#gifts of fate and fortune { submission }

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: The Arcana Interpretations

symbolism for your next poem/story (pt. 2)

12. The Hanged Man

Self-sacrifice, approved sacrifice, lunar-Venus influence

Good: Disinterest, unselfish, devotion, submission to duty, patriotism, generosity, apostolate, philanthropic, gifted; dispersal of ideas

Bad: Good ideas not executed, projects not realized, good plans remain as theory; promises not kept, love not shared, exploitation of good feelings; powerless achievement; losses

13. Death

Inescapable fate, necessary end, disenchantment, active Saturnian influence.

Good: Profound, intellectual penetration, metaphysics, disillusionment, severe discretion, disillusioned wisdom, detachment, resignation, stoicism

Bad: Inevitable failure; discouragement, pessimism, absolute change, starting again in a diametrically opposed fashion

14. Temperance

Serenity, coldness, adaptation, Mercurial-lunar influence

Good: Accommodating character, practical philosophy, happy, carelessness, accepting the inevitable, bending to circumstance, sociability, educability, adaptive transformation

Bad: Indifference, lack of personality, passive change, changing moods; tendency to change with the environment, submission to fashion; results do not come up to aspirations, inability to influence the flow of life

15. The Devil

Disorder, passion, sexual excitement, conjunction of Mars & Venus

Good: Sexual attraction, passionate desires, magical action, magnetism, occult power, practising mystical influence; active protection against bewitchment; protection against sorcerers

Bad: Trouble, over-excitement, amorous, lust, complication, stupidity, intrigue, use of illicit means, bewitchment, fascination, enslavement of the senses, weakness resulting in an awkward situation, selfishness

16. The Tower

Explosion, destruction, fall, lunar-Mars influence

Good: Delivery, salutary crisis, defiance, fear resulting from reckless enterprises; benefit from other people's errors; good sense, detention, genuine timidity; attachment to the observance of piety, religious materialism

Bad: Illness, punishment, catastrophe provoked by imprudence, clandestine childbirth, scandal, discovered hypocrisy; excess, abuse, monopolizing, presumption, pride; fanciful enterprises, misleading alchemy

17. The Star

Practical idealism, hope, beauty, solar-Venus influence

Good: Candour, abandonment to sensible influences, naturism, confidence in destiny, aesthetics, poetical sensibility, presentiment; kindness, compassion

Bad: Wild, prudence, frivolity, lack of spontaneity, unhealthy artificial constraint; romanticism, on who turns away from the practical life

18. The Moon

Imagination, appearances, illusions, active lunar influence

Good: Objectivity, the sensitive world, experimentation, work, the difficult conquest of reality; instruction by pain, imposed task, fastidious labour which is necessary; a passive view, lucidity; navigation

Bad: Errors of sense, false suppositions, ambushes, traps, deceptions, deceptive theories, fantastic knowledge, visionaryism, flattery, menaces, blackmail, loss, journey, whim, lunacy

19. The Sun

Light, reason, harmony, solar influence

Good: Limpid discernment, clarity of judgment and expression, literary or artistic talent; pacification, harmony, good relationship, conjugal felicity; fraternity, reign of the intelligence and good sentiments; reputation, glory, celebrity

Bad: Glaring, vanity, poseur, show-off, pride, susceptibility; misunderstood artist; hidden misery, bluff, false appearance, assimilated facade, prestigious decor

20. Judgement

Inspiration, redemptive blow, a lunar-Mercurial influence

Good: Enthusiasm, exultation, spirituality; prophecy, sanctity, theurgy, miraculous medicine; past resurrection, renovation, birth; propaganda, apostolate

Bad: Spiritual and mental intoxication illumination; reclaim, noise, agitation for no reason

21. The World

Completion, recompense, deification, Jupiter-solar influence

Good: Major fortune, complete success, completion, achievement; decisive intervention; very favourable circumstances, propitious atmosphere; absolute integrity; contemplative absorption; ecstasy

Bad: Tremendous obstacle, hostile atmosphere, self pity; distraction, lack of attention and concentration; large setback of fortune, ruin, social disregard

0. The Fool

Impulsive, alienation, passive lunar influence

Good: Passive, absolute abandon, renouncement of all resistance, carelessness, innocence, irresponsibility; instinctiveness; abstention

Bad: Nullity, incapable of reason; abandonment to blind impulse, unconsciously unruly; extravagance, punishment, foolish acts, vain remorse, annihilation

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ On Tarot ⚜ Part 1

[astrasrebloggedfics]

Monsters 2

SFW

Husband Ghost

Rent-A-Monster

Rent-A-Monster Shadow Creature

Rent-A-Monster Study Motivation (Highly Suggestive)

Humming Bird Hybrid

Emotional Support Monsters: Service Vampire

Yandere Creature

Alien That Doesn't Speak

Love Across The Cosmos-Alien

Bioluminescent Alien

Humans Are A Bad Influence

Humans Are Tiny Compared To Aliens

Random Alien Stuff (Suggestive)

Injured Alien

Yandere Monster Obsessed With Human He Kidnapped

Vampire Reluctant To Drink Your Blood

Shapeshifter Monster Under The Bed-Art

Various SFW Hybrid

Having A Great Life

Vampire Boyfriends When You're Sick

Soft Monsters But Also Validating Monster's Anger

NSFW

Shark Week (Period Sex)

Mating Season- Werewolf

Heat/Rut-Werewolf

His Toy-Ghost

Making A New Alien Colony

Wolf Hybrid!BF x Puppy Hybrid!Reader

Male Yandere Witch x Puppy Hybrid!Reader

Ghost Orgy

Sensitive Puppy Hybrid!BF

Submissive Vampire

Vampire Husband, Werewolf Best Friend

Yandere Dragonborn Roommate

Possessive Tentacle BF Removable Tentacles

Possessive Tentacle BF

Ride A Cow, Save The Farm

Poly Monster 'Sacrifice'

Breeding Machine

Yandere Monster Husband

Monster Boyfriend Dacryphilia

Centaur Husband Takes You On A Ride

Yandere Wolf Breeding Willing Bunny

After Closing

A Pussy Is Better Than A Pillow

Bred And Kidnapped By Aliens

Gorgon Boyfriend

Male Haunted Doll

A Knotty Discover-Werewolf

Always With You-Slime

Kinktober: Marking the territory + Cockring-plugs/Massaging

Werewolf Roommate W/ Super Sensitive Hearing

Kinktober: Artificial intelligence + Handjobs/Temperature play

Cockwarming

Lion Hybrid BF

Titanoboa Naga

Arrival

Bunny Breeding His Pup

Misc Monster BF

Mermaid Drabble

Dragon Drabble

Monster W/ Big Hands

Incubus Lover

Breaking A Promise

Monster Boyfriend

Monster Husband Harem

Centaur Husband Firefighter

Kraken BF

Wood Nymphs

Wood Nymphs Need Humans To Reproduce

Muzzling Your Boyfriend

Chubby Elf Girl

Kitsune Head Tilt

Domming The Alien

Vampire Emperor And His New Concubine

Vampire Emperor 2

Fairy Boy (Fern) And Reader Who Was Shrunk

Incubating Tentacle Eggs

Female Sirens

Siren Pod Using You As An Incubator

Feeling Siren Eggs Move

Hoard Of Monsters

Misc. Tentacles

Hybrid Reader

Pet Tentacle 'Gag' Gift

Monster Fucker Scientist Nerd x Moth Hybrid!Reader

Drider Husband

Monsterous Dick

Siren Luring You In

Symbiote Tentacle

Kiss Of Fate (Shark x Reader x Merman)

Odd Fortune Telling

Chubby Fairy!Reader

Hive Or Den Of Horny Monsters

Healing Effects (NSFW?)

Waking Up To Them Eating You Out

Needy Werewolf Boyfriend

Naga 'Lover' During Winter

A Surprise Visit-Tentacle

Little Hatchlings-Dragon

Bull Hybrids vs. Cow Hybrids

[kuwdora]

Multi-fandom Fic Recs

January 22 - What’s an underloved fic you loved in a fandom you don’t post much about? -@sargassostories

Oh, what a fabulous prompt, ty!!! I used to write so many recs back in the day and I’ve watched so much tv and read across so many fandoms over the years so this is far from comprehensive in terms of fandom reading spread. But it’s a good way to warm my reccing muscles up again. I always have more recs or can usually find some places with recs about that fandom.

Humor and Heart

Just Hear Those Slay Bells Jingling, Santa Clarita Diet. Abby/Eric. ~3k. Abby comes home from college on a break and just wants some time with her boyfriend but she just had to tempt fate. Laugh out loud perfect characterization.

Pain and Painting by foxtwin. Blackadder. Blackadder assists Prince George as he takes on a new hobby. This is one of the funniest, punniest wordplay fics ever. Blackadder fic writers are on another level!

Feel me like a steel knife by violet_pencil. Star Trek: Lower Decks. Mariner/Tendi. ~7k. Mariner is a trigger-happy baby and her heart is right between Tendi's sharp white teeth. The Mariner POV is incredible. I felt like I was joyriding through her brain.

Not a synonym for impossible by Siria. Elementary. Improbable was not a synonym for impossible. Joan and Alfredo discuss Alfredo’s crush on Miss Hudson, this is so cute.

Lest they be angels in disguise by singlecrow. Good Omens. Crowley, but Aziraphale/Crowley. 856 words. Buzzfeed, July 2019, "Top Five Off-the-Wall Theories About the Scary Instagram Plant Man.” Includes Instagram posts and internet gossip in this fic. 😂

There's a Fine Line Between Coincidence, Fate, and Jonathan Carnahan by celli. The Mummy. 483 words. Ardeth/Jonathon. Jonathan puffed up with outrage. "I will squander my fortune where I damn well please." 😍

This Dynamic

if loving you kills me by saiditallbefore. Wheel of Time. Nynaeve/Egwene. 642w. Nynaeve's eyes are warm and brown and full of life: so different from earlier, when Egwene had thought she was gone forever. ❤️🔥❤️

Finding Grace by Destina. Kings. Jack/David, Michelle/David. Post-series/futurefic. ~1300w. David's soul has three parts, and without all three, he is incomplete. 🔥🔥🔥🔥

Porn

Gifts, Smiles, and Fingers by @daerienn. For All Mankind. Molly/Margo. ~200w. A single Tootsie roll can have a lot of impact.

Meet Me In My Dreams by LiraClayr007. His Dark Materials. Lyra/Will. Post-canon. 200w. It had been almost ten years since they’d said goodbye forever and closed all the doorways, but Lyra knew what Will looked like. He’d aged in her mind, day after day and year after year; she didn’t know how she could know, but she was sure he looked exactly the way she pictured him.

Learned Arts, by darthjamtart. Elementary. Moriarty/Joan. ~400w. Explicit. Jamie knows how to be subtle, but rarely bothers. Not with this.

Domina, Spartacus, Illithya/Lucretia, power struggle, submission “Domina,” Illithya whispers before pressing her lips against Lucretia’s bare, inner thigh.

Kissing Girls, Leverage, Parker/Sophie Devereaux, falling, twirling Parker used to think that kissing was a lot like falling. Sometimes, if she knew she was in complete control, if she had all her safety equipment ready to catch her, if she could see exactly where she was going to end up, then falling was more thrilling than sickening. Kissing too.

Impossible Words, Doctor Who, Jack/Ten, the l word He still can't say it, the words. Those words that make everything so impossibly complicated. He digs his fingers into Jack's skin, feeling it give, knowing he will leave bruises there, visible in the morning.

Caged, Mario Games, Bowser/Peach, kidnap Don't tell anyone, but Peach doesn't entirely mind being kidnapped.

Not Charity Work, Better Off Ted, Veronica/Linda, mentoring Veronica's hair is spread over the pillow, her face flushed and sweat covering her skin. "I'm an excellent mentor."

