret on these things more than a few times. Besides, you were the one who needed to get off Coruscant, remember?”

“I know, I know.” Theron held up a free hand. “Everyone’s still upset with me over that mess I made on Ziost.” He sipped his own cup of caff with a shake of his head as he let out a sigh. For a moment, his normally care-free demeanor slipped away, and Jonas could see the guilt weighing heavily on him.  

“I tell you, Jonas, I honestly don’t blame anyone for being angry with me. I should have called in the cavalry the moment I heard from my contact that the Emperor was back. Instead, I got most of my team killed, and that was before Saresh even called in the invasion out from under me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What a mess.”

Jonas felt an upswell of sympathy for Theron and his troubles. He knew the SIS agent had only ever done what he thought was right, even if that was exactly what got him into trouble most of the time.

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up too much.” Jonas patted Theron on the shoulder of his trademark red jacket, giving him a smirk. “At least I still like you.”

Theron wrinkled his nose affectionately at his fellow agent, then rolled his eyes.

“Flatterer.”

“It’s true.” Jonas shrugged, still grinning. “And anyway. I did owe you one from that one incident at the Dealer’s Den back on Coruscant.” Jonas attempted to imitate Theron’s reproachful tone. “‘Jonas’ you said to me, ‘Casino jobs are always tricky. You need to plan to the last detail.’ And hey – you were right.”

“Well, at least this time you actually told me what the operation was. That should make it a little easier.” Theron gave him a scrutinizing look. “So you had a funny feeling about this exchange, and decided to call me in for backup?”

“You are here to add ambiance to an otherwise dreary observation post. Even if it is in an unofficial capacity.” Jonas found himself smirking again. “And hopefully, to start the process of rehabilitating your image with the top brass, even if you aren’t actually here officially.”

Theron nodded in gratitude.

“I appreciate that. I know you didn’t have to do this for me.”

“Don’t mention it. Just help me make sure tonight goes down alright.” Seeing that Rox was in position, Jonas turned back to the bank of monitors, noting the chrono indicator.

It was almost time.

Theron silently gave Jonas a thumb’s up signal as the slice command went through the system. From inside the casino came a blast of celebratory music as the jackpot hit, followed by a series of cheers from the crowd. Most of the handful people still on the balcony started making their way inside. The casino was known to offer a round of complimentary drinks for such rare events. Mere seconds later, shouting could be heard, indicating the scuffle had begun. On one of the peripheral screens, Jonas could see Dionne – a junior agent who showed promise and could play the ‘drunken bruiser’ well – shoving the beleaguered and confused Mon Calamari who’d won the rigged jackpot. The Zabrak’s antics drew even more interest from the casino’s guests than the jackpot had, both inside and out on the balcony. Four or five stragglers made their way inside, eager to watch. Jonas smirked at their reaction as he checked the chrono once again. Perfect timing. Within seconds, Rox, their contact, was one of only three people left still standing on the balcony.

Jonas’s eyes narrowed as he regarded the remaining two individuals; a young human couple who were standing in the far corner, holding each other in an intimate embrace. Jonas watched the man and woman carefully; you couldn’t be too cautious in this business. Both were wearing the revealing attire that had become so popular among socialites on Corellia since the battle there had ended three years before; the ‘Euphoric Corellian’, this look was called. Their arms and shoulders were laid bare, though their hands were gloved. The cut of the tunic was provocative, leaving their flanks bared and showing plenty of skin. This duo wore the outfits well, the woman’s was a deep green while the man wore a royal blue.  

He focused on the woman first; a beautiful brunette with shoulder-length hair, fair skin and green eyes that seemed to match her dress. Jonas would place her in her twenties. The Corellian outfit hugged her impressive feminine curves, but Jonas noted the equally impressive lean, athletic muscle of her arms as well. She wore no jewelry; her only accessory was a green purse she wore over her shoulder, and like her outfit, it matched her eyes perfectly. She was beaming adoringly up at her lover, with a dazzling smile that could have made even a Trandoshan’s heart flutter.    

Damn. Lucky boy. Jonas marveled, turning his attention to her companion.

The man was tall and broad-chested; from what he could see, Jonas would normally assume that he worked out extensively. The scarring, however, across his arms suggested otherwise, telling the tale of injuries suffered over the years; this man – like his companion, only in his twenties by Jonas’s eye – was no doubt a veteran soldier. Probably he’d seen action on Corellia during the war. Based on his attire, maybe he hadn’t been regular Republic military but part of the planetary militia or maybe CorSec. His hair was as raven black as Jonas’s, though the SIS agent suspected the man’s might have been dyed. Regardless, he was a good looking fellow, Jonas couldn’t help but notice. He could easily imagine him on a recruitment poster for the military or for some holo-ad campaign, and his hazel eyes were completely enraptured with the beautiful woman in his arms.  

Huh. Lucky girl. Jonas reflected, chuckling to himself.

His initial anxiety about the couple quickly faded; these two were clearly in love and hardly looked like they could be carrying any concealed weapons. They both clearly enjoyed an active lifestyle. He couldn’t pick up any audio from here – the device Rox was wearing was designed for conversations near him – but they were obviously whispering ‘sweet nothings’ in each other’s ears, holding each other and occasionally leaning in for a teasing kiss. They certainly weren’t paying attention to anyone or anything else but to each other and probably hadn’t even heard the jackpot or the fight from inside. They were plainly just enjoying each other’s company until it was time to withdraw back to their room in the hotel for the evening.

Jonas sighed inwardly, trying to remember how long it had been since he had withdrawn to his room with someone special. Almost on reflex, he glanced over at Theron, who seemed distracted scrutinizing another monitor.

No. Jonas thought to himself. Theron Shan had been fun enough on that late night years ago after a mission when they’d each had far too much to drink, but they’d both agreed afterward that it was better that they remain friends. And honestly, Theron was a good friend, one of the best he had in the galaxy. He shook his head to clear it and then turned back to his own screens.  

Regardless of anything else, that young couple shouldn’t be a problem during a simple handoff.

Confirming once more that Rox was otherwise alone, and naturally that he was looking nervous, Jonas turned to the entry door to the balcony. The time was one minute past the agreed time for the exchange; not enough to call it off just yet. This was always a concern for intelligence agents, but it was the price of working with criminals.

There he is.

The Nikto finally walked in, eyes glancing around the balcony, briefly noting the intimate couple in the corner before dismissing them just as quickly, finally focusing on Rox and approaching the Rodian. A quick holo-scan confirmed that he was unarmed; Jonas was confident the Casino’s security was up to that task of keeping lowlifes like Fhentar from carrying weapons, as they’d had far too many incidents of violence here over the past few years. Fhentar himself was a strange story; supposedly he’d been part of a cult on Taris that had worshipped a fallen Jedi years ago. The SIS file on that situation was still sealed tightly, even from someone of Jonas’s rank. How Fhentar had wound up working for Black Sun after his ‘religion’ had collapsed was anyone’s guess.  

Rox folded his arms, trying to give the Nikto a hard look, but to Balkar, it merely came off as petulant.

“You’re late.” The Rodian said in Huttese.

“And you’re impatient.” Fhentar retorted. “Give me a break. Didn’t you hear the commotion? The casino is going crazy right now.”

Jonas couldn’t deny the validity of the excuse, even if he didn’t trust it. It came with the territory of being a spy.

“Whatever.” Rox shrugged dismissively. “You have the disk?”

“Depends. You got my credits?” the larger Nikto wasn’t giving up any ground. It was the normal underworld posturing, practically clichéd at this point.

“Of course.” The Rodian pulled out the high-denomination credit stick from his belt. Jonas hoped the credits would prove to be money well-spent. The SIS budget was not unlimited.  

The Nikto knew the game, producing a data disk from his jacket.

“So who’re you selling this to, anyway?”

As Rox’s ‘tough’ demeanor – such as it was – started to falter, Jonas could almost smell the Rodian’s nervousness from here.

“Come on. I’m an information broker. You know I can’t talk about that. Not when my clients are paying for discretion, anyway.”

Jonas suddenly noticed some distortion on his monitors. He checked the sensors, but they all seemed to be coming up blank… wait.

There. A series of vibrations against the side of the Star Cluster that weren’t accounted for anywhere else; four distinct series in fact. Rapidly heading down towards the balcony.