Soup on the Wall, Star Trek AOS/Star Trek: The Original Series, Chapel/Spock. dream, pon farr, crash To be certain, it was not Ambassador Spock's idea to be ferried to New Vulcan aboard the Enterprise.

Three Sentence Fictionathon (not always 3 sentences, still excellent micro-fics!)

Any, any, Cards Against Humanity as played by nonhuman species by archersangel. Star Trek: Voyager. Tuvok, post-canon.

Boimler and Mariner, Ill-Advised Decisions by silveradept for my Star Trek Lower Decks prompt of “look what you made me do!”

The Expanse, Avasarala/Amos, flirting by vialethe. 🔥🔥🔥🔥

Narnia, if Narnia were written by Tolkien by arveldis. 😂 AND LASTLY:

These two ficlets are based on this prompt:

Based on this Tumblr Post where Sirens lure sailors to their death with offers of hot garlic bread, fast Wi-Fi, and $1000 Amazon Gift Cards.

An Informational Sign on the Coast by fallen_stage.

Netflix and Kill by syrena_of_the_lake

More Kuwdora Recs

+350 Porn Battle Recs, grouped by fandom, lots of crossovers and fandoms (dreamwidth)

+100 multi-fandom recs, grouped by whatever I read at the time and Yuletide reading marathons over the years (dreamwidth).

Even More Recs

Linky's Rec Post - A recs post by Linky on dreamwidth about communities that feature curated recs for fanfic, fanvids and art.

[tamiveldura]

Questions for Tami

How many books have you written?

This is a fair question. Any new reader who finds my work on a store isn’t going to immediately know that I have other pennames, or that I frequently publish short stories in magazines. The reader who stumbles over my fanfiction on AO3 isn’t going to know I have flash fiction on Tumblr or even a website.

To keep track of all my work, I have a spreadsheet that notes the title, what penname, when I finished it, how long it is, and where I’ve first published it. It has more details, but the important part is I can open that spreadsheet and scroll down and down and tell you…

I have written 116 things.

These things are a mix of novels, novellas, and short stories. They don’t include my fanfiction or flash fiction. Most of these things are available for purchase—although a few are on submission or just waiting in line to be published.

It has been on my to-do list for some time to make a complete reading list available for download on the website and I just haven’t gotten to it yet. Now is as good a time as any, right? Here’s a list: https://www.tamiveldura.com/biblio/

An Act Of Piracy (Historical PNR) Blood In The Water Ruin & Will How Santa Stole Crampus The Mermaid King The Hunger Of The Deep

Queenships (Scifi) Perihelion What The Sun Sees Ice Dragon Queen Wedding

Hellhounds (Urban Fantasy) That’s Princess Hellhound, To You

HORNETS (Mil Scifi) The Last Flight Of The Hornets Space Sushi Solvarg Pursues The Moon The Queen Is Dead, Long Live The Queen Revenge With A Side of Power Armor A Message From The Gods

Jumperverse (Sci Fantasy) Chasing Dragons Tentacle Awareness Attack of the Space Vampires

Leviathanverse (Scifi) Flight of the Sunbird Test of the Judgment

Maj And The Outlaws (Scifi) Murder Is A Family Business The Trinordia Dragon The Right Genes For Robbery Trafficking in Killers and Clones It Takes A Village To Feed A Dragon Life Is A Hallucination

The Bone Witch (Urban Fantasy) The Call of the Grim How Not To Raise The Dead Taco’s Tuesday Playground Monitor Summoning Trouble Blind Date With a Hellhound

Tidewater (Contemp M/M) Dawn Patrol Remaking Josh Rough Recall Wild Untouched

Zodiac Forces (Mil Scifi) Closer Than Touch Spring Tide Running With Bulls Smuggler’s Dispatch Smart Birthday

Black Trans Fairy Tales (YA Fairy Tale Retellings) Cinder Ella Mer Made Beauty’s Beast

Powyrworld (M/F PNR) Dragon Star Dragon Solstice Rescued By The Dragon Assassin

Ether City (M/M PNR) Fated To The Wolf A Valentine’s Omega The Dragon Heir’s Omega The Dragon Heir’s Secret Wedding

Dragon Fire Soulmates (M/M PNR) Heartfire Ignited Red Stars Crossed

Stand Alone Novels Zero Day Exploit (M/M contemp)

Stand Alone Novellas Beauty Makes A Beast (F/f Fantasy) Serenity (M/M contemp) Deathwatch (YA Fantasy)

Stand Alone Short Stories A Brand New Day (scifi) Afterglow (fantasy) A Gift From The Muse (horror) A Gift Of Family (M/M contemp) Between The Shade (fantasy) Border Planet (scifi) Carrot Cake (horror) Catch A Tiger (scifi) Colors of Resistance (contemp) Dreamers (M/M fantasy) En Memoriam (M/M PNR) Glitterflies (fantasy) Infestation (Mil Scifi) Jinniyo (fantasy) Living City (scifi) Mansion GetAway (Mil scifi) Mech Vs. Aliens (scifi) Occult Awakening (paranormal) Personal Best (contemp) #PixiePocolypse (fantasy) Problem Child (fantasy) Professor Polter In The Computer Lab With The Banshee (YA GameLit) Simulation (scifi) Sovereign Inheritance (PNR) Tea Ceremony (fantasy) The Art of Magic (Fantasy) The Best Dragonrider (fantasy) The City At The Bottom Of The Lake (Fantasy) The Eminent God (urban fantasy) The King’s Fortune (fantasy) The Law of the Jungle (F/F … ? Contemp?) The Light of Shiva (urban fantasy) The Wolf and the King (PNR) To Heaven And Back Again (fantasy) To Light A Bonfire (PNR) Tree Day (mystery) True Night (fantasy) U And Me In Summer (F/F Contemp) What We Do For Love (fantasy)

Collections Fanged (M/M Vampire) Natural Adaptation Master Aviator An Executioner’s Absolution Mile High The Catch

Enchanted (YA Fantasy) Pale Horse Final Wishes Once Upon A Harvest Afterlife Clytemnestra The Forever Storm The Summer Rite Dark Mirror The Whole Truth What The Redwood Sees Double Vision The Queen’s Offering

[psienoski]

 little   softie   note   :   as   always   &   like   with   everything   regarding   fate,   this   is   v   trigger   heavy.   proceed   with   caution   !!

                                                  𝒋𝒖𝒋𝒖𝒕𝒔𝒖    𝒌𝒂𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒏

 unmei   (   運命   fate,   doom,   fortune,   destiny   )   is   fate's   chosen   name   —   she   refuses   to   say   what   her   given   name   &   second   name   were,   as   she   doesn't   want   to   dig   into   her   past   ;   she   also   refuses   to   talk   about   her   first   home,   amongst   humans   who   believed   deeply   in   the   world   of   cursed   energy,   but   had   little   to   none   (   thus,   making   them   non   -   jujutsushis   ).   the   family   of   unmei's   believed   that   one   day   within   their   kinsfolk   there   will   be   a   child   of   infinite   power   ;   one   to   see   into   the   future   —   a   prophet,   a   seer,   a   god   to   be   worshipped.   it's   safe   to   say   that   fate   was   raised   in   a   cult   of   jujutsu   fanatics,   whom   after   discovering   her   talents,   begun   to   torture   &   condition   her   for   complete   submission   to   their   rulership.

 the   girl's   powers   manifested   quickly   after   birth   when,   unsupervised   &   with   the   help   of   a   sharp   object,   she   cut   through   reality   opening   up   an   alternate   one   —   the   beginning   of   years   of   abuse.

 eventually,   the   so   -   called   higher   ups   found   out   about   the   cult   &   the   child   &   decided   on   hiring   a   somewhat   unaffiliated   with   jujutsu   society   assassin   in   order   to   get   rid   of   that   special   grade   threat   in   making.   that   sorcerer   later   on   became   her   guardian,   refusing   to   assassinate   a   child,   slaughtering   all   the   abusers   instead   —   letting   unmei   grow   &   learn   under   his   care,   and   when   he   decided   he   can   no   longer   assist   in   her   progress,   ashirai   enrolled   her   into   tokyo   metropolitan   curse   technical   college.   due   to   reasons   unknown,   it   was   where   he   abandoned   her,   transferring   the   guardianship   to   the   teachers   instead.

 i   write   fate   as   student   who   excels   in   academic   learning   &   jujutsu   sense   theory,   yet   disappoints   in   her   motor   skills   &   reflexes,   purposefully   keeping   her   growing   powers   to   herself   as   to   not   become   a   target   again,   for   the   sole   reason   of   not   being   chosen   for   execution.   she,   however,   is   a   great   fighter   when   it   comes   to   hand   -   to   -   hand   self   defence.   usually,   unmei   provides   support   from   a   safe   distance,   taking   the   role   of   a   backline   :   a   great   strategist   with   the   ability   to   not   only   see   the   alternate   outcomes   of   situations   but   the   skill   and   brainpower   to   calculate   the   probability   of   certain   results   make   her   a   great   asset.   moreover,   using   her   cursed   energy   &   a   sharp   object   (   a   knife   gifted   by   her   adoptive   father,   for   example   ),   she's   able   to   traverse   through   realities,   both   taking   from   them   as   well   as   leaving   things   in   there.   it's   worth   noting   she   knows   how   to   use   reverse   cursed   technique   &   works   on   a   domain   expansion   of   her   own.

 it   can   all   be   summarized   as   the   concept   of   alternate   realities,   knowledge   stored   in   atoms   and   in   cursed   energy,   infinity   —   but   as   in   actually   perceiving   everything,   every   past,   present   and   future   possible,   &   she's   the   one   to   continuously   attempt   to   access   and   process   all   that.

 if   she's   written   in   the   gojo   &   geto   past   arc,   she's   a   first   year   amongst   nanami   &   haibara,   a   female   part   to   the   usual   shonen   trio.   aloof   and   distant,   she's   rarely   used   on   missions,   either   considered   useless   or   too   precious   to   be   put   into   use   or   into   any   danger.   fate   keeps   her   opinions   mostly   to   herself,   questioning   the   jujutsu   world   &   society,   working   on   using   her   cursed   energy   on   resolving   her   face   blindness   condition.   it's   very   important   to   say   :   she   thought   of   the   riko   situation   as   trap   &   disencouraged   both   geto   and   gojo   from   participating   in   the   mission.

 if   she's   written   in   the   yuji,   megumi   &   nobara   as   first   years   timeline,   she's   in   the   same   class   as   them   but   rarely   assigned   any   missions   —   though   she   is   always   present   during   hangouts,   offering   her   help   in   both   academic   learning   &   developing   cursed   -   energy   related   skills.   additionally,   she's   more   vocal   about   her   views   on   jujutsu   society,   questioning   the   concept   as   a   whole   (   in   the   end,   she's   under   the   care   of   gojo   satoru   who   wouldn't   let   anything   happen   to   his   students,   which   in   result   allows   fate   to   be   as   open   in   her   theories   as   she   wishes   to   ).

 in   this   au,   unmei   is   in   love   /   is dating   yeti's   megumi.   they   begin   as   situationship   during   year   one   and   sometime   after   mei's   confession   start   dating   officially.   their   relationship   lasts   throughout   the entire   animanga   (   &   last   years   in   jujutsu   high   )   and   then   continues   during   college   years.   unless   specified   or   stated   otherwise,   while   referring   to   fushiguro,   it   will   always   be   yeti's   with   whom   unmei   will   always   be   romantically   involved.

 domain   expansion   :   pandora's   box   is   a   carefully   crafted   domain   within   space   and   time.   with   its   walls   solid,   it's   hard   to   break   in   or   out   of   it   ;   once   inside,   the   victim   is   flooded   with   information   fate   processes   normally,   thus   frying   their   brain   in   the   process.   if   they   remain   alive   after   being   there,   they   lose   their   sanity.   differing   from   unlimited   void,   which   makes   you   incapacitated   (   whilst   making   you   believe   to   be   perceiving   all   &   none   ),   pandora's   box   doesn't   have   a   sure   -   hit   effect   :   it   is   simply   a   box   to   store   any   and   all   knowledge   known   to   humanity,   all   on   display.

 in   the   world   of   jujutsu   kaisen,   fate   is   a   drug   addict.   she   uses   various   kinds   of   substanced   to   either   amp   her   brain   up   or   to   slow   it   down   when   she   needs   rest.   she   usually   controls   her   dosage   really   well,   though   tends   to   slip   every   now   and   then.   because   of   that,   she's   also   emotionally dysregulated,   making   her   more   prone   to   her   self   -   harm   habits   (   because   of   which,   she   learned   how   to   effectively   use   reversed   curse   technique   ).

 notable   changes   in   appearance   :   her   hair   is   long   &   black.

[untaisastra]

The Sun;

Meet Sastra, a man whose very presence beckons the tender strings of your heart to dance in harmony. His full name, Ishara Sastra, is a testament to his unique gift—the art of weaving words into a tapestry of emotions, spun exclusively for you, his cherished muse.

In the realm of love, Sastra's approach is a symphony of sweet affirmations and warm time-spent, each note meticulously composed to cast a mesmerizing spell upon your soul. His love is an enchantment, a captivating embrace that leaves you spellbound in its gentle allure.

Sastra finds beauty in the duality of love, cherishing both the tender moments of affection and the fiery sparks of passion. He revels in playful banter and spirited jests, for he understands that in the dance of love, laughter and and lovey dovey moments are ones to get.

But what sets Sastra apart is his belief in love as an equilibrium, a delicate balance of give and take, of mutual surrender. He stands firm in the belief that love thrives in equality, where he can give as freely as he receives, where he can take as gracefully as he is taken.

In Sastra, you discover a love that transcends boundaries, a love that knows no dominance or submission, only the pure essence of two souls intertwining in harmonious unity. He envisions a love story that stretches across the horizon of time, a lovey-dovey tale filled with shared laughter and eyes brimming with affection.

So, if fate should bring you into the orbit of Ishara Sastra, consider yourself fortunate, for in him, you will find not just a lover but a poet of the heart, a maestro of emotions, and a guardian of the sacred equilibrium of love.

[goldenj0]

possesive

warnings: 18 + innocence kink + age gap (readers in her 20’s, rafe’s in his 40’s!!) + breeding kink + slight dom and submissive behavior always + bowtie kink

summary: the internet a dangerous place.

a/n: first part of dirty little secret!!! two things — don’t be a dick + show her lots of love!!! shes also slightly unedited so sorry for any errors !!!!

series master list

playlist

It was like a lion stalking its prey, stealthy and quiet. 

It was like a lion stalking its prey, stealthy and quiet. 

It was like a lion stalking its prey, stealthy and quiet. 

“This dress is doing many things to me, Beautiful.” The husky voice spoke, hand wrapping around your waist, possessively. “It’s taking everything in me to behave myself.”

He wasn’t supposed to feel these things about you, especially someone your age. He was in his forties - never married, no kids, zero responsibilities except for running his fortune 500 company. He was working late one night, desperate to get off. Porn wasn’t an option. It was beyond scripted for his liking, so when someone had mentioned only fans it peaked his interest. That was until he had stumbled upon your account one night. 

What he didn’t know at the time was she could see the members. He wanted more, so he started paying for the exclusive content you put out. He didn’t care about the extra money. All he knew is he craved you morning, day and night. Some call it a coincidence, he however saw it as fate. A crisp Thursday night at one of his favorite bars. He just knew he had to have you, so he bought you a drink. The rest being history.

He had to have you. 

“Can’t wait to take you home and fuck you senseless.” A warm kiss being placed below your ear. His fingers tighten on your warm skin as you lean closer into his embrace. 

“Bend you over on any surface and take you over and over again. Sink my teeth into your tan skin. Lick everywhere and anywhere I want.” 

The more his husky voice spoke about the horrible things he had planned the wetter you got. He didn’t seem to miss the way your legs crossed over one another - he needed to have his head buried between them, as your legs dangled behind him, as you begged him to stop. 

Finally having enough, you lean in closer to him, “These are for you. Say bye to everyone and come up to our room. I’ll be waiting.” You placed an item in his free black pocket, placed a kiss on his cheek and made your way up stairs. 

His favorite pair. Your white lace thong. He had gifted many things throughout the relationship - this however was part of his favorite set he had bought you. 

You were his desire. The things he did to you would make you burn into flames if you walked into a church. The things on porn websites that makes a person question what the fuck. He was beyond fucked. Somewhere in the midst of your secret relationship he had fallen hard for the woman that was twenty years and then a few younger than him. 

“Fuck. Good girl.” He walked into the white french themed room, where he was met with his far from innocent dream. Naked, on your knees waiting for him. 

“Only for you.” You crawled closer to the edge of the bed, where he now stood. His hand cupped your cheek, as he leaned down and kissed his second favorite lips. 

He loved you for many reasons. You were a strong, independent, hard working young woman. Who was paying her way through law school when he first met you. His pants instantly tightening. Ambition was one of his favorite traits in a woman. His favorite thing? You were dripping with innocence. He was the first man to touch you and fuck did he love that. He corrupted you.

“May I?” 

“Always.”

Your hands wrapped around his neck pulling him closer, “I want you to tie me up with your bow tie.” Doe eyed and honey lacing your voice. His lips danced over yours before connecting them into an all consuming, earth shattering, life sucking kiss. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me — fuck.” Your arms tangling with lapels, begging, scratching, needing him to take it off. “Your wish is my command, only for this.” His lips wet, pink and starving for you before ripping everything off his body. The only thing left —

His bowtie.

His cold rings brushing your warm hands and tying them off. Not to be touched until every single desire was fulfilled, until your desire’s were filled. His priority — you.

“How’s that feel?” His lips connect with yours. Something he never wanted to be without. The question always haunting him how did he ever live without you for this long? 

“Perfect.” Doe eyed, golden encrusted, innocent for him. His cock couldnt get any harder than it was. 

His lips trailing down your body marking his favorite canvas. His favorite art. Stopping when his lips met your nipples. Taking his time to show you the attention they deserve, marking them — you. The filthy things leaving your lips only fueled his desire for you. So desperately wanting to swallow everything you were saying. Fueled him to keep going, never stopping unless he was told. 

You were his. 

His lips stained your soft skin as he trailed them up your thighs before connecting it to your dripping pussy and devouring you like it was his last meal. He craved you - then, now and tomorrow. His mouth grazing your clit, your back arching, begging him for more. Two fingers plunging in and out slow, deep, and lustful. His tongue tracing his name, grazing his teeth against your clit. 

“Fuck - i’m gonna cum soon. Do that thing please.” His lips never left your clit, every time something sinful left your lips would only encourage his behavior and in return the vibrations he left on your clit would make your head spin and bring you closer and closer until it felt as if you couldn’t see, breathe and even think straight. He desperately wanted to edge you, over stimulate your whole existence but he was too desperate to go watch you fall apart beneath him. So, he took his tongue and traced his last name on your clit. It was always Cameron. It made him hard knowing you got off when he would spell his name. You knew what he was spelling and every time he did it it made you orgasm mind blowing.

He was obsessed. Possessive. Territorial. Whatever you want to call it. He was.

“Not yet.” His pace quickened, his wrist desperate for release but he was desperate for yours. 

“Daddy please.” The sinful word was his melody. He felt as if he could cum at the sight of you. Who was he kidding it had happened before and he’d happily let it happen again. 

“Cum now.” Your back arched as if it was possessed — in a sense it was by Rafe Cameron, the vulgar sounds leaving your lips, your fingernails digging into your palm needing a relief somewhere, somehow. 

He was quick to move on top of you, meeting your mouth for a frendzy kiss. A much needed kiss. The faint taste of scotch, mint, a smidge of cigarette and all of you was transferred from his lips to yours. His hips grinded into yours, his cock brushing your clit each time earning a whimper. 

“Please. I need you.” Your hips bucked up, leg wrapped around his waist asking for permission. Always. “Daddy.”

“How badly?” His lips met your neck marking no claiming you. He was possessive. Possessive over what was his. Like you were his property, in a twisted sense you were. The jewelry, clothes, trips — all of it was of branding. You were branded by him. “Beg. Me. Now.”

“Please fuck me. I need to feel you inside of me. I’m only ever this way for you. Claim me. Destroy me. I’m yours. You own me. All of me. Always daddy.”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head and all of his painfully red, leaking cock was pressed into you before you could mutter out anymore. He knew you better than himself. He knew what made your body shy — what drove it insane, his favorite he knew what to do to make it tremble and fall apart by his hands and cock. 

Your leg wrapped around him, which earned him hitting a deeper angle. Your back arched each time he pressed into you, each stroke different — some deeper and faster or slower and sensual. He wanted you to feel him in your stomach, organs wherever and everywhere. He was fucking hanging by a thread. He was on the cusp of a mind blowing orgasm but he needed you cum first. Always. Where he really wanted you to feel him was your heart but he feared you would never. 

Each thrust — long or short was meaningful. He didn’t know how else to show or tell you. This is all he knew. Show not tell. He was crazy 

“Look down gorgeous. Look at how I make you feel. How you fall apart because of me. I do this. No one else. No one will ever touch you the way I do. Ok?” His breath fanned your face as he hovered over you, never wanting to be without you. “You’re mine.”

“All yours.” You moaned out. Hands trying and failing to break free of its prison. His bowtie restricting you from marking his back, digging no branding his back with your nails. 

“I have these thoughts. These all consuming thoughts—“ His stroke deeper, brushing your g spot and his hand wrapping its self around your throat, “Thoughts of you, in white all the time. This world is nothing with you and me together. Thoughts of you naked. Thoughts of you next to me like the good girl you are because you’d do anything for me-“ His hands pressing firmer then before, “because you would do anything for me.”

“Good girl only, always for you. I don’t need anyone else — fuck i’m almost there.” Your legs wrapped around him, heels pressed into his back. “Wanna be yours forever. Cum in me. Please.”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head, pace sloppy and far from forgiving, “You will marry me. And have my children. Fuck swollen belly, tits — fuck, your pussy and clit always swollen. I’d fuck you day in and day out.” 

“Yes sir.” 

“Cum for me Gorgeous.”

 Your cum covered his cock with that. The gates of heaven opened for him. That's all it took for his cum to coat the insides of your walls. You dripped of innocence, he would always be there to claim it. 

His hands found their way to untie you and placed you on his chest. His hands ran through your hair as you two found solace in this crazy unconventional relationship. A relationship that he wouldn’t trade for the world. All because of a website called OnlyFans.

His. Now and Forever.

[delldarling]

the city is hoarding hearts | arroven

male dragon x gender/body neutral reader 9015 words lemon | mention of drinking alcohol, face riding, size difference, fairly submissive monster, penetrative sex, poetry, touch starved note: behold! my modern epic fantasy universe! this world first appeared back in August for my Patreon Story of the Month, and though I haven’t revisited Arroven again just yet, I did return to this universe for December’s Story of the Month as well. 👀

Magic, despite people's claim to the contrary, is beyond rare these days. No one really claims that it isn’t real, that it didn’t once run rampant with it’s existence. After all, it’s impossible to deny when people have things like the architecture of the North to reference. The towers built into their seaside cliffs, spiraling up like the serpents of old reaching for the sun? Without magic, without gravity spells, and an everlasting charm on those spells, thick enough to double as a coat of paint, the towers would have fallen into the sea by now, dashed against the dark stones jutting out from the deep green waters. Many people, though especially the elves, think that the towers will endure long after the cliffs have crumbled into the water. Floating relics, you’ve heard more than a few people murmur, wonder in their voices, wouldn’t that be something?

Even more common now, there are people the world over that claim they have a spark of magic left still, that they can feel the rhythms of the magical tide flooding back over the world.

She Wakes is written on street corners and thick posters, spray painted on the underside of the colossal Echo Bridge. No matter how often they have workers doing their best to clean the graffiti up, the giant letters are back in place a few days later.