Theron Shan noticed it, too. Jonas watched as he urgently plugged into the sensor grid through his cybernetic implants. Jonas hit the ‘standby’ button for his backup team.  

Meanwhile, the conversation was still ongoing.

“Ah, well.” Fhentar shrugged, with a degree of smugness. He tapped the button on his chrono-wristband. “If you’d actually told me now, it would have saved us all some time.”

Jonas was hitting the alert button before the Nikto even finished speaking.

“Team two! Move in! Move in!”

He watched helplessly as the four series of vibrations converged on the balcony. A moment later, he saw the tell-tale shimmer of stealth field generators shutting down as four armed figures in sneak-suits had suddenly surrounded Rox and Fhentar, each one attached at their belt to a rope running up the wall. The SIS agent realized immediately that they had rappelled down the side of the building. The Star Cluster’s sensors should have normally picked up the anomaly well before this. Something had gone wrong.

Many somethings were obviously going wrong.  

“My bosses want to know who’s got their eyes on their business, Rox.” Fhentar chuckled. “So my friends here are gonna take you up to the shuttle pad on the roof. I hope you aren’t afraid of heights.”

Jonas’s communicator beeped as the Rodian started to look around, panicking.

“Chief!” Wynnefred’s voice came through. “The kriffing catering trucks have blocked us off! We have to go around!”  

“Dammit!” Jonas’s hand slammed against the table, checking the layout and realizing he’d been outplayed. “My backup team is more than a minute away!”  

Theron just looked up at the array of screens and smirked.

“Mine’s not.” He reached up and tapped the relay on his earpiece.

Even afterwards, even with the benefit of re-watching the recordings at reduced speed, Jonas could still barely comprehend what took place over the next two seconds.

One second, the Nikto and the Rodian were surrounded by four armed assailants, ready to restrain Rox and take him away the same way they had come, all while the young couple in the corner of the balcony continued to bask in each other’s company, completely oblivious to the abduction taking place behind them.

The next second, there was a veritable explosion of movement. The young couple were gone and Fhentar and all four of his accomplices had been knocked to the ground. As for Rox, the panicked Rodian had fallen to his knees and found himself flanked by a pair of bodyguards… each of them brandishing lightsabers.

Jedi. Jonas marveled to himself.

Other things registered to Jonas. The long dark wig had fallen from the brunette’s head - he now observed her short red hair - and was lying on the floor of the balcony, an obvious consequence of coming out of a Force leap. Her purse had likewise been discarded, and he realized that was likely where they had been hiding their weapons. He noted that the woman’s lightsaber was of the fluorescent green double-bladed variety, while the man brandished a pair of radiant blue sabers.

But these were all secondary observations to Jonas, as he watched all four assailants – apparently oblivious to the fact that they were completely outmatched – attempt to rise to their feet and to press the attack, only to be cut down in a flurry of brutally efficient lightsaber strikes.  

Apparently wiser than his fellows, Fhentar remained prone on the ground. Jonas could hear his lamentations through Rox’s audio device.  

“No! Not Jedi again!” he groaned, raising his hands in the air and plainly giving himself up.

Jonas was right about to turn to Theron in for an explanation when recognition dawned on him.

Wait.

Jonas’s eyes refocused on the man. The shade of his hair and eyes were off, and he was missing that distinctive scar going down his left cheek, but his physical build, the twin blue lightsabers and his red-headed companion…

Jonas’s jaw dropped in realization and he gaped.

“That’s the Hero of Tython!” he whirled on Theron.

Theron Shan was doing absolutely nothing to suppress his amusement.

“Yup. Colored contact lenses, some hair dye, and cosmetics. Plus a wig on Kira – his partner – obviously. No one in their right mind would ever expect to see a Jedi dressed like that.” Theron smiled. “I put a scan-blocker in Kira’s bag. Hutt security trains to look for blasters, knives and explosives, not for lightsabers.”

Jonas finally let out an exhale, realizing only then that he’d been holding his breath.

“I’d heard you’d been working with him.” He offered, turning back to his screens as the gears of his mind started to turn. “Not a perfect night, but its salvageable. Rox is still breathing and we took Fhentar alive. It shouldn’t be too hard to flip him, even without the recordings. Not ideal, but he should at least be able to give up some Imperial drop points.”

He nodded, turning back to Theron with a grateful smile.

“Well. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Theron chuckled. “Like you said, something about this exchange felt off. I might have waited too long to ‘call in the cavalry’ on Ziost, but I wasn’t going to make the same mistake here.”

“After all, everyone needs backup sometimes.”

“That we do. Please make sure to pass on my appreciation.” Jonas smiled back, then turned back to the monitoring station.

“So you had Halcyon and Carsen pose as a couple?”

Theron smirked boyishly, obviously pleased with himself at the deception.

“Clever, huh? I was worried they wouldn’t be able to pull it off, being Jedi and everything. But they were great out there. Hell, they could have fooled me.”

Jonas turned away from his fellow SIS agent, regarding the screens as Wynnefred and his team finally arrived to take Fhentar into custody and to deal with the bodies of the four fallen assailants. Despite the Nikto’s importance going forward, Jonas’s focus again zeroed in on the pair of young Jedi.

Halcyon was cautiously turning Fhentar over to the security team. Clearly, the Jedi Battlemaster wasn’t taking chances. Carsen was standing beside him, positioned protectively over Rox. But their postures were aligned towards each other; Halcyon turned just so his wide stance was open to Carsen, who likewise was turned towards him, her eyes gazing up at him affectionately as he conferred with Jonas’s backup team leader.

Theron Shan was one of the cleverest intelligence operatives Jonas knew, and he was nearly as good an analyst. But sometimes, he couldn’t see the forest from the trees.

For once though, Jonas decided to keep his observations to himself.

Well. At least somebody’s going to bed happy tonight. He suspected, with an envious look back at the couple.

 Author’s Notes: I just take it as a given that Theron and Jonas once had a brief thing.

Fhentar shows up on Taris during the Imperial Agent story, serving the memorable Ki Sazen. Obviously, in my legacy, he survived his encounter with Cipher Nine. Unfortunately for him, his new employers don’t appear to be much better than the old ones. Rox and Balkar’s subordinates are my own creation.

The mention of Havoc Squad’s trip to the Star Cluster Casino for the SIS is obviously a reference to the Trooper’s class mission to Nar Shaddaa.

The Euphoric Corellian armor set is a real thing. It’s probably illegal on some planets.

Rodians get shafted in this game and in the greater Star Wars universe in general. So I feel bad for piling on.

Tagging people who expressed interests - @swtorshipping​ , @swtor-writers-guild​ , @raven-of-domain-kwaad​ , @ask-an-andalite​ , @a-muirehen​ , @taraum​ , @theravenassassin95​ , @sleepswithvillains​ , @blueburds​ , @sunnysayshello​

[afictionaladventure16]

Remember Me (Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff x Daughter!Reader)

Chapter 14

Remember Me Masterlist

Previously on Remember Me... 

Word Count: 2,152

Warnings: violence

A/N: I don’t want to spoil anything but there is some stuff that happens within this chapter that will be explained within the chapter... if that makes sense... If you are still confused then please message me and I will gladly explain it to you! Hope you guys enjoy this chapter! 

As soon as Roger left the room it had become clear to you that Zemo didn’t want a mission report. The frustrated yell that escaped Zemo’s lips made it evident. Your body trembled as you sat in the familiar chair, the armrests were cool to the touch, but it wasn’t a soothing coolness, it wasn’t a cool breeze on a summer day. No. It was deathly. It was as if you were sitting on stone, your hands shook as you clamped them together, watching as Zemo paced in front of you. Glancing down at your clamped hands, they were not tied. You’re okay. You looked back up at Zemo, it has been said that a human’s mind only uses a small percentage of its own capability and the longer you stared at Zemo, the more you hoped something would happen like in that movie Roger had shown you. Matilda. Part of you hoped that he would just explode, maybe if you thought it hard enough, but it was no use. The only thing you were capable of was the sparks that came out from your hands. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought that your father was Thor. All you needed was a flying hammer. 

“He’s the reason why this is failing,” Zemo muttered under his breath. His fingers on his chin, giving it a gentle rub as he thought to himself. His mind floated from one frantic thought to another. He’s been compromised, a word any narcissist with a plan hates to hear; a word that has failure written all over it. He couldn’t have that on his name. Not again. Zemo needed this mission to succeed because he needed to have more power. 