Despite how much you’d like to believe them, as everyone dreams of the rumors, of magic returning, you’ve never put too much stock into the whispered words. Why would you? No matter how often you’ve spent watching wispy clouds streak by your window, no matter how often you’ve taken a moment to reflect on the thought, to nurse a seed of hope… Nothing has ever come of it.

It’s why you keep trying to ignore that heavy ache in the arch of your feet, or the way you keep noticing advertisements for Arroven.

History books and the elderly all say that this is how it starts when magic finally blooms in someone’s blood. There’s an itch. An ache. A constant irritant that starts in your extremities and wriggles into your veins, and then coincidences will start to pile up. Small things, like noticing whenever the clock strikes 11:11 on whatever clock you pass. Or maybe it’s having the luck to switch the radio station to your favorite song without fail, or—

“Stop it,” you mutter to yourself when you spot it. You breath puffs out into the chilly air, adding to the fog lingering in the streets. You kneel, brushing aside some of the fallen damask leaves, their velvety backs clinging to your touch even as you do your best to shake them off. Just barely hidden under their litter is a postcard. Without even glancing at it, you know what you’ll find on the back, but you’re drawn to pick it up anyway, turning it over. It depicts a sprawling city with green undertones, the word Arroven written in a sloping, beautiful script along the bottom of the image. The edges are creased, almost lovingly, and there’s a small puncture hole at the top left corner, as if someone had it pinned to a corkboard for no short amount of time. 

Until this moment, you haven’t picked up any of the advertisements for Arroven. The stories all say that you can ignore it, that the magic will go away and fade from you like an ebbing tide if you only will it hard enough, but… You don’t know that you really want it to leave. Those seeds have hope might not have fully sprouted, but their roots have run deep, snaking through your veins. You swallow past the dryness in your throat and turn the postcard over, wonder if you’re going to get an address, or if there are words of encouragement intended for the last owner.

The postcard is faintly yellowed at the edges, but it’s otherwise blank.

You wilt, disappointed, but you don’t throw it back down onto the stones. If you check the railway listings, you’re more than certain that you’ll find a one way trip to Arroven suddenly dirt cheap. The pathway that will lead you there is probably paved with strangely good fortune, more invisible hooks ready to find a secure hold in your heart. You might as well find out if there’s anything to these claims of magic. You have far too much hope shored up in your bones and pumping through your chest not to at least try. 

-

A month later, and you’re starting to believe that whatever magic that led you this far has all but fled. Of course, you’re more than content with where it’s left you, a word rattling around in the back of your brain and clamoring to spill from your lips: home. Arroven feels like home.

It’s not just the city though. It’s your place. It’s the stones that pave the streets and the people that fill them. It’s the smell of bakeries and the faint hint of exhaust. It’s the clean smell of paper and ink from the stationary shop you’d stumbled into on your first night in Arroven, and the proprietor’s barely-there smile. You’d made fast friends with her almost instantly, like it was fate.

Mora, despite her solemn stature, and the vast amount of spiraling tattoos disappearing under the neck of her cleanly pressed shirts, is beyond kind. She possesses a startling, sparkling wit that leaves a smile lingering on your lips whenever you think of her snappy little comments. She’d given you a job in her shop a few days after you’d first arrived, perking up as soon as you’d come back into her shop. She needed a cashier, so she could have more time to develop her own inks, and then a few days after that you literally stumbled onto a showing of a furnished apartment. It had fit all of your needs, and your shoes had sunk into the plush carpet of the bedroom, like a quiet voice in the place asking you to stay.

The ache in your feet had eased, that strange little irritant in the back of your mind fading with every passing day. You haven’t put too much thought into magic since then, as there hasn’t been a reason when you have a new job to keep you busy, and a city to explore on your days off. You love it here, the sea green patina on the copper statues, the swirling architecture that extends to every building in the city, no matter how large or small. Besides, you know if you go looking into magic again, at the message boards or if you go hunting down books, it’s likely that they’ll all say much the same thing: She Wakes, and her gift will blossom in you, but not Forever. She moves us like pawns, adjusting us Just So, no matter how small the slot She needs filled. 

You’ve read it all before, have heard debates shouted in the streets or argued about in the back corner of classrooms. Magic moves through people as it wills, and no amount of pleading will keep it in you unless you’re a mage, and even then, that takes years of study. If the magic that led you here only existed long enough for you to make your home? Then you’ll have to be satisfied with that.

And you are, until that ache in your feet starts up again.

Late one evening, as you’re locking the back door of Rumoura’s, it floods through you fast enough to steal your breath. There’s no voice, no heavy hand on your shoulder, just a fierce pain that wells, threatening to bring tears to your eyes, until you turn to the right. You blink, surprise at the sudden and complete lack of pain, and take a ragged breath as you pocket the key to the door. When you feel steady enough, when your lungs no longer ache, you turn to the right and start walking.It takes you about ten minutes to realize you’re headed towards the main park, the one with ancient ruins of a half finished serpent tower peppered throughout its boundaries. You’ve walked through once, one golden afternoon with Mora, and you’ve been meaning to come back sometime on your lunch break. The past few days have been busy though, with a flood of students coming back to Arroven, stocking up on both casual and serious supplies from Mora’s shop.

Besides, there’s always been time to explore at your leisure now that you’re living here. 

Two towering trees make a grand arch over the park entrance, and the slow swirl of damask leaves spiraling down from the branches make you laugh.

“Coincidence,” you murmur, a small smile curling your lips, and you walk into the park. The paths are well lit, even this late in the evening. This part of the city doesn’t boast about it’s lack of crime, but most people feel it. There always seems to be groups of people roaming: Elven tourists, hooking arms and laughing over cups of tea and coffee, Orcish artists and musicians, setting up on benches or street corners, busking for the simple sake of sharing their art with others. You wander through the park, expecting to simply take in the sights among the meandering attendees, but.. You haven’t seen anyone for the past few minutes. Your footsteps start to slow, wondering if you missed a sign somewhere and you have the nagging feeling that you just need to find someone.

Cautiously, you keep moving, the sudden bout of nervousness easing when you see someone up ahead. They’re sitting at the foot of one of the rather large blocks of toppled variscite, a dark hoodie hiding their face. Their shoulders are broad, and their clothes are a little more ragged than you see on people around here, but it gives off more of a well lived look than a dangerous one. They’re tapping the toes of their boots together, the tread of them worn smooth, and a low, masculine hum reaches your ears the closer you get. He stops as soon as you’re within speaking range though, crossing his legs and leaning his elbows on his knees. There’s a street lamp not too far behind him, and with the hood and the angle of the light, it casts most of his face in shadow. All you can spy is a pair of long, thorn-like ear gauges, curling out from the depths of his hood. They’re bigger around than a thimble and sharp looking from this far away. 

“Nice evening, hm?” You say in greeting, hoping that if he doesn’t want to speak, he’ll just bob his head and let you move along. You haven’t run into any trouble in Arroven yet, but even with that strange ache, you don’t know that you can see your good luck lasting forever.

“A lovely one,” he mumbles and he leans back, hands grabbing at his knees and squeezing like he’s the nervous one.

That thought makes you stop, your eyes focusing a bit more intensely on what you can see of his skin. At first glance, his knuckles are bruised and paint splattered, nails split and a little too long, skin rough in texture. You blink, realizing that his knuckles aren’t bruised, his skin just mirrors the strange patterns of the variscite he’s sitting on, ink black and sea green, and the rough texture to his skin has pointy, scalloped edges.

The noise he makes isn’t a sigh, not quite, but he turns his face away, as if he expects you to ignore him, or run, and his hood edges back, just a sliver. The arch of his nose is straight as an arrow, and his nostrils are thin things, slashing upwards. His face has so many angles that it’s hard to tear your gaze away. You wish you could see his eyes, but he has them closed, like he’s still bracing himself for a blow.

“Are you.. Are you alright?” You ask, because it seems like the thing to say, with how tense he is, with how he’s waiting.

His eyes flash open, reflective in the depths of his hood. His mouth curls into a frown when he turns to look at you again. His eyes are still the eerie glam of a reflected light. “You’re not frightened?”

“Are you?” You ask, ignoring the thundering of your own heart. You’ve seen Trolls before, and even a few half-elves or half-orcs of varying descent, with skin that just barely reminds you of his, but.. You’re willing to bet he isn’t any of those. 

“A bit?” He says, unsure, and the edge of a violet tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip. “It’s been a few centuries since any of you have made yourself so at home here that you stumbled across me.” He hunches his shoulders, looking away from you for the breadth of a second, before he can’t help himself. His eyes flick back to you, rove over you from head to toe, almost greedily. “You felt a call then, an itch?”

“An ache,” you correct, staring at him with wide eyes. Centuries? The long lived races don’t often mention the time they have over others. It’s rude at the best of times, and most of them are terrible sticklers for manners. 

“At home here, you said?” You ask, knowing that something about him seems terribly familiar. 

Your question makes him pause, brow lifting before he finally pushes himself to his feet. He unfolds, all long, heavy limbs, but doesn’t move from his spot on the variscite. “M-.. Arroven. You do think of the city as home?” He breathes in, hesitantly lifting his chin. “Not to be rude,” he says, a little awkwardly, “but you smell like Arroven.”

All at once, the old poem flickers back into your mind, the one about hearts and desires and winter. The oldest folktales of the first cities, those built around the serpent towers, all seemed to carry the poem with them. It was both a warning and a blessing to those that wished to stay. You’d have to hunt down the entirety of it, but the ending couplet?  

The city promises, you’ll be most adored So can you, will you, join the hoard?

You bite down fiercely on the desire to blurt out dragon, but he must sense it, might even see the aborted twist of your lips. 

“..you’ve figured it out, then?” He asks, and when his shoulders droop, you spy the barest edge of a wing, tucked in close to his back. “If being in my immediate vicinity is a problem, I quite understand, but please stay in the city. You-” He blows out a breath, large hands fussing about with his hoodie pocket. Everything about him reads awkward, almost shy. “You’re safe here, I promise.” He breathes in again, like he can’t resist, eyes falling closed when his violet tongue appears, there and gone before you can blink. “You belong,” he murmurs and tangles his fingers in the material of his hoodie, like he would reach out if he didn’t stop himself.

Inexplicably, you wonder if Mora knows about the city patron. If you should waltz into the shop tomorrow and announce: I’ve officially been welcomed to the hoard.  ...Sort of. Before you lose your nerve, before you can bite your tongue, you ask. “An official welcome involves more drinks though, doesn’t it?”

-Arroven, the dragon, the founder of the city, is sitting across the table from you, slouching in a barstool that has a difficult time encompassing his enormous body. Despite his height, and the way his hood shadows his face in a frankly ominous way, no one is paying him any attention. One of the bartender’s had slid a drink list your way as soon as you’d claimed the seats, but she hadn’t even glanced at Arroven. In fact, you think her eyes might have skipped right over his seat. It’s a little disconcerting, seeing as he’d claimed that Wink was one of the best bars around, but if they ignore him, if they can’t see him?

“What’ll it be?” A different bartender asks, a tall elf, with his hair plaited back in a complicated braid. He has pleasant features, though he looks a little flustered, a lock or two of dark hair escaping his braid. You think he might be on the newer end when he fumbles a bit with the card you slide his way, olive skin flushing when his fingers nearly touch yours.  

“Uh, the special,” you finally decide, expecting him to turn to Arroven so he can order as well. Your jaw drops when he whirls, not even bothering. “Ar- hey, wait!” 

The elf turns back, smiling vaguely, looking even more tense now that he can’t leave straight off, but he doesn’t seem to see Arroven when you gesture towards him. His gaze zips right through the neckline of Arroven's hoodie, straight on through to the next customer. 

Perturbed, you lean in close to Arroven, heart skipping a beat due to his proximity. He smells faintly of musty books, and stone, cooling in the early evening after baking in the sunshine of a warm day. "Didn’t you want something?” You force yourself to ask, unwilling to let the elf leave without at least checking with him first. He doesn’t have to get anything, but you’d hoped he would, if only so you can spend a while longer in his company. Maybe the flirtatious tone you’d struck had made him uncomfortable?

For a moment Arroven hunches further into his sweatshirt, and you think your fears might hold weight. You are a little close, and you still don’t know each other terribly well yet. You straighten, hoping you don’t look as embarrassed as you feel and Arroven heaves out a sigh. He finally tugs back his hood, though the elf behind the bar doesn’t even blink. “Just a.. a Beetle Wing," he mutters, large, sharp teeth catching the light. The elf nods, though his gaze is still on you when Arroven speaks, and turns away to go make the drinks. 

Without the darkness of night, without his hood shadowing his face, you see that his eyes aren’t permanently reflective. In the dim lights of the bar, they’re a lovely shade of blue-green that matches well with his skin. What you thought were ear gauges were actually his horns, thick and curving, and trailing after the clean arch of his jaw. His ears are heavy with plugs though, and they clink against his horns when he turns, noticing that you’re staring. The scent of hot stone grows stronger when you smile at him, and then he huffs, looking away and running a hand through his already tousled, short dark hair. You catch sight of scales on his scalp and then blink. It’s not hair on his head, it’s feathers. His eyebrows are much the same, in miniature. Fine, thin feathers, as ink dark as the scalloped edges of his scales. 

“So,” you tease, hoping your questions won’t come off as prying. “Can the rest of the people in here see you at all? You said that it’d been a while since anyone had felt at home enough here to stumble across you, but.. I don’t know exactly if that means Magicis is at work, or something else.”

Arroven breathes in, glancing up at the filigreed round sign hanging over the bar. There’s a single neon eye in the middle, opening and closing on loop under the word WINK. Even with the noise of people talking, and the music coming steadily from the small corner of a dance floor, you can still hear the faint buzz and click of the neon switching over. “Not many,” he finally confesses. “If the proprietor were here, she would see me, but she’s been here for a.. For a while.” She’s one of the long lived races then. Arroven turns, taking a quick look over the other patrons, tense, as if he expects one of them to approach. “The couple near the dance floor there,” he finally says, pointing out two women leaning into each other, stealing sips of each other’s drinks. “The orcish fellow on his phone. They can see me, though I doubt they’ll realize who I am. Just living here doesn’t make someone part of the hoard, though it’s always a step in the right direction.” For a second, he looks like he might let the subject drop, but then he cringes, glancing at your eyes before he looks away. “I don’t- I don’t steal from the people living here, whether they’re part of my hoard or not, even if they don’t realize I’m around. Even if they can’t see me.”

That’s reassuring, though you hadn’t planned on diving into that topic.

“What then,” you ask, leaning your chin in the palm of your hand, and your elbow on the bar, “makes someone part of your hoard?” 

Arroven’s rough looking scales don’t shine, but the neon light over the both of you shifts again from blue, to pink, and back. It was already hard for you to take your eyes off of him, knowing who he is, attracted to the nervous quirk of his lips, but now? The magic that you’ve only ever felt the after effects of, the strange aches and coincidences, it feels like more in this moment. More than a soft nudge in the correct direction. Arroven is sitting at your side, winking neon sign a spotlight over both your heads.

Hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, Arroven lifts his hand, reaching out, and taps once, softly, against your sternum. “It sounds esoteric, but the only explanation I have is that all of you feels like you should be here. From the way you smell, to the echoes of your voice or your footsteps along the pavement...” Arroven swallows, and then inhales, letting his hand fall away from your chest as his eyes close. He doesn’t pull his hand back completely though, just lets his hand hover over your thigh. “It’s always the desires of the heart that bring my hoard home,” he murmurs and starts to sway towards you.

There’s a soft clink on the bar, your drinks being set carefully in front of you and Arroven. When you look, the bartender still hasn’t noticed the city patron, the dragon, but the drink is still clearly set aside for him. Your card is placed very quickly next to your glass, the elf flashing you a much more jovial smile than earlier. 

“Your drink has been taken care of,” he explains, but doesn’t stay behind to point out who might have bought them. When you look, Arroven is sitting straight up in his seat, and his guilty expression is answer enough.

“I was supposed to be welcoming you to the city,” he murmurs, turning in his stool so he can take hold of his glass. The liquid inside is iridescent, shifting from what looks like violet, to a strange umber. You’re willing to bet that it’s more blue and green, but the neon light isn’t doing it too many favors. Arroven lifts his cup, patiently waiting for you to do the same and then quietly toasts your arrival. The clink of the glasses rings in your ears with the clarity of a bell, echoes lasting far longer than the noise itself.

“Goodness,” you say, coughing when you finish your swallow. Your drink is a little stronger than you thought it would be, heat already spiralling down into your chest and filling your belly. “So, uh, the city blessings seem to be true, I take it?” You don’t look at him as you speak, afraid he’ll cringe away from the mention of them.

“Blessings?” Arroven asks, and then you have to search up the poem. He sounds like he doesn't know, but they're supposed to be as old as the cities. Or near as.

“Sometimes they vary, from city to city. But most of the time they have almost the same structure. The same meaning,” you explain, pulling up the poem on your phone. “Hoarding hearts, keeping people safe in winter. The, uh-” You turn it his way, but he doesn’t take the phone from you, just reads the words out of the palm of your hand, brows raised by the time he gets to the end.

“‘Sinking talons into your thighs?’” Arroven’s slit pupils grow wide, nearly drowning his iris in darkness. He straightens, taking another hasty gulp of his drink. He laughs when he’s finished, nerves finally beginning to ease. “That’s how they’re translating it these days?” He asks, but you notice his eyes lingering on your hands, drifting down to your knees and the way you’re sitting. 

You pass a good portion of the evening, teetering back and forth with conversation about the city now, and how it was when Arroven had first settled. For all that he’s wearing modern clothes and walking on two feet, you can see him in a larger, more draconic figure, delving into the variscite mines and overseeing the people that had decided to settle under his watch.  

He’s just as enthralled with your stories though, hanging onto your every word, even though he’s still clearly a little anxious. He abandons his hunched and wary demeanor as soon as you start talking about the magic though. All the little aches and nudges and postcards that had led a clear path to his city. To him.

You insist on buying the next round when he makes to wave down the bartender, who is still completely oblivious to his presence, but Arroven stops you with a hand on your wrist. 

"Another time," he says, just loud enough for you to hear. "A welcome isn't a single round, is it?" He asks, a tentative smile revealing a small glimpse of those sharp teeth.

You could argue. You have the feeling that he would let it go if you pushed, but the smile sways you. It's the first time he's spoken without lowering his eyes mid sentence. You accept the drink, and try not to stare when his smile grows, shy and small and all the more endearing for it.

You both pretend not to notice each other grinning after that.

It’s just past 1 AM by the time the both of you leave the bar, only slightly unsteady after a few drinks and a few plates of bar food. Warmth floods you when Arroven’s hand finds your elbow, just barely keeping you from stumbling off the edge of the sidewalk and into the street. All it takes is a single stroke of his thumb over your arm for you to throw aside any worries you might have about flirting. 

He's reciprocated, in quiet ways, for the last hour or so. He’s leaned into you whenever you lowered your voice, had let his eyes linger on your hands and thighs after you brought up the poem.. The worst thing he can do is say no.

“Come to my place?” You blurt and Arroven stutters, hand spasming in his grip on your arm. For a heart wrenching moment, you think he might turn you down, but he finally bobs his head, gauges clicking against his horns with the motion. “...You said you’d been out of the loop with the people living here,” you start, mouth dry, wondering if he knows what you’re trying to ask, but still a little too sober to spell it out. “I’m asking, I’m not just asking you to come visit. I-” 

Arroven stops your worried speech with a slightly awkward smile. “I know what you’re getting at,” he finally says with a gentle huff of a laugh, hand sliding down your arm until he can twine his fingers about yours. His breath hitches, and for a moment you think he might stop, might pull away. “I- I would love to,” he says quietly, and squeezes until his fingernails gently prick the back of your hand.

Wordless with triumph, you flash another smile his way, heart pounding as you keep hold of his hand, ventral scales dry, but slick against your palm.

“The walk back to my place is a bit of a long one from here,” you confess, glancing at the handful of cabs loitering along the street. “Seeing as you got the drinks, I can—” You nearly trip over your own feet when Arroven tugs you back, keeping you from approaching any of the cabs. 

“I don’t.. Fit very well,” he says, apologetically. “If you would rather take one, I can, but if you aren’t opposed..” Arroven’s wings, still tucked in flat along his back, quirk and stretch, spreading wide enough that he nearly clips another leaving bar patron in the face. They don’t move, don’t see him, but they blink, as if a gust of wind just hit them, and shield their eyes until they’re well past you and Arroven.

His statement leaves you staring, jaw beginning to grow slack. “Are you saying you can fly us back to my place?” Your eyes trace his wings again, the fragile veins spider webbing across the membranes. It’s not that you thought they were ornamental, but it’s one thing to see them, and another to know you’ll get to witness their use first hand. 

Arroven’s shoulders start to hunch, but his eyes flick down to your hand, fingers still curled around his. He smiles instead. “Yes?” 

You glance at the cabs, and then back to Arroven’s tall figure and broad shoulders. As much as you’d like being pressed up against him, trapped in the backseat of an uncomfortable cab isn’t quite what you’d pictured, and he’s already nervous enough. That settles things. You nod, just the once and lift your chin to meet his eyes. “Flying it is then! We can’t have you getting stuck in one of those, can we?”

While Arroven walks you through how he’s going to pick you up, how he’s going to hold onto you, some of the people on the sidewalk start to watch you. You’re nodding readily at what they assume to be empty air. You spare a second to wonder if they’ll see you vanish, or if they’ll be able to see the equivalent of a magical wind carrying you away. That would cause quite a stir, wouldn't it? You forget to ask Arroven about it though when he holds out his arm, waiting patiently for you to step closer, fingers gentle in their continued grip on your hand. 

He’s still giving you the chance to turn away. 

You take a breath, thinking back to the nerves you’d felt, packing up a bag and deciding to visit somewhere based on coincidences and the hearsay of magic. You think of Mora, and the apartment that feels more like home to you than nearly anything else ever has. The way everything fits here, every piece of the city you've set foot in branded on your brain, clearer than any map. You step close, eagerly letting Arroven curl his arm around your back and then lift you up in a bridal carry. His forearms and biceps tense, bracing you as he prepares, and then the snap of his wings flaring open makes your heart jump before he leaps. His wings catch a sudden breeze swooping into the street, allowing it to lift the both of you well clear of the ground before he starts to flap. The slight dip in elevation as he finds his rhythm makes you clutch a little tighter, but Arroven doesn’t complain. In fact, when you glance at him, he seems to be holding back a smug little smile.  

It’s cold when he finally crests over the top of the nearest buildings. Between the chill, and the fast growing height between you and the ground, you have no issues absolutely clinging to Arroven’s neck. You don't feel like you're going to fall, but it's still safer than sitting meekly in his arms, isn't it? You try to twist your head about to see everything below you, but another rush of cold wind makes you squint. It takes a moment before you realize Arroven isn't moving though, he's simply keeping the both of you suspended in midair.

“Your address?” Arroven asks as soon as you start to frown, his voice rumbling against your ear.

“Ah.” You give it to him, laughing when you meet his still-shy gaze. “I suppose that’s a little important.”

While the walk would have left you both a little tired, the flight is a fairly short one. You have just enough time to relish all the places you’re pressed in close, to enjoy what little warmth you’ve managed to keep with the wind seeping through your clothes, when Arroven lands in front of your quiet building. There are no witnesses but the dim streetlights, the sound of his flapping wings muffled by the mist beginning to roll through the city. Arroven lowers you almost reluctantly, fingers slow to uncurl so you can step down onto the pavement. He takes a step back as soon as you do, like he needs the space between you to think.