“Who?” One of the doctors questioned as they looked up from their work. They had been listening in and out of the things Zemo had been saying. Their minds mostly focused on the machines in front of them along with the paperwork.

“Who do you think!?” Zemo yelled in frustration as he turned to the doctors, his hands flying up and then down to his side, placing them on his hips. How could they not see it? It drove him crazy. He gave his hair a tug, hoping it’ll help the pounding in his head. “It’s the only explanation, he knows this mission like the back of his hand. How else would the Avengers be on to us?” 

“You’re overthinking it,” the same doctor informed Zemo. “The paranoia of failing is getting to you. You didn’t succeed with the Winter Soldier, but our soldier.” he glanced over at you. “This one is better. The chance of failing is low.” The doctor wore an arrogant smile as he gave you a glance, it sent shivers down your spine. 

“There is still a chance,” Zemo whispered. He whipped around, his eyes landing on you. Your heart quickens as your eyes widened with fear. “We start over,” Zemo said as if he had just had the best idea. “We kill him, and bring in a new soldier to become the quote-unquote guardian.” 

“That is ridiculous!” The doctor exclaimed. “You do this and the Avengers will surely know our plan!” 

“And we keep him alive and they’ll have a man on the inside!” Zemo argued, waving his hands like a maniac. He was becoming dry of ideas, yet there was still a hint of denial inside Zemo that his plan was indeed flawed.  

Sitting down on the cold chair, even without restraints, you felt helpless. All you could do was sit and watch it all unfold, your mind, a clueless water lily in an eye of a hurricane, wondering how the hell you got into this situation. “B-but what if he isn’t?” Your eyes widened with shock as you heard your own voice, your mouth had a mind of its own. Zemo whipped his head around to look at you, his eyes narrowing at you as he tried to pinpoint what you were trying to get at. “If he isn’t then aren’t you just killing an innocent man?” 

Suddenly, the door is thrown open. Roger storms in, dragging a woman alongside him. Her legs dragged on the floor slightly as Roger held her by the waist. You weren’t sure if she had any injuries, but you knew whoever this lady was, she wasn’t a part of Zemo’s team. 

You got up from the chair, unable to see the woman's face. “Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” Zemo smirks, walking closer to the woman that Roger had thrown to the ground. She landed on all fours, letting out a huff as the palms of her hands met the cold cement. 

“Found her sneaking around the halls,” Roger spat. 

You inched around, finally getting a peek at the woman's face. A small gasp escapes your lips when you realize it’s Natasha. Her eyes darted over to you, tears began to well up in her eyes. Now you know that Zemo’s plan was surely compromised. She had seen your face, she now knows what you are a part of, yet that didn’t seem to be a worry for Zemo at the moment. 

Zemo stepped in front of your view of Natasha. Roger walked over to you, pulling you away from the situation. 

“Roger,” you whispered. You looked up at him, but all he did was give you a small nod before looking up at the ceiling. You didn’t say anything to Roger, but it was as if he had already known what you wanted to say. The softness in his eyes said it all. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Roger said softly 

“But-” A loud crash interrupted you and next thing you knew, Bucky was on the ground in front of you. He jumped to his feet, drawing his gun, but his eyes glanced over at you now and then. It was as if you were distracting him. You knew it must be quite a shock for Bucky to see one of his students in these situations. To find out that one of his students was working against him. Your heart ached at the thought. Or did he think you had been kidnapped? What did he know? Was he briefed before getting here? What did this mean for the mission? What did this mean for you? You glance over to Zemo as his eyes are focused on Bucky. 

Zemo chuckled, “It’s been too long, Sergeant Barnes.” His smirk grew. “I’m sorry I didn’t properly see you last time, but with our last meeting, I’m sure you understand why I had to use a T.V…” 

Bucky didn’t say a word, for his mind began to become clouded. The fact that his daughter was just standing inches away from him was distracting, it was taking everything within him to withhold the action to run up to her and hug her. Maybe Fury was right, they couldn’t do this mission, it was too personal. His emotions were taking over his mind. 

“You remember Widows Bite right?” Zemo said as he motioned towards you. “Or as you two know her by, Jessica.” Bucky had to focus, he couldn’t mess up now, not if he wanted to bring his daughter home. “I hope you remember her now. She is the spitting image of the two of you.” 

Zemo laughs as your face contorts in confusion. “Wait, what?” 

Zemo couldn’t risk it anymore. He knew if he wanted to capture Black Widow and the Winter Soldier, it had to be done by their daughter. Yet, he had hoped it wouldn’t have to come to this, he had been warned that the code wasn’t ready. The girl still had a lot of training to do, but it didn’t matter anymore. Not to Zemo. 

“I’m sorry I am going to have to cut this reunion short.” Zemo glanced back over to you. “Желание” (longing)

“That doesn’t work for me anymore,” Bucky said, his finger lingering on the trigger. 

“I know,” Zemo said with a smirk as he glanced over at you before speaking up again “Ржавый ” (rusted) You felt something inside you begin to stir, you begin to wince at the pounding in your head. “три” (three) you fell to your knees, letting out an excruciating scream. Bucky quickly dropped his gun at the sound of your scream, attempting to aid your side, but was quickly grabbed by the guards that were hiding within the shadows. His heart quickened as he watched you crouch down in pain, letting out a growl as he looked over at Zemo. 

“This isn’t for you,” Zemo said as he looked over at Bucky, who was now being held down by guards, they had placed special handcuffs on him. Handcuffs that were made to hold the Winter Soldier. 

“What the hell are you doing to her!” Bucky yelled, but he knew all too well what was happening. All too familiar with the pain his daughter was currently going through. The fight that is going on inside her, it would feel like someone inside of her tearing her apart, ripping her to shreds as someone who isn’t you took over your body.

“She isn’t ready for this!” One of the doctors yelled at Zemo. He glared at the doctor with flames in his eyes. The doctor quickly backed down after that. 

“Рассвет” (Daybreak) Natasha was being held down by a couple of guards as well, tears forming in her eyes as she watched her down in pain. 

“Zemo, you motherfucker! Stop!” Natasha pleaded. 

But Zemo took pleasure in seeing the torture within the parent’s eyes as their daughter transformed into his greatest creation. “Молния” (Lightning) you clenched your fists, you felt yourself fading quickly, almost as if someone was taking over your body. 

“Stop. Please,” you begged as you looked over at Zemo.  

He had a mischievous smile on his face as he watched you unfold into, what he thought is, one of his greatest creations. “But the fun has just begun, my darling.” Zemo watched you for a few seconds, “тысяча” (Thousand). 

Roger never saw mentions of trigger words in your documents. He never saw any mention of the doctors working on you for such a thing. He thought he had this plan all figured out, that his plan wasn’t as flawed as Zemo’s mission, but he was wrong. Now all he could do was stand and watch as you become Zemo’s puppet once and for all. 

“Добросердечный” (benign) Your heart raced. “Возвращение на Родину” (homecoming) Zemo palms were beginning to sweat as the end of the sequence was coming close, anxious to see his creations come alive “Два” (two).

“You see, Sergeant Barnes,” Zemo glanced over at Natasha, “Ms. Romanoff. Barnes isn’t the only one who has trigger words. We’ve been experimenting with this for a long time and while you all may have hacked into our system, this here… this here was never in the system. Only a selected few were allowed to know the code.” Zemo then glanced back over to you. Ready to let the last syllabus slip out of his tongue, ready to finally bring down his enemies. He will no longer be a fool. A failure. No. To Zemo, he will now be a success story. Oh, how he dreamed of this day.

 "I fucking knew it, Roger! You lied to us! We shouldn't have trusted you!" Bucky spat as he tried to barge over to Roger but the restraints refrained him from moving. One of the guards pushed him down on his knees.

 "I swear, I didn't know about this!" Roger exclaimed as he continued to look with horror in his eyes at what Zemo had done. 

 Zemo's eyes danced between Roger and Bucky, letting out a scoff as he stared at Roger. "I knew we had a traitor in our hands." He looked over to one of the guards giving him a small nod. They ran over to Roger, handcuffing him. "I'll have to deal with the traitor later, but right now, my greatest creation is about to perform and I'd hate for you to miss it."  