“Still up for coming inside?” You ask, giving him the same chance he’d given you earlier. You jerk a thumb at the locked door, searching for your keys with your other hand. 

Arroven’s head jerks forward almost too fast, the dark feathers on his skull prickling upwards. His wings snap closed, tight against his back again as soon as you unlock your door. It’s only mildly nerve wracking, having him follow you up to your place, and you think it might be because of how nervous he’s acting. He flinches away from the wall when he barely brushes it, almost tripping over his own boots as he goes up the stairs. He’s been shy from the get-go, but this-

“Arroven,” you murmur, turning to look up at him, hand pausing on your door handle. “Is something wrong?”

He breathes out, turning his head so the plugs in his earlobes clack against his horns, blue-green eyes roving over the hall. “No,” he says slowly, forcing himself to stop hunching into his hoodie, to take his wringing hangs out of the front pocket. “I’ve just, it’s just that I keep-” He stays where he is, brow furrowing for all of five seconds before he’s huffing and stepping into your space. When Arroven leans down, his pupils are needle thin, that sunshine warm smell suffusing the air. He was summoning up courage, you realize, just in time to let your eyes fall closed as he cradles your jaw with both hands. They dwarf your human face, his fingertips easily reaching all the way to the back of your neck, but his touch may well be the softest thing you’ve ever known. His kiss is more the brush of his mouth over the shape of yours, a slip of a taste when his tongue follows the curve of your lower lip. He hums, softly, but when you kiss him back? When your tongue touches his and you try to stand on your tip-toes to deepen things, when you stumble a step closer—Arroven’s groan is gratifying. Achingly slowly, he draws his hands down the side of your neck, leaving you free to control the pace of the kiss. His thumbs trace your collarbone, slow, deep circles that make you wish you weren’t standing out here, fully clothed and too warm.

You pull away, licking your lips and glancing down the hall. There’s no one there, despite your pulse loud in your ears and your breath heaving, surely loud enough to wake even those in the very depths of sleep. Arroven’s breath hitches, and for a moment he sways, ready to chase you for another kiss. “Wait, wait,” you say softly, trying not to smile too wide when his eyes flicker open, dark pupils growing larger. He starts to straighten, embarrassment lifting his shoulders. “Maybe we should get in my house first?” You rush to say, not wanting to potentially scar one of your neighbors, but not wanting him to rush away either.

His mouth opens on reflex, and then closes, slipping into a gentle smile. “Yes,” he says, and then you have to swallow, watching his eyes slide down to your hands and then further down to your knees.  

You get your door open before he touches you again, but you’re only a few steps inside when Arroven reaches for you. He strokes the back of his knuckles down your forearm, fingertips only barely grazing your hips. “I’ve missed this,” he whispers, one of his fingers catching two of yours. “Touching,” he explains, the edge of his thumbnail stroking over your wrist and the base of your thumb and back. “Being close to, well…” He breathes in when you step into him, and grows as still as a statue when you balance against him, reaching around his middle to swing the front door shut. This close, Arroven still smells of sunshine, but there’s a sweeter, crisper undertone that makes you want to close your eyes to savor it, to breathe it in. He’s nearly vibrating with you pressed close though, hands hovering somewhere over the middle of your back, trying to keep himself still. He’s waiting for you to give him the go ahead, still caught up in his nerves... Or maybe just manners?

You grin, gently pushing yourself back a step before you smooth out your expression. “Part of your hoard?” You wonder aloud, but then you can’t keep yourself straight faced any longer, wanting him to recognize the words for the gentle teasing they are. You smile. “How about you touch me then?”

Arroven huffs, pleased, and then you quickly discover how needy he can be. He kisses you all the way down the hall, his wings nearly catching on picture frames, hands trembling in their stroking over your back. He keeps pausing at the top of your hips, like he wants to let his hands drift lower, but focuses on his mouth instead, mouth and teeth moving from your lips, to your jaw and down to your neck. You don’t think he’s willing to risk going further though, knowing that it would likely end up with both of you unbalanced and on the floor instead of the bed. 

“Distracted?” You ask, reaching blindly around your doorframe, searching for the lightswitch as Arroven’s tongue flickers over the pulse on the left side of your neck. Your own breathing stutters for a moment, heat building in your veins. “You keep-”

Arroven’s breath puffs over the damp patch he’s left on your skin as he lifts his head, violet tongue sliding along the sharp points of his teeth. “Hardly,” Arroven interrupts, and his wings tense when you hook your fingers into the neck of his hoodie, drawing him further into the room. Your fingers find the lightswitch, the soft ring of the bulb lighting strangely loud in the room. “You’re all I can see. All I can focus on. ..am I missing something? Cues?” He asks, voice gone lower when you give his hoodie a fierce tug. He follows, all too willingly, fingers flexing around your hips. 

“Hardly,” you say back, teasing as you back up towards the bed. You pull when you lean back, expecting him to let you fall, to fall with you, but his wings flare again. He catches himself on the blankets, hands to either side of your body, the blue-green of his eyes swallowed by his pupils as he takes the sight of you in. “Still good?” You ask after a moment, because he’s staring, because he hasn’t moved a muscle. 

“Tell me,” Arroven blurts, arms tensing as his fingers twist into the blankets. “Tell me what to do,” he pleads, gaze catching on every sliver of bared skin he can find. “I’m.. finding it a little difficult to think. All I want to do is make you happy, make you want to-” He stops, feathered brows drawing together as he considers his words.

You arch an eyebrow, your hands stilling just shy of his chest. The way he’d hesitated, his flighty touches? they all make a bit more sense now. He’d asked you to stay in the city, had mentioned your belonging here. If you wanted to leave, if you insisted on stopping, Arroven wouldn’t keep you. But he wants you to stay here.

  “Little to no thinking,” you muse, unable to keep from smiling as he hangs onto your every word. “Undress me,” you finally decide, and his nostrils flare before he sets to work. He’s terribly careful, every brush of his scaled knuckles whisper-soft and cool against your skin, but his breathing is ragged by the time he’s finished and your heart has sped in response. You’re tempted to make him undress himself too. In fact, he would probably do just as you asked, but you’re too impatient to get your hands back on him. “Hoodie off,” you declare, half amazed that he’s obeying your whims, “and lay down on the bed.”

Arroven listens immediately, tucking his wings in close before he’s pulling off the hoodie, careful around the curl of his horns and the arch of his wings. He isn’t wearing a shirt, but with his wings, you understand why. Most of those with wings don’t favor mass produced clothes or modern fashion. He’s on the bed before you can finish pushing yourself back up, jeans low on his hips, pale belly and chest all the brighter compared to the black and teal pattern of his scales. His legs spread reflexively when you stand, jeans growing taut when you reach for him. Your hands are steady, even if your pulse isn’t, but Arroven doesn’t seem to care. He looks blissed out from this much touch alone, jaw gone slack, eyelids heavy as you unbutton and unzip his jeans. He exhales when you pull at his jeans, eyes zeroed in on your face.

He’s thicker than he is long, and as pale as his abdomen, save for a violet tinge that makes you think of his tongue. Nestled as he is in the ‘v’ of his unzipped jeans, it’s all you can do to keep yourself from stroking him straight away, or even leaning down to-

“Maybe I can think,” Arroven says hoarsely. He lifts one of his hands, gentleman-like, offering it to you palm up. “Let me?” He asks, though you’re not entirely sure what he wants you to let him do.

Mannerly, you can’t help but think, lips twitching as you place your hand in his. The older races are, generally. It’s something to fall back on if they’re nervous or unsure. Not that most of them would ever admit to it.

“Are you thinking I should leave your boots on?” You get one knee on the bed before you pause, glancing back at his legs still hanging over the edge.

Arroven hums, but his grip on your fingers tightens for a second, not wanting to let go. “I’ll worry about those later,” he says, and then inhales sharply when you straddle his lap, cock pulsing as you settle against him. If he wants to let his jeans tangle around his boots, you’re not going to complain. It’s a bit of a thrill, knowing that he’s too impatient to fuss with them.

“Boots on, then. Now, what am I supposed to let you do?” You lean forward, drawing an aimless, spiraling pattern from his abdomen up to his ribcage. He’s much warmer now, with you astride his thighs and his wings trapped beneath him on the bed. It looks uncomfortable, but he hasn’t mentioned them once.

Hesitant, Arroven’s hold on you loosens, and then his hand drops to your thigh, eyebrows furrowing when he finally speaks. “Sit on my face?”

The brevity of it, the tone of uncertainty, makes your mouth twitch. “Jumping right in there, aren’t we? And here I thought you were kind of shy.”

“I am!” Arroven blurts and then covers his face with one hand, laughing quietly at himself. “I am,” he says, a bit more composed when he lets his hand fall away. “Though shyness has hardly ever been a factor in my favor. What is it humans say? Better to rip off the bandage?”

You crawl halfway up his body, smiling wider when he forgets to breathe. “Had to get the anxiety out of the way?” You brush a kiss over his chin, eyes catching on the curl of his horns. He’s moved so carefully that you’ve yet to feel the sharp points of them catching your skin, but if you sit on his face… You ignore Arroven’s disappointed sigh as you turn away to stroke the pad of your thumb over his right horn, wondering whether he has any feeling in them. They’re as ink dark as some of his scales and twisted in a lovely spiral that perfectly circles his pointed, gauged ears. Arroven isn’t reacting like he has sensation in them, though he reacts to every other little touch of you against his scales. “You’re going to have to help me balance,” you confess, sitting back against his middle. “Because even though they aren’t terribly sharp, I rather think I’ll be risking my thighs. Don’t you?”

Arroven stares, blinking, and then he looks horrified, which makes you wonder how long it’s been since he’s been close to a human, if ever. 

“I’m not against this,” you add, grinning, “just to be clear.”

For a moment, all he says in response is a strangled sounding “Ah,” before he blinks again, glancing up at the ceiling. “I can... I will help. I’ll be careful. More than careful.”

It takes a few moments, and some adjustment, before you’re finally able to settle over his face. Your heart starts to pound a little faster when Arroven opens his mouth, those dagger-like teeth flashing in the dim light. His hands are strong though, curling around your thigh and bracing your hip. He’s too tall for you to do more than help balance against his chest, though you can see that he’s still wonderfully hard, and his cock is starting to leak. You’d love nothing more than to take him in hand, to taste him, but then Arroven nips your inner thigh, and you stop paying attention to his cock and start focusing on sensation. Your fingers curl at the first hot swipe of his tongue, pressing a little hard into the ventral scales over his chest, and the next slow lick has your eyes falling closed. 

It’s not easy to stay steady, to keep your arms and legs from quivering the longer he licks and slurps. Arroven sucks small kisses over your thighs and the left cheek of your ass, his teeth only ever the barest pressure on your skin. His horns graze you, but he’s true to his word in keeping you balanced. The texture of them against your skin is just something more to feel, to enjoy as he tilts his head this way and that. Pleasure builds, faster by far than the magic that built in your veins, that left you aching with the need to come to the city. If that ache had been anything close to what you’re feeling now, warm, and slick, with the heady pressure of Arroven’s fingers on your skin, you would have picked up on the breadcrumb trail a lot sooner.

“You’re go- going to push me over the edge,” you warn with a gasp, legs starting to tremble. He moves you in response, starts to rock your hips so all he has to do is stick out his tongue, but your hands are shaking now too, cluing him into your urgency. Arroven shakes his head from side to side, a little wild, the plugs in his earlobes clattering against his horns with every shift. You bite down on your lower lip, orgasm rolling swiftly over you and nearly choke on the curse that wants to leave your mouth. He keeps you there, aching and weak, until you pat awkwardly at his chest, releasing you reluctantly with one last obscene noise of satisfaction. 

You sit next to him, still a little unsteady and grin down at his pleased, messy face. “Now, unless you have any other lovely thoughts to share - your turn?”  