 “Лес” (Forest) As the last syllable left Zemo’s mouth, you were no longer in control. Now you were just a bystander in your body. “Soldat?” You got up from your position on the floor, Zemo looked over at Bucky, making sure he was watching, for this was better than what Zemo had planned. Zemo was cherishing every single second of it.

 He glanced back over to you, your eyes lingered at Zemo for a second and within that second Bucky and Natasha hoped it didn’t work. They hoped that the plan had failed for Zemo once again, that their daughter had not become the next winter soldier. “готов соблюдать” (ready to comply) and with those words, Bucky and Natasha’s world began to fall apart once again.

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[skellebonez]

Smoke, Flasks, and Unfinished Tasks: Chapter 9

AO3 Link!

Chapter 1 Link!, Chapter 2 Link!, Chapter 3 Link!, Chapter 4 Link!, Chapter 5 Link! Chapter 6 Link! Chapter 7 Link! Chapter 8 Link!

Summary: As their time in the Calabash continues, the trio is face with three very different kinds of scenarios. Some simple, some subtle, all personal. Outside, the elders come to a realization and start to plan.

Warnings: Re-living emotional and physical abuse, psychological torment, panic attacks, blood and injury descriptions.

Author’s note: ... so it’s been... 3 weeks since I last updated this fic. Being honest, I wasn’t happy with what I had already written after re-reading it. I decided to take a week to let what I had left sit and come back to edit again, and then I realized I HATED what I wrote. So I took a second week off updating and completely rewrote everything I had in the fic so far, including this chapter. I think part of the problem was that, at the time I wrote these chapters a couple months ago, we didn’t have the special and the way I wrote the characters when the situation gets heavier felt off to me. Hopefully I have fixed this!

Chapter 9: Mix and Match

Another blink, another move, and Red Son was at the counter of his food stand that he opened for the Lunar New Year festival. Watching as potential customers passed by and looked over their options, still at the festival stall, still at the Lunar New Year festival where...

He blinked again and there was a flash of red and green flames burning in tandem, wrapped around each other and swirling around a figure clad in golden light.

When his eyes opened the visage was gone, not replaced by another change of scenery but back to same view of the festival he had seen before he closed his eyes. Another blink, and time seemed to have moved forward. There was a man standing before him and yelling and grabbing his frock and oh. He remembered this.

“Look, I wanna speak to the manager.”

It was different this time. Red hadn’t blinked, but it was like the world glitched around him in a strange kaleidoscope not unlike a broken computer monitor that made his eyes ache and skipped forward in time. Like someone was pressing the skip button on an online video and jumped over his own response. He watched as the man (was it the same man from the shoe store? he looked like him but he had only ever seen him once before so he couldn’t be sure) ran off after seeing his father, screaming into the crowd and drawing more than a few confused and concerned looks.

A skip. “Great!?” His father yelled with a growl. “I am the Demon Bull King! What would you have me be? The King of Street Food!?”

Red Son opened his mouth and there was another skip, he was right next to his father’s face when he growled at him. He’d made the mistake of mentioning the White Bone Spirit at that time, he remembered. His father had been growing more and more frustrated at this arrangement as the day had gone on and looking back on it now this was possibly the tipping point that made his father snap.

Why had he brought her up in the first place?

Another skip and Red’s head started to feel light, like he was on the verge of feeling like he would pass out but wasn’t quite there yet, and his father slammed his hands into the countertop. “Enough! I may have failed as a conqueror, but I will not be made a fool!”

Once again Red Son opened his mouth to speak and the world glitched again and he was being pulled from the food stall in the hand of his father now changed into his full size, grip almost too tight in his frustration but not tight enough to hurt him. Not physically, anyway. But Red couldn’t help feeling his chest tighten and grow cold despite the warmth that lived under his skin. He knew this was just the Calabash, knew this wasn’t really happening.

But he still knew what was to come. And regret filled his heart like ice water.

“We are going to have a talk, you and I.”

~

MK looked down at his hand, the one that had slammed into the Monkey King’s face still clenched into a fist both shaking and numb, and felt his breathing speed up more and more and his head hurt. His head felt like a steel vice was gripping it and yet like it was empty and too light at the same time, his vision blurred and he distantly heard the familiar voice of his mentor asking him if he was ok and no no he wasn’t ok he was dying.

Except he wasn’t dying, he knew that. He’d experienced this before, many times. A panic attack. He’d be fine, just needed some time to-

“Kid?”

That wasn’t Sun Wukong’s voice anymore.

MK raised his head and his eyes widened at the change in scenery. He was in Pigsy’s Noodles, not on a cliff side after training, and Pigsy had just come back from buying... something, he couldn’t remember what.

But what he did remember were the two people he had just taken his eyes off of.

“Look at us when we’re talking to you, brat!” A woman’s voice, one he hadn’t heard in person in almost two years, rang out before a hand reached out and grabbed a sizeable chunk of his hair and yanked his line of sight back to her.

“Hey, get your hands off my employee!” Pigsy yelled out, dropping whatever he had purchased to rush to MK’s side and grab the woman’s hand and pull it back flush with his head to keep her from pulling his hair out. “Who the hell do you think you are!?”

“Who do you think?” a voice that should have been less familiar now than it was.

His mother was gone. Where his father should have been stood Pigsy, no longer holding the hand in his hair but looking at him in disappointment with a shake of his head. MK looked up and...

Sun Wukong looked down at him with disdain. A look that he hadn’t even given to the Six-Eared Macaque when hey fought, one of pure malice and hatred and his hand went to yank his hair harder before the hand holding his own gripped claws of some kind into his wrist to force him to let go.

“You ungrateful little brat, why did I ever give you a chance to be my successor!” The Monkey King hissed and this wasn’t him this wasn’t his mentor this was not Sun Wukong MK repeated to himself as he felt his chest grow tighter again and he clenched his teeth with a scowl.

He turned behind him and where Pigsy should have been standing behind him, the one to catch him as he stumbled backward, stood someone else. Blurred in computer glitches and shaped with long robes and large ears and a fluffy tail and he could see that the shape of the person was smiling softly. Too softly.

The scenery had changed back to the cliff side and suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder and MK jumped and whirled around and saw the once again kind face of Sun Wukong. Marred in worry and fear and confusion. MK flinched back without meaning to.

“Bud? MK? What’s going on?”

~

Nothing had happened since Mei arrived at the festival. Absolutely nothing.

After what happened not even a few minutes ago the dragon was on edge, looking over her shoulder at every movement. She kept her hands in her pockets now, not wanting to look at them. When she did she saw red, a red no one else seemed to be able to see on her, blood from the MK that she had sliced open. It marked her, not only her hands but her clothes and face where it had splattered on her.

She didn’t dare look at her sword.

Logically she knew that it wasn’t real, the Calabash was tricking her senses as best it could. But it felt real, it felt like she had truly killed her best friend on accident and his blood was on her like a warning for others to stay away.

No one did, though. They acted like she wasn’t covered in the evidence of a murder. Maybe that was an error or maybe that was the intent. To make her feel like she was slowly going to fear everyone learning her secret. A secret that wasn’t real. Lucky for Mei she had plenty of experience pretending that everything was alright and moving forward with a smile. More than enough experience.

Something far worse was coming for her though. She could feel it. After what Princess Jade Face had said to her? This couldn’t possibly be the plan by itself.

“You’re acting weird,” Pigsy said beside Sandy and looking up at her on large demon’s shoulder as they watched the parade procession. “You’re quieter than usual.”

“Just thinking about stuff,” she answered with a shrug, easy as saying the sky was blue. It wasn’t a lie, she was thinking about stuff. Just not what the real Pigsy would have expected, or even a construct Pigsy.

“Huh...” the construct Pigsy said with a shrug, turning back to the parade. It was odd though... He hadn’t once mentioned MK like he had during the real festiv- “MK would have liked to see this.” Calabash. Reading her mind. Of course. “I miss the kid...”

So that was the angle Jade Face was playing with right now. Something simple. Something easy. The calm before the storm.

“Yeah, he would have,” Mei sad softly, not looking at the blood still running down her shirt. She watched as a ghost of a wound opened on Pigsy’s back over his clothing, like a preview image of what was to come, choosing to ignore how it looked suspiciously like her sword. Choosing to ignore how the blood seeped over his back and dissipated before hitting the ground and how she could see bits of bone and viscera she should not know the look of in person.

She ignored.

~

“You bastard,” Sun Wukong said with a hiss in his voice, baring his teeth at the Demon Bull King. “You- how could you have possibly thought that was a good idea!? In what universe would that have been the way to make him listen to you!?”

For his part, the Demon Bull King actually looked at least somewhat ashamed. Despite being larger than all of them put together the disapproving glares of Sun Wukong, Tang, Pigsy, Sandy, and even Mo seemed to do their jobs well enough.

“I make no excuse for my words or actions that day,” he said firmly, standing straight with a shake of his head. “But do not doubt that I have regretted and wished to undo them every day since-”

“Since what?” Pigsy snapped, beating Wukong himself to the punch. “Since you said them? Or since he told you to fuck off?”

“Pigsy!” Tang whispered out loudly behind him, grabbing his shoulder and moving his disproving gaze from DBK to give the other man one of worry.

“No, it’s gotta be asked Tang,” Pigsy responded, glower not moving from the larger demon. He didn’t back down, gritting his teeth with a growl of his own building in his throat for them all to hear. “Answer me you-”

“Since he told us to leave him,” DBK answered, his honesty in his tone surprising the pig demon. His face was angry, but Pigsy could tell it wasn’t entirely at him. There was anger at himself there. “Again, I made no excuses. I was blinded by power and anger before and it took much more than it should have for us, both myself and my wife, to realize what we had done. That does not change that it happened.”

“... that’s why you let him stay,” Wukong said after a moment of silence between them. “That’s why you’ve been trying to convince him to come back and why you...” He scowled more, shaking his head with a conflicted look of anger and sorrow on his face. “You’re actually trying to make it up to him somehow.”

“Poorly,” DBK also admitted in shocking honesty, sighing before he rotated his shoulders and morphed in front of them. Shrinking down to a more reasonable side, not that much taller than Sandy. “I know I have made mistakes and this alone won’t set things right, but I do care about my son.” He said ‘son’ like it was the most odd word to say, like he hadn’t said it in a long time but he finally understood what it meant. After what he had told them, it made sense. “We will help you find him, and you have my word that should he chose to return to your side we will not stop him.”

“But you won’t stop trying to convince him to give you another chance, will you?” Wukong asked, looking up at DBK. His face was neutral once again, businesslike. Testing the waters.

“No, I won’t,” DBK admitted something for the third time, nodding his head. He was serious.

Wukong turned back to the rest of his companions, three of them looking at Pigsy instead of Wukong. The two once-brother in arms looked at each other. One middle brother and one eldest. Wukong nodded to Pigsy, a silent acquiescence.

‘It’s your decision now’ the nod seemed to say.

Pigsy waited a moment, weighing his options. This had only made his disdain for the Demon Bull Family grow more... but his kids were still in danger. What was worse? Working with someone he hated to help the people he cared about? Or pushing aside help they may desperately need due to that hate?

“... Fine. But you are going to give us everything we need.”

“That can certainly be arranged,” Princess Iron Fan’s voice rang through the room, entering the room with a veritable army of Bull Clones carrying everything from tech to tables and chairs in behind her. “Where shall we begin?”

[managedmischiefs]

bloodied jeans//spencer reid

here’s another fic for y’all! let me know what you think! give it a like or a reblog or just read it and be like omg 

requests are open if you wanna see me write anything specific, or if you just wanna talk

genre: angst, a lil fluff

warnings: guns, blood, stab wound, me not knowing specific details of the angels/demons episodes, season nine finale spoilers, yet again! an overuse of pet names but get used to that warning

word count: 6.2k

///

"Be careful out there, okay?" I hear Spencer say over the phone to me, the way he always does. "The unsub is armed and dangerous, Rose. We don't-"

"I will, I promise. I've got a vest, you've got one too. We'll be okay." I promise him, glancing over at Emily, who gives me an uneasy smile.

There's an all hands on deck situation in Texas with an armed unsub hiding out in some restaurant. There's been shots fired inside and there's cops waiting outside for the BAU to arrive.

"I'll be there soon," I tell Spencer and hear sirens over his line. "I love you."

"I love you too," and then he hangs up.

Emily doesn't bother to say anything as she drives, just keeps her eyes on the road. Spencer and I always get nervous when approaching situations like this one. We started working at the BAU together and fell in love instantly, but it took us years to confess our feelings. But now that we've been dating for four, going on five, years, we're very protective of each other. Both of us have and will jump in front of a bullet for the other and it's gotten us in trouble, but we love each other.

We arrive at the scene and find the rest of the team gathered at the hood of Hotch's car. I smile and stick myself to Spencer's side, feeling his arm wrap around my waist. As Hotch discusses a plan to get in, Spencer kisses my temple, whispering a promise that we'll be okay.

But just as soon as he does, shots ring out. Spencer immediately tucks me under him and covers my body with his as everyone ducks. Local police start to fire back at the unsub and the team all rush towards the restaurant to get in the action.

I draw my weapon and duck behind an opened car door, waiting for the right opportunity before sticking my head out and firing my weapon. I'm unsuccessful at first, just hitting a window and breaking glass.

I hear JJ fire from beside me and I look over just in time to see her roll her eyes at something. But I'm stunned because I had thought Spencer was right beside me and I'm thrown off guard. We never separate from each other. Hotch doesn't like it because he thinks being together in the field will cloud our judgement ion dangerous situations, but it makes the opposite happen. We've defused bombs, saved children, talked guns and knives out of the hands of unsubs- with minimal injuries to either of us. We bring out the best in each other but I need Spencer beside me to ease my anxiety.

"You good?" JJ shouts at me over the echoing gunfire.

"Looking for Spence," I respond, but I'm sure she already knew that. She sends me a shrug before moving to fire her gun towards the unsub again. She grimaces and sinks back down when no positive results are seen.

This gunfire continues on for what seems like forever, but in reality, it only ensues for, at most, a minute. The cop between JJ and I has been shot down and we tried to revive him but it was no use. My mind is spinning and I don't see this ending any time soon. The unsub keeps reining fire down on us and I'm not sure where he keeps getting ammo from. But, as far as I can see, he's shot three police officers and doesn't plan on stopping.

"Morgan!" I shout aimlessly, hoping he's near by. And just like that, he's right by my side, gun clutched in his hand. "We need a plan. Where are the others?"

"I'm not sure. We're all split up." Morgan tells me, looking around frantically, ducking down when a bullet comes dangerously close to us. "But we gotta stop this guy. Snipers are setting up right now on those buildings up there. I'm thinking we could get a good shot at him."

"Good," JJ nods, gasping when another shot comes close to us. "Let's hope snipers get here soon. This unsub isn't stopping."

Surely enough, snipers arrive just seconds later and I watch them set up. At this point, JJ and I have both run out of bullets and we have nothing left to do but wait it out. We watch intently as the snipers scope out their target and try to get a good shot. It's a hopeless feeling, to be shot at and know that there's absolutely nothing we can do to try and defeat this unsub. If me and JJ try to move to get more ammunition, we'll get shot. The unsub is shooting aimlessly and we're likely to get shot if we break our cover and neither of us are willing to risk that. The best bet is to wait it out but it's a crushing feeling.

The more the moments pass, the more I wonder about Spencer. Is he okay? Where even is he? Morgan didn't mention him and he said everyone was split up. Did his revolver run out of ammunition? It's likely. His gun only carries six bullets at a time. Is he okay?

The snipers try once to take out the unsub once and fail, then try again, and fail. The gunfire on the police lapses for a moment and I think for split second that they've got him, but then it continues. I curse loudly, ducking further behind the car door.

"Hang in there, Rose," JJ calls, mimicking my position, eyes stuck on the snipers.

And with just one more shot at the unsub, the gunfire ceases. There's a moment of hesitation among everyone where we wait for it to begin again, and when it doesn't, there's a collective sigh of relief. Clearly, the snipers must have been successful at their jobs. Thank god.

We all rise slowly, guns drawn despite the lack of ammunition, and some start to drift towards the restaurant to retrieve the unsub. But the first thing I do is look for Spencer, like I always do. He's always my first priority. He's tall, he's over 6', he's not hard to find. So when I don't spot him immediately, I panic.