His rough sounding “Please,” has your libido jumping back into overdrive, but it’s safety that has you slipping off the bed to dig out a bottle of lube from your things. He’s half pushed himself back up when you come back to the bed, resting on his elbows, fingers twisted gently into the blankets. His wings are partially stretched out now too, one of them reaching all the way to the end of your bed. 

“Are your wings alright?” You ask, wondering if you should throw away the idea of climbing back into his lap, lube already pooling in the palm of your hand.  

Arroven smiles again though, waving away your worry. “Tense,” he offers, as explanation. “I was more focused on you, but they’re good. I promise.” His cock bobs as you approach, and then he lays back down, irises vanishing into the ether of his pupils. 

“If you promise, I suppose I’ll let it go.” You close the lube, only a bit ungracefully, and toss it to the side, climbing back onto the bed and straddling his thighs.

  Your first wet squeeze of his cock has him whimpering, your hand barely fitting around him at his thinnest point. When you stroke, he bucks nearly unseating you until he claps his hands onto your thighs, muttering a hasty apology. Despite being tempted to laugh, you narrow your eyes, squeezing him just a little harder. “You don’t have to be still, but move a little slower for now, hm?”

“Of course,” he rushes to say, and then his jaw goes slack when you press him against you. “Oh,” he breathes, nails pricking your skin as you hold him in place. You rub yourself against his cock, up and back down, a slow undulation that makes you tense, still sensitive from your earlier orgasm. 

And then you straighten, pressing the head of his cock into you. The first slow stretch of him inside you echoes the steady ache of magic, has your breath rushing from your lungs in a gasp. “Fuck,” you breathe and then glance at Arroven’s face. His head is tilted back, mouth open to reveal all of those sharp teeth, and his eyes are closed tight. You think he might be keeping himself from looking at you, might be trying to stem the urge to buck again, to move at all. You tilt your hips and press yourself down though, wiggling, and then Arroven is cursing. You don’t recognize the language, but you understand the sentiment behind it, the pleading tone that softens the edges of the words. It’s hard to concentrate, to keep yourself from getting distracted when all you want to do is sink down every inch of him and then just lay on his chest, trying to catch your breath. “Too much?” You manage to ask, but all Arroven does is shake his head and then carefully ease his grip on your thighs, stroking down to your knees and back up. Your legs, among other things, are definitely going to ache after this.

You ride Arroven until he’s a shaking, breathless mess, until he can’t help but tense his thighs every time he bottoms out, and you can barely stay up. You reach up, fingers just barely brushing his chin to make him pay attention. “Fuck me,” you command and his wings stretch to either side with force. You nearly scream when he starts fucking into you with purpose, and as lovely as your neighbors have been, you have the feeling they’re going to complain at some point. Every thrust has you tightening up on reflex, still shaky from your earlier orgasm, and it’s all you can do to keep yourself upright. A few moments later and Arroven arches as he comes inside you, clutching tightly to you until he’s finished, breath deep and rasping. You don’t wait. Carefully you flop down next to him, smiling tiredly against the blankets. You’re not sure your legs will carry you for the next hour or so, but it’s hardly something to complain about. 

“Do you give all newcomers to the hoard such a.. Vigorous welcome?” You ask, laughing, your voice rough, not really expecting him to answer. Even though he’s clearly a little more comfortable, even though he’s been clinging to your skin and he looks wrecked by all the activity. Arroven nearly chokes.

“No,” he says immediately. “Moments like this,” he murmurs, reaching out for you, ventral scales on his palm smooth over the apple of your cheek, “moments like this are few and far between.” There’s a low rumble of noise from him when you roll close to brush another kiss over his lips, eyes fluttering closed. It’s all you can do not to laugh again, not to quote the poem at him or interrupt the soft moment. It still sits in the back of your mind though, sweet and lilting.

the city is hoarding hearts

it draws them in, with coin, with art

reflects their dreams on mirrored glass

sings siren songs to catch them fast

the lights?

they gleam, they glitter, bright

it steals a piece, with every sight

roots get worn

they split, they splinter

'but i'll keep you warm, in the depth of winter'

the city whispers, it cajoles, it cries

it'll sink it's talons into your thighs

it tears, it scrapes, it batters the unwary

but oh, the love it gifts, to those who tarry

the city promises, you'll be most adored

so can you, will you, join the hoard?

[fatum-praedixi]

Tag dump~!

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[himbodjarin]

LUNAR; CH14

18+ EXPLICIT Content: Gore, general violence, Din/Third person POV. MANDO'A TRANSLATIONS AT THE BOTTOM Word count: 16,019 Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader - no y/n

The Mandalorian is a driven warrior — traversing the galaxy in search of the ancient Jedi — but everyone has their weaknesses, and he’s no different. The Bounty Hunter possessed three in fact. One he’s discovered—The Child. The remaining two, though, he wasn’t aware of their existence. At least, not until he meets a valorous Sharpshooter underneath a moonless night sky; then he’s plummeting down a dark mission of self-discovery, questioning his morals and his Creed while the moon taunts him, the phases of the satellite corresponding to his personal revelations. However, the Girl has a dark past that may come to inflict hardships on the Mandalorian and the Child; it's up to the Bounty Hunter to decide her fate. Read on AO3 / Series Masterlist / Playlist

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THIS IS THE WAY

The Sun stands off to Din’s side, silent in a comforting way, a placidness he’s unable to recover within himself, and he savours the company with a gloved hand roosting on a curve. She twists to face him, bestowing a grand smile of rays that encapsulate inside and furnaces his figure until he’s blanketed in a toasty buzz, a swelling in his internal organs that he’ll just never become accustomed to. Din reacts to the sensations the only way he knows how and drags her into his side, a hand slithering to her hip to steady her there; little engagements that he’d never considered partaking in before the Girl.

Hands carved of dormant radiation fuss with the makeshift strap slung across her shoulder; one of the more unfortunate after-effects of her victory. Din had to utilise his craftsmanship to gift her with a lash capable of taking the weight of the disruptor rifle—the harness he relied on was built into his bandolier with a small metal clasp. He cares for the Girl but she is no charity case; the rifle against her back is plenty more than he would’ve ever thought of parting with.

The meddling persists, tinking the steel of the barrel against his vambrace.

“What’s the matter?”

Her head shakes and sinks to indolently survey the turf beneath their feet.

He glances at her hand. “I thought you wanted it?”

She buckles into submission from his queries, not that it took much effort on his part, and drags a hand down the front of her face. “I did - I do but it doesn’t feel right. It’s not mine… With your religion and all this feels awry. I shouldn’t have this.”

“I want you to have it.”

It’s the truth. He wants to be endowed with the ability to watch her manipulate something that’s been with him for so long. He wants to bookmark how it frames her body—he doesn’t know how but it does and he’s eternally grateful for that—but most of all, he wants a part of him to be forever touching her.

Nonetheless, it still doesn’t satisfy her scepticism and she scratches into the leather strap until it weathers and flakes.

“It’s just—”

“What?”

A relieving puff of stale carbon dioxide dispels from her slim parted lips. “I don’t want you to think I’m using you for your rifles, for your protection.”

Helmet inclines enough for the tip of his T to connect with her eyes; a small shake of his head as if to enquire what she’s talking about. She’s more than capable of protecting herself. She’s demonstrated it time and time again and Din is the last person who’d assume such things from her.

“I mean it’s the only reason I hitched a ride from you in the first place. I felt like I deserved compensation for my rifle and I needed a way off that damned planet.” She stiffly eases her eyes to the ground and scrunches a stone beneath the toes of her boot. “I never could’ve anticipated all of what’s happened...happening to—to happen…”

Jumbled and stuttering as if she’d downed six flasks of spotchka is a new look on her. It spawns a bounce in his lungs but he stifles the deep chuckle in the interest of not distressing her more than she obviously already is.

Serrated seams etch into the ridges of her eyebrows laced with insecurity, as though peering through a distorted mirror; one concerned expression switching with the other.

She elaborates, with such a hushed volume he almost activates his sonic detectors to register the mumbling, “It just feels as though if this is in my possession there’s no need for me to stick around. You’ve cleared your debt. I’m of no use to a reinforced Mandalorian like yourself. I appreciate the offer, I do, but…”

“What about…” he suggests, two fingers tilting her chin upwards, “you just keep it warm for me.”

It’ll technically remain hers—radioactive fingers having tagged the trigger with her insignia, the rifle imprinting its framework into the soft flesh of her back whereas it never could nestle into his beskar—even if Din is the only one who believes so. His proposal appears to hit the nail on the head of her insecurities and she allows that pesky hand to cease its unjustified carnage on the strap once and for all.

He’s entrusted with a significant smile that he cradles in his palms gently, nurturing it to ensure its growth and progression—a curve of her lips he’s not worthy of possessing but she donates it nonetheless.

“I can do that.”

It’s a witless justification to continue this worldless pact they’ve got going on and they couldn’t give a damn whether it was a phony excuse or not. She’s deciding to stay as opposed to leaving the parsec with pieces of himself attached to her back and around her neck; she wants to stay. Peradventure, it’ll only be for a little while—Din wasn’t accommodating enough for people’s liking and they’d always leave eventually—but maybe she’ll outride his past acquaintances and remain.

Din silently sighs and glances down the path they’re idled along. Caben and Stoke should’ve returned by now, though he suspects they did and that they might have been accidentally exposed to his fixation on the Girl. They weren’t exactly being quiet in the Crest after all.

Still, it provokes an irresistible grin; she’s his and only he could arouse those sounds from deep in her stomach.

“Sweet girl.” His finger pets the peak of her cheekbone. “I think we’re going to have to walk back.”

She groans. “So much for an easy-going day.”

With their intended excursion back to the settlement coming up empty-handed, the two set out from the Crest and follow the path they’d been adhered to for the past hour.

It’s nearing dusk; vibrant blues and greens numbing to darkened blends of orange and purples. The Eclipse formally so highly spoken of from their taxi service approaches as the moon makes its tiresome journey above.

“D’you think we’ll get to see it?” The Girl’s questioning disrupts the flow of crunching gravel underneath their synchronized feet.

The sky is victimised by a leering tinted slit of transparisteel, analysing the steadiness of thick clouds rolling across the surface of the dual spheres. It scales inwards to observe the shadows of craters beneath the puffs. Sorgan’s secondary moon, much smaller in size or perhaps simply further away, is smothered in the overcast and lags behind its twin, silent and colourless.

“Clouds are moving fast. It should be okay.”

She nods. “Never had the pleasure of seeing one before. Heard they’re real pretty, though. What about you?”

“No. I don’t frequent a planet long enough.”

There’s a fork in the road, diverging off into three different paths but he’s got it all memorised in the back of his mind and continues onwards without a falter in his steps, the Girl to his side with a bounce in her step as she mulls over his candour approach.

“That’s too bad. Not one for settling down, huh?”

It’s a rhetorical question but Din doesn’t want to leave her hanging regardless, “No.”

“Yet here you are—” She prods a finger at his unarmoured side prompting a light swat to her hand. “—settling.”

“...I’m not settling.”

“No?”

His shoulders broaden and he hooks a thumb in the front of his belt. “No.”

She chuckles at him but mercifully leaves it at that, well aware what he says isn’t true but she’s none the wiser to what he’s settling down for—and it’s not Sorgan.

Leather clings to her hip for dear life, refusing to surrender its residency even when they drift from one another to avoid a dip in the path; fingers merely burrow into the cloth and drag the warmth straight back once they’ve passed. Din exploits the absence of inquisitive glances and looming queries to dedicate cloying touches and he’s not afraid to demonstrate it. Where, even a week ago, he couldn’t express these emotions without the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the arousal pulsing in his core, but circumstances have changed—evolved into something fresh.

Something untouched that he wants to corrupt with his obscene hands.

It’s short-lived. Snooping eyes return.