I go to my right and see an empty area between the two cop cars, and even further right is empty. Then I start running, past where JJ and I were, to the left of our positions. I almost miss him at first, and I probably would have if it weren't for his black converse poking out from around a car tire. I find him leaned against the tire helplessly, eyes drooping closed and his mouth half open, tongue sticking out.

"Spencer?" I squeak out, rushing over and dropping to my knees beside him. "What's wrong?" I place my hand in his and instantly feel something warm and wet, and I don't need to look to know what it is.

Silent tears pour down my cheeks as I inspect him, looking for a gunshot wound. The source of the bleeding is his neck and Spencer's trying to lift his hands up to meet mine, but I shake my head at him. "No, no, sweetheart, relax. Save your strength. Relax. Hands down. Medic! Medic!" I scream as loud as I can, hoping someone will hear it.

I press my hand against his neck in the weakest attempt to curb some bleeding, watching his chest start to heave. "You're doing so well for me," I encourage him. "Just keep your eyes open. Keep your eyes on me."

Spencer's head starts to lull, turning to me. He can just barely keep his eyes and he surely doesn't have any control of the rest of his body, just laying there limply. But he's breathing, for now.

"Come on, keep your eyes on me, baby, that's all I need. Medic! Could you talk to me? I'd love that, sweetheart," I press my other hand atop mine and grimace at the amount of blood covering my fingers. "Could you talk to me, bub? Tell me a fact you've got in that big brain of yours."

"R-Rose," he manages to stutter out, but I can barely hear him.

Three paramedics finally rush over and get to working, pushing my hands away from Spencer and telling me to "step aside," but I refuse. I'm hysterical as I cry for my dying boyfriend, holding my bloody hands in front of me like I'm the one who shot Spencer. "I'm his girlfriend and I'm federal agent, I have to-"

"Rose," I suddenly hear Morgan behind me, "just come over here."

"No! I have to be right here!" I resist it when he grabs my arm. But then he just wraps his arms around my waist and drags me away. I kick and scream for Spencer as I sob, breaking down in Derek's arms with my boyfriends blood staining my hands.

The team looms over us as Spencer gets loaded into an ambulance and rushed to a hospital. Morgan just holds me and lets me cry, rocking me back and forth. But eventually he picks me up and carries me into the back of a car, presumably Hotch's, and they drive off.

"He's gonna die," I cry, feeling Morgan wipe the blood off my hands with a rag, but it barely does anything. My hands aren't slick but they're still red, a reminder of the horror I just witnessed. I may not have Spencer's remarkable memory but I'll never get that image out of my mind. "Spencer's gonna die and it's all my fault!"

"He's not gonna die," Morgan tells me firmly. "He got shot in the neck, that's not a bad spot. He's gonna go into surgery and lose his voice for a few days- that's it."

"He could be paralyzed," I counter stubbornly. looking up at him. Spencer always liked my stubbornness, he said its a good quality to have so we can debate about topics, but it just seems to frustrate Morgan. Who is he to be frustrated right now? "And he lost so much blood." I look down at my clothes to see that they're covered in Spencer's blood too. These are going in the garbage at my earliest convenience. "I'm gonna lose him."

"Shh," Morgan pulls me into his chest again and despite the fact that I'm upset with him, I need someone to hold me so I just melt. "Just relax. Reid is gonna be okay."

I practically sprint into the emergency room but Morgan catches my waist before I can start yelling at an innocent nurse, reminding me that we already know Spencer is in surgery and he will be for a while.

"Here," Hotch says, "here's your go bag. Clean yourself up. I know you don't wanna go to the hotel and shower but at least change out of your vest and clean up the blood on your hands and your face."

///

After a while of waiting on eggshells, I take Hotch's advice. I go to the bathroom and wash myself up, changing into sweats, and like I promised myself, I throw my stained clothes in the trash. My hands are still stained red and I'm sure they will be for a while. But I feel a tiny better as I pull my hair into a tight ponytail, getting the gross and dirty strands out of my face.

I resume my seat in the waiting room, knees to my chest. The team is away, finishing up the case, leaving me to my lonesome. It's a painful thing to go through alone, to say the least.

"Anyone here for Reid?" A nurse says after hours of waiting.

I jump up quickly, rushing over to her. "Yeah, yeah, I am. Is he okay?"

"Come with me," she smiles, leading me away from the waiting room. "The surgery went well and he's going to be just fine. His throat is probably going to be sore for a while and it might be challenging to speak at first, but he'll be just fine. The anesthesia is wearing off and he should be waking up very soon." She stops at a room and gestures inside. "You're welcome to see him. Visiting hours end at midnight."

I thank her softly and then she walks away, leaving me with Spencer. I walk in and even though he looks like a mess, I smile. He's alive and that's enough for me. There's a bandage on his neck and his curls are flopped over his forehead, hands resting at his sides. If I didn't see him almost bleeding out, I would've thought he was peaceful.

I bring a chair to the edge of his bed and sit down, sliding one of my hands in his, squeezing gently. I don't get a response but I'm not expecting to, not for another minute or so. I lean down and press my lips to his knuckles, leaving them there for a couple seconds. My own exhaustion is starting to settle in now as my adrenaline disappears from the long gun fight we had.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I check it to find a few texts from the team, all asking how Spencer is doing. I respond to them, letting everyone know that he's out of surgery and he's okay, but not awake yet.

Just as I'm setting my phone on the bedside table, I feel Spencer's hand start to tighten in mine. A smile comes to my face and I scoot in closer, my eyes filling with tears again. "Hi," I whisper, reaching forward to sweep his hair off of his forehead, "hi, bub, you waking up? Can you hear me?"

There's a groggy sound in the back of his throat and then he coughs, grimacing at the painful feeling. I jump up and grab the cup of water with a straw from the side table, holding the small plastic cup to his lips. "Drink, my love, nice and slow. It'll help you. Your throat is gonna be sore for a while,"

Once he takes a few sips and then pulls away, his head falls back against the pillow again and he lets out a small sigh of relief. I set down the cup and wipe my tear stained cheeks, sitting on the chair once more and grabbing his hand. "How are you feeling?" I ask, moving as close as I possibly can without actually being on the bed and risking hurting him, even though that's where I wanna be.

Spencer scrunches up his nose. "Did you get hurt?"

I let out a little laugh, rolling my eyes at him. "You're the one laying in the hospital bed and you're asking me if I'm okay? You're incredible. How'd I ever get so lucky to find a man like you?" I tease, leaning down to kiss his knuckles again.

Spencer chuckles, very gently turning his head to look at me. His eyes are open now, bloodshot- but still beautiful. He gives me the weakest smile I've ever seen from him. "I'm just amazing, what can I say?"

I laugh, nodding. "That you are." I reach up and push his hair back again. It's growing out and he constantly complains about it in his eyes. "How are you feeling? And you've gotta answer me this time. No flattery."

Spencer sighs, squeezing my hand just a bit tighter. "Sore. Really sore. It feels like someone's squeezing my neck. But it's not painful. And I'm just tired- really tired."

"Alright well," I'm cut off by my phone buzzing on the bedside table, "just relax. Close your eyes and try to get some sleep." When he doesn't immediately do as I instruct, I furrow my eyebrows. "What's wrong? Do you need something?"

"You changed your clothes," Spencer observes, his eyes scanning up and down my body. There's a small pout on his lips.

"Um, yeah," I look down at my sweatpants and remember the red handprint on my thigh that was present just a few hours ago. "They were bloody so I threw them out,"

"That's a shame," Spencer quips, his voice cracking. "Those jeans looked really good on you,"

I bark out a laugh, tossing my head back. "I'll buy a new pair of jeans, Spencer. Go to sleep, you crazy boy," Spencer gives me another weak smile before closing his eyes and letting out a small breath. I reach over and answer it to Morgan's stressed out voice. "Hey, Spencer just woke up and-"

"The unsub has a partner." Morgan says quickly, cutting me off.

I furrow my eyebrows and start to rack my brain for any evidence I can remember from this case. "We didn't profile a partner. There's been no evidence of a partner until now. How?"

"Yeah, well, there was plenty of evidence of a partner at the crime scene. Garcia found out his name and he works at the hospital and we think he's coming for Reid." My eyes instantly move to Spencer and I'm not sure if he can read my panic but he can sense that something is amiss.

"Okay, tell me about this dude," I squeeze Spencer's hand as a way to reassure him that everything is going to be okay. But his eyelids flutter open and I know that he's trying to listen in to this conversation.

"His name is Cameron Delgado, and he's been stalking all of us. Like, he knows medical details about all of us, especially Reid." Morgan tells me. He starts telling me about his involvement with the unsub and how we could have possibly missed it until now.

As just a precaution, I jump up a grab the bin of Spencer's personal belongings and sift thorough it, getting his gun, cuffs, and his badge, tucking them into the waistband of my sweatpants for good measure. The confusion and panic is evident on Spencer's face now but I just shake my head at him.

"We're five minutes away. Hang tight, Rose. Is Wonder Boy okay?" Morgan asks.

Before I can even respond, a male nurse wanders in and my senses are spiraled into overdrive. I stop responding to Morgan and focus on the nurse's every little move. Morgan's yelling over the line, wondering what's going on and why I'm not responding, but I ignore him.

He glances at Reid's chart for a moment before picking up the insert for his IV. He's about to add something before I speak up. "What is that?" My assertive tone makes Spencer's eyebrows pop up, because I'm never aggressive in situations like this. I've always been known to be patient and calm. But this is my boyfriend's life we're talking about and I'm not risking anything. Even if this is just a nurse doing his job, I'm going to be safe rather than sorry.

The nurse looks at me, surprised that I'm asking anything or questioning his medical expertise. "Um, it's a painkiller." He says, about to add it, but I put my hand atop his, effectively halting him. "M'am, please-"

"What's it called? The medical name? What's it called?" I glance at Spencer and I think he's starting to catch on. But the downside is that I think the unsub is catching on too.

The unsub spits out some name that I can't even begin to re-pronounce and Spencer starts to shake his head. "No, no, I'm highly allergic to that. I'll go into shock, I've almost died because of that. Don't give me that!"

Cameron, the unsub, shrugs his shoulders and smirks. "Doctors orders." And then pushes the IV.

I quickly whip out my gun and cock it, seeing Spencer ripping out his IV in the corner of my eye before any of the medication can get in his system. "Cameron Delgado, put your hands up, you're under arrest," Does this gun have bullets in it? Let's hope so.

Cameron puts his hands up and laughs. "Oh, come on, little lady. You're not gonna shoot me."

"You just tried to kill my boyfriend so I'd think twice about that." I snap, not letting my face falter. "Now, do you wanna do this the easy way, or the hard way?"

"How could you possibly have a hard way?" Cameron laughs, looking to Spencer as if he's going to give him some sort of male support for his sexism. But Spencer is starting to decline significantly, given the loss of vital fluids and antibodies from his IV. "Oops, it looks like your plan backfired. Maybe he won't die from an allergic reaction but maybe he'll die from an infection, or shock, or what's that thing called? Sepsis? I wouldn't know. I'm not a real nurse, or a doctor. Not like your fancy boyfriend here. But you wouldn't let your fancy doctor boyfriend die. Would you? But you took an oath. You wouldn't call in a nurse to readminister an IV while you've got a gun pulled on an innocent nurse, would you?"

He's right. I would never put an innocent life in danger, but I don't want Spencer to get worse. So I need to get Cameron out of the room. Either Spencer will hit the nurse's button or his pressure will drop and a nurse will be notified. But I have to move quickly. Spencer's condition is getting worse and if his BP starts to drop, a nurse will come in and that defeats the purpose of this whole thing. I need to get Cameron out of the room ASAP. But how?

"Maybe I would," I tell him, just a bit softer. "Maybe I'd call in a nurse to help Spencer. You'd like that, huh?" There's a twitch of his eyebrow and I know I've impacted him in some way. I start to lower my gun in the slightest because even though he hasn't pulled anything, I'm almost positive he's armed somehow and I'm not wearing a vest. But I have to get him on my good side to get him out of the room. "Women are generally nurses, right? You're not actually a nurse." Now that my gun is facing the floor, I step towards him. At first, he steps back, but then he lets me advance him, blinded by sexual desire for me. "You just like to look at them."

Cameron scoffs, his eyes darting over to Spencer. "C'mon, lady, your boyfriend is right there. He's-"

"Oh," I roll my eyes, and my next words feel painful on my tongue, "he probably doesn't even realize where he is or what's going on. It's fine."

There's a lazy smile that etches itself across his face and it's one I recognize instantly, from the days I used to have one night stands in college, and even from Spencer. He's turned on. And despite the fact that I probably look like hell with my ponytail and sweats, he wants me. And I'm realizing that this is probably why this unsub wasn't involved with the other murders- he'd probably take too long with the women and the other unsub couldn't afford being caught because Cameron wanted to bang them.

"So why don't you go show me what you think women are really worth?" I keep my voice low, partly for sensuality, and partly because I don't want Spencer to hear. I feel guilty enough that he's struggling without his IV and that now he has to hear me seduce a serial killer. "It won't be hard to find an empty room in-"

"You're lying, Fed!" He quickly pulls out a knife and slashes across my stomach. I'm stunned for a second but my adrenaline doesn't let the pain catch up to me. Cameron darts out of the room and I follow, just barely hearing one of Spencer's many monitors starting to beep.

I chase after Cameron and he winds up to be a surprisingly slow runner so it doesn't take much. But the moment he catches up to me, I'm dodging swings from his knife. I know I have a gun but there are innocent people around and I can't just go shooting for the unsub. I'm fighting as best as I can, throwing punches and trying to get him defenseless. It's not easy by any means, what with civilians around.

I kick in his knee and make him fall, swinging my leg around his neck. I catch his wrist in my hand and try to wiggle the knife out of his hand, but he swings it around and plunges it into my calf. I curse loudly and the pain actually registers this time, but this means that he's given up his only weapon. So, without a second thought, I pull the knife out of my leg and slide it across the floor as far as I can, getting it across the entire hallway until it hits the nurse's station desk. Cameron is completely in my control now but still thrashing around. My pain is starting to register which means I'm losing my energy, and in my lapse of focus, I'm pushed to the floor.

Cameron is seemingly covered in my blood, smirking deviously as his hands wrap around my neck. I try to push him away but I'm losing blood and starting to get weaker. "This," Cameron snarls as his hands tighten at full force around my throat, "is what women are worth to me."

My vision starts to get spotty but just in time, there's a screeching pop and Cameron has a bullet in his head, falling to the ground beside me. I let out a breath of relief, chest heaving as I try to replenish my lungs with the air it had been deprived of. My vision isn't even fully restored before I'm pushing myself up and trying to get back to Spencer's room to make sure he's okay. Patients and nurses are starting to poke their heads out of rooms to see if the commotion is okay again.

"Rose!" I hear someone shout, but I ignore them. Morgan and Hotch come into view, then JJ and Emily a moment later. Morgan puts a hand on my waist and stops me, eyes widening. "You're bleeding a lot, you need to get checked out."

"I'm-" as soon as I speak up, a wave of dizziness passes over me, "Sp-"

"Spencer's okay," JJ promises, speaking as if I'm a child. I wonder if this is how Henry feels when she talks to him. "But now you're not. You got stabbed and choked and right now you need to see a doctor. And Spencer is not the kind of doctor I'm talking about,"

"No," I shake my head, my stubborn side pushing to the surface again, but grab onto Morgan's hand when my hips start to involuntarily sway.

"Nurse!" Hotch shouts as he sees the inevitable coming. A combination of the stress, the gunshot, the blood loss, and the choking hit me all at once and I black out, falling right into Morgan's arms.

///

I'm not sure how long I'm out for, but when I wake up, there's a nurse checking my vitals. My head is pounding and my stomach is aching, and my first thought is Spencer. How is Spencer? Is he alive? Did he get an infection? Did any of that medication get into his system?

"Oh, you're awake, Agent." The nurse smiles at me as she sees my eyes open. "Are you feeling okay? Do you need anything?"

"Spencer," I choke out, my voice raspy. I grasp at the uncomfortable blanket around me, scrunching up my nose. "My boyfriend. Spencer- is he-"

The nurse smiles and holds up her hand. "You've had lots of other agents come through here and they've all told me he'd be the first person you'd ask about. He's asking about you too. He's doing wonderfully, recovering perfectly. He's more worried about you than himself, actually. He tried to get out of bed a while ago, actually, to see you and some of your coworkers had to tell him no."

"You're awake!" I look to the doorway and find Penelope standing there with a huge smile, holding a tray of food in one hand and multiple phones in the other. "Spencer made me promise to be there when you wake up but he also made me promise to get you lots of food so I was conflicted on what to do but-"

"Pen, it's okay. I'm okay," I promise with a weak smile. "I just wanna see Spencer." I look back at the nurse, the weak turning desperate. "Can I go see him?"

"Well," she sighs, "your stomach is just bandaged, you didn't need stitches there, but you have twelve stitches in your leg. A doctor will have to check you out for you to be discharged, and then you can see Doctor Reid. So I'll notify your doctor. Eat up, and be careful of your throat, it's very bruised. I'll be back soon."

The nurse leaves and Penelope takes her spot beside me, moving the hospital tray over the bed. "She's serious." She tells me, sitting down on a chair. "Spencer won't stop asking if you're okay and if you have the appropriate number of red and white blood cells or if they're giving you penicillin, because you're allergic, but you obviously know that, duh, and all these other questions. He's really worried about you."

"Yeah, well," I let out a sigh, my neck aching as it rolls to face her, "he had to watch me seduce the unsub. Spencer had to take out his IV and I needed the unsub to leave the room so I had to seduce him and now I feel like I need to bathe in holy water."

Penelope grimaces, her face contorting with displeasure. "Ew, ew, ew. I can't imagine being you. Disgusting, Sorry, not sorry. Just eat, and hopefully, the doctor will be here soon. I've brought you new clothes so you can change into ones that don't have blood on them, and I'm gonna text the team to let them know you're awake and then you and Boy Wonder can reunite and live happily ever after. Yay!"

I laugh lightly, reaching for the bottle of water and cracking it open. "Yeah, hopefully, there's no more crooked cops that wanna kill us and we can get on a plane and go home. It's time for me to convince Spence to use his vacation time."

Penelope frowns at me, putting down her phone. It's only seconds later that the team is walking into the room with smiles on their faces, clearly happy to see that their second injured team member is doing okay. "Hi, guys, thanks for coming,"

"Of course," Alex smiles, patting my uninjured leg. "You know we're always here for you."

"I just," I give a small smile and let out a sigh, "wanna get out of here."

"You wanna see Reid." Hotch fills in my missing sentence. "But he's fine, I promise. He just really wants to see you too. Soon. Your doctor is on his way. So get some rest, eat some food, and we'll be on a plane soon."

The team gives me final smiles before leaving my hospital room, only Penelope staying. She smiles, adjusting her seating position. "Pen," I smile, "you don't have to stay here. You can go home or-"

"I'm not leaving you alone in a hospital where Spencer was almost killed and you were stabbed. Absolutely not. I'm traumatized. I know I wasn't here and you should be the traumatized one but- I'm gonna stop talking now," She throws her hands up in surrender, making me laugh. "So I'm staying here until you get discharged unless you need me to get you anything."

"Okay," I nod slowly, "thank you."

It takes a painstaking half hour for the doctor to show up in my room. But he's smiling and tells me the same story that the nurse told me about Spencer. But he thanks me for protecting the other patients and staff by taking down the unsub before he could hurt anyone. He checks out the stitches in my leg and tells me everything looks good, then hands over the discharge papers. I've never signed a document so quickly in my life.

"Alright, we're gonna take out your IV and then you'll be good to go. Just don't be harsh with your neck, Agent, there's internal and external bruising. And, of course, be careful with the stitches in your leg. Don't run or do anything like that and make sure to clean it every day." I grimace as the nurse pulls out my IV, meaning I'm completely free to go.

"Thank you," I thank them both, swinging my legs over the bed. Penelope is holding my clothes out to me with a huge smile. "Go change, hot stuff, and go get your man."

I jump off to bed and throw my arms around her shoulders, squeezing her in a hug. "Remind me to throw a Penelope-Garcia-Appreciation party on our next day off, okay? Actually, don't. It'll be a surprise."

"You're the sweetest. But you can dote over me when you're not stressing over our resident genius. Get changed and I can bring you over to his room." Penelope pats my back and forces the clothes in my hands. "Off you go."

It's a bit of a challenge to change my clothes with stitches in my leg and a gash in my stomach but the promise of getting to see Spencer is enough to get me through. I'm pulling my hair into a bun as I walk back into the hospital room, smiling at Penelope. "Okay, take me to him, please, I can't wait any longer,"

"Yeah, let's go, beautiful," Penelope leads me out of the cold room and down a hallway. We take an elevator ride down a few floors and then we come out to a familiar floor and I completely abandon Penelope because now I know where I'm going. I rush, as best as I can, to Spencer's room.

He looks up the moment he hears my shoes against the tiled floor and smiles, sitting up the tiniest bit. "Hi!" He grins, eyes instantly tearing up. "Are you okay? What-"

"I'm okay," I promise, sitting on the side of the bed and wrapping my arms around his shoulders. "I just wanted to get back to you," I mumble into his shoulder, wary of his bandaged and injured neck

"You saved my life," Spencer breathes out, arms wrapping around my waist but not too tight. "You chased that unsub and you- you saved me."

"Yeah, well," I pull away and smile at him weakly, "you did have to watch me seduce him so I guess saving your life made up for that."

Spencer scrunches up his nose, pushing a fallen piece of my hair behind my ear. "Yeah, I heard some of that. I don't think I heard all of it because after I took out my IV, my head started spinning."

I place a hand on his cheek, smiling as I notice his eyes have their shine again. "You don't do that to me again, okay? You can't- I was so scared out there." Tears start pouring down my cheeks uncontrollably. "I couldn't find you and I was calling your name and then I found you and you couldn't even talk and I was covered in your blood and-"

"Hey, hey," Spencer cuts me off, pulling me back into his chest as my body shakes with sobs, "I'm sorry. I didn't try to get shot, you know that but I'm not gonna try to get shot again, I promise." I laugh, nodding against the uncomfortable fabric of his hospital gown. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have left you like that. It was an accident. I'm not gonna leave you in the field like that ever again, I promise."

I nod once more. "Okay," I whisper, "I'm holding you to that." I lift my head once more and let Spencer wipe my tears with his thumbs. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay, my neck is sore. Not too much pain though, not yet at least. I'm just tired," Spencer lets out a small sigh.

"Okay, well, why don't you get some sleep?" I suggest, leaning down to kiss his cheek before slipping off the bed. "Hotch said we're leaving as soon as you're discharged and that should be soon. So get some rest and I'll be here when you wake up."

I move the table away from the bed and pull the book off of Spencer's lap, effectively removing his main distractions. I'm about to drag over a chair, but Spencer grabs my hand before I can. "Don't go," he begs softly, squeezing my hand. "Will you lay with me? You've been away for hours and I know you'll be right there but I want you right next to me."

"Yeah, of course, I will," I nod, gently climbing onto the bed, kicking off my shoes. I situate myself under the thin sheet and rest my head on Spencer's chest, finding comfort in the steady beat of his heart. But I look up at him and sit up just once more, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "I love you."

He smiles, kissing me again. "I love you too." And so, I rest my head on Spencer's chest and close my eyes, drifting off to a peaceful sleep with my boyfriend right beside me.

///

"Rose?" My neck aches as I turn it too quickly when my boyfriend calls my name. But he's pointing to a pair of seats while holding a blanket, eyebrows raised. "Good?" I nod, giving a thumbs up.

He nods back, putting the blanket down to claim the two seats. Rossi slips past me and claims a seat by himself, already pouring himself a drink. "I'm glad our two favorite lovebirds are okay," he says as he passes me, patting my shoulder.

I sit beside Spencer and pull the blanket over my lap, making sure it's evenly distributed between the two of us. I'm half asleep already but Spencer is, not surprisingly, reading a book. So I cuddle up to his side after moving the armrest up and rest my head on his shoulder, letting my eyelids flutter closed.

"Hey," Spencer whispers, setting his book down a moment later, "you know what we should do when we get home?"

"Hotch already approved vacation time for us," I mumble, too tired to entertain his playful tone.

"You should buy a new pair of jeans."

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"I saved your life twice so I guess I must."

"That was weirdly backhanded," Spencer chuckles, and the simple and oh-so-familiar sound brings a smile to my face. "But, you know, again, thanks for doing that,"

"I'd do it every day of my life. You know that,"

"I know," he sighs, slumping back in his chair, book long forgotten. "So what about those jeans?"