Lanterns emitting orange hues reflect off the waters of the emerging krill ponds, softly rounded fluorescents mirroring against his polished beskar as he sweeps through the troughs. The majority of the inhabitants surround the central campfire, its flames a worthy competitor to the lanterns mellow gingers. They lick and lick and lick at the sky, the scorching embers puffing into the fading purples upwards; laughter and the tinking of spotchka-filled flasks circling the bonfire.

Leather collapses resembling the Crest plummeting through the atmosphere. Heavy, fast, and everything in slow motion while he processes he’s losing traction, a small hitch in his chest upon striking his own thigh. She’s right beside him, an inch away from brushing elbows, yet she’s still too far.

It’s not in his nature to act so possessively in front of people—out in the open for whoever to gauge thoughts, to probe his emotions—and he won’t start parading around now, in spite of the fact she’s accumulated fresh bruises that haven’t been fortunate enough to receive time to heal; or even grant the red inking to mollify into something a little less salient.

They’re the one factor he can pardon from his public displays of affection regulation. It’s simple and clean. An honest indication of what’s between them without needing to flaunt it, simply a demonstration to not infringe on their relations.

Din is accustomed to the turned heads, the watchful gazes as they make way to the midpoint, but the Girl still finds it intolerant; the exposure too confining and she slinks back a few steps. He continues onwards not wanting to draw further attention to her and they pass the spectators, eyes stooping and communication commencing after they’ve had a gander of their guests—their clothes and the Girl’s dishevelled hair evidence enough.

They’re really not as discreet as they pass themselves off to be.

Omera interrupts his motion with a sidestep onto their path. She offers a courteous smile. “Did you have an eventful day?”

“Yes.”

“Can we expect your participation tonight? It should only be a few more hours before the eclipse commences.”

Din nods, somewhat reluctant to agree. Social settings weren’t in his favour but there’s a persistent woman on the heels of his boots who longs to see the phenomenon, and whatever she wishes he will grant with a simple please Din.

Omera gleams at his accepted invitation and gestures past the campfire to a stationed bench compiled of dishes and brimming glasses of various liquids. “Help yourself to our delicacies. It’s all traditional for the celebration.”

He softly sighs, not enough for anybody to hear him over the uproar but it’s sufficient in getting his unimpressed thoughts regarding the taunting dishes—at least, the Girl notices. His helmet pans to the heft on his pauldron, caf-coloured eyes trailing along the limb and jumping to its partner gesturing in the direction of the hut.

“I’ll get you something to eat, all right?”

She doesn’t entitle him the opportunity to oppose her proposition before bounding through the crowd to collect a platter of high-grade Sorgan nourishments. He scouts for a moment, considering her with a slender tilt of his helmet; riveting, how enthusiastic and adaptable she is to the liability of his Creed.

The Way had forcibly distanced him from so many potentials, pulverised them before his very visor, and here she was, dirtying her faultless hands with the soot of his decisions simply to cater to him.

It wasn’t all that long ago he’d be seated up in the Crest’s cockpit, a helmet on his lap, a bowl of nutrients in his hands, a deadpan expression etched into his face as the stars skim past the viewport. Silence, he so often told himself he favours, accompanying him like a prodding rod at the back of his ears; loud and exhausting despite its very name.

It has been quite a while since he’s succumbed to the silence with the Child and all. While he wished the kid would actually comply with his requests, Din has a preference for the cooing and squealing of a baby than the hum and buzz of his haven.

Perhaps it won’t last long—the Child will be returned to wherever he originated and the Girl will journey on after some time—but at least he can savour the atmosphere until then; anything ranging from the snarky remarks to the comfortable quiet in contrast to the loud, resonating one he’s been inflicted by all these years.

“I’ll leave you to eat,” Omera announces, “I’m sure your boy would like to see you when you’re done.”

Another nod on behalf of him, another burden on his pauldron from her; a fleeting touch of her hand but it’s cold and sharp and Din yearns for the Girl’s radiation to cleanse him of the hypothermia.

He sighs and makes his way to their hut.

Their quarters are overfamiliar. The littered blankets untouched, the way Din liked it, lasting evidence of what occurred. The flimsy dress she despised neglected and long forgotten, though it resurges the crisp memories regarding Din’s Honour; how he nonchalantly stripped himself of what he’s constructed himself around simply to feel a smidge of liberation with the Girl—to highlight their connections in the cracks of their implicit relationship.

To show he’s more than just a rusting Creed.

Din exhales through his filters and sinks to the cot’s mattress. It’s not nearly as comfortable with all the beskar on but it’s not as though he’ll be inside long.

“Oh yeah, you just relax there why don’t you?” The Girl grumbles from the doorway, balancing an assortment of bowls and plates in either hand and the crooks of her elbows—she would’ve made for a poor waitress in another life.

He makes no attempt to aid her. “That’s too much.”

“It’s not all for you. Other people eat, too, you know.”

Oh, he knows all too well. The sugary goodness of a thick syrup running down her fingers and onto his tongue never strays far from his mind.

She tries for a bend of her knees to ease the dishes onto a surface but they more or less topple out of her grip, scattering pieces of fried foods across the burnished wood. “Shit...ah, it’s just yours.”

“Funny.”

“I like to think so,” she cracks.

Din strains from his position to observe the variety of consumables she’d pinched from the community; bone broth, assorted krill, an unidentified pastry of some sort—Din crosses it off his list, far too dry looking for his taste—among snacking foods.

They’re not worthy of the title ‘appetising’ but Din’s acquainted with tasteless stock; he only ever eats it for the nutrients anyways.

She hoards a bowl of bone broth to her chest. “I’ll be outside. If you want seconds just call me, yeah?”

Leather wraps around her wrist before he properly registers her words. “No—you can stay. It’s not like I haven’t taken this off around you before.”

“I thought you might’ve wanted to eat in peace.”

Din exhales a laugh out of his nose. “A girl of your build should be smarter than that, no?”

It rises a simper out of her, a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head. Din retrieves the extended plate of krill prepared in a vast abundance of methods—fried, broiled, roasted, sauteed—he unenthusiastically considers a crustacean between two gloved digits.

Vibrant cobalt had grown to a dim grey underneath the golden breading, a fine sheet of oil coating leather skin and a drop of grease slipping down the curve of his thumb. Reluctance and dissatisfaction are apparent in his mannerisms and vocoder, emitting an exhaust laden sigh that crackles into the quiet lodge.

The mattress dips with her weight, the press of her back against his beskar. “Not one for krill?”

“I think I’ve had my fair dose,” Din broods.

“Still pent up about getting a little bit of water in your circuits?”

Another cheesy droid joke that pushes his eyes into the back of his skull but he lets it slide. Din’s famished. It’d been a while since he ate; well, not exactly but the Girl wasn’t much of a meal more than a treat. If he could draw out sustenance from her he’d never have to endure another stale dessert or salty meats from who knows where.

Their backs are pressed firmly together, practically leaning on each other for support, and Din doesn’t need to verify whether she’s looking away for him to unlatch his helmet. Its casual hiss signals for her to keep her eyes trained forwards and he lays the steel to rest beside him.

It’s the first time her eyes are open while the helmet is detached. Well, maybe not the first—he had lifted it the slightest back on Tatooine, in the cockpit while she busied herself with his Crest’s maintenance. The circumstances don’t much differ from now; both scenarios involve food of some sort and resolute trust.

Cobalt of the sweet dessert transferred to a chewy crustacean that’s comparable to grinding tar in his mouth, tough and fudgy but in all the worst ways. Din isn’t a selective person; he can consume the coarse flavourless product without a second’s worth of hesitance but he’s had the best of the best—jatnese be te jatnese, he’d said so himself—a gluttonous intake of the Girl’s taste and nothing will ever equate to that.

The mound of unchewable meat slips down his pipes, buttery and peppery but overall bland. Nutritional enough. He crams another cluster of the crescents into his gullet to appease his appetite.

The Girl sips on the pale cream broth behind him, head tilted against his as the liquid leaks from the carved bowl and between her lips. Din can’t imagine the taste is much better than the krill with the colours being so dull—as though they were eating the incarnation of unstimulating hues of greys and blacks.

“Do you want to try some?” she asks, extending the half-empty bowl to their side.

Din retrieves the grub with a low hum in his throat, uncertain, but ultimately decides it can’t hurt to give it a try. It’s obviously edible if it’s a Sorgan delicacy—how wrong he was. It’s saltier than the oceans with chunks in it; he doesn’t even want to think what they could be. He refrains from spitting the soup back into the bowl or onto the cot and feebly swallows the lukewarm puddle, a nubby leather wrist wiping the residue from his lips with disgust.

She bellows at his reaction, the back of her shoulders bouncing against his pauldrons as she struggles to contain herself.

The base of the bowl knocks against the closest surface available, a flimsy stool that accompanies the table, and he scowls with his arms crossed against the hump of his chest. “You’re wicked.”

“Seemed like you wanted a taste with the way you were looking at me.” Din’s head slightly tilts as he watches from the corner of the visor. “I can feel your eyes. Not sure how you ever catch bounties when all you do is stare.”

Bounties are intimidated by my staring, they’re smart, he wants to retort but saying bounties and smart in the same sentence is comical.

Appetite long gone, by consequence of broth that would serve a better purpose as blurrg feed, Din clips the rim of his beskar between two fingers and considers it among his lap. There’s no intent to lift it up and over his face. No intent to distance himself from the Girl just yet. It gawks at him; captivating in its own methods but still so ransacked of life. The black void of his false eyes darker than that of Space’s vacuum.

Din’s eyes ricochet from the slit to the back of the Girl’s head like a blaster bolt within a room of reflective duralloy and nowhere to go; pondering the morals of his very character as he aligns the crown of her head with the vacancy in his clutch.

She noticeably stiffens as his helmet envelopes her, the rim slack around her neck with nothing to latch onto. Fingers dismiss the fried krill she’s been feasting on and orbits the surface; Din amicably smacks them away and lays his hands on her shoulders to loosen the knots.

“Greasy,” he simply explains his reaction.

One would think such a valuable material as beskar could be cleaned with a small wipe of a damp cloth. One would be wrong. It’s a nuisance to maintain its condition and he’d been lagging behind with its upkeep as of recent—he couldn’t afford greasy fingerprints.

Soft vocals are replaced with a crunchy crackle, an unnatural graininess as if she digested a bucket’s worth of Arvala-7 terrain; sand and grit forming lumps in her ducts and spluttering into the internals of beskar, “What are you doing?”

His fingers rub into the base of her neck, the deepness of his unaffected tone eliciting a hum within the helm. “The rifle won’t be used to its full potential without the helmet.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not giving you the helmet. I just want to show you what it can do.”

“Is this...allowed?” She goes to scratch the back of her head but knocks against the steel and limply drops her hand. “It doesn’t feel like this is allowed. I’m sure there’s a rule in that big ol’ Manual for Mandalorians you’ve got hiding around.”

He scoffs. “Do you want to see it or not?”

It dips to a dainty nod.

“Gods, this is heavy. Don’t you get a sore neck?”

Din neglects her questioning and extends his vambrace before her, his other arm reaching around to point at the buttons—effectively sandwiching her between his gauntlets—and his finger focuses on one in particular. It’s a small circular button, a clone to all the others, but more weathered from the abrasive leather. “Click this,” he instructs.

She complies, her digit dainty beside the stocky hide, helmet perking up once the thermal activates and submerging her vision in cool hues of blues. Her curiosity matches that of the Child’s as she twists and turns her head side to side, surely discovering the warm tones of candlelight and heat signals radiating from their hands before her.

“Wait a damn minute—” The Girl aims to toss a suspectful glare in his direction but quickly dismisses the desire, his exposure never far from the forefront of her mind, “you cheating-”

“I told you, Cyar’ika,” Din coos against the side of the helmet. “Not a gentleman.”

“I...I demand a rematch.”

Din chuckles into her, the leaps of his laughter ricocheting against her back but he pays her decree no attention. There’s no way she’d reign successfully in a no holds barred condition, not when his visor contributes half of the rifle's potential of force. Then again, if things were to pan out the same way it did earlier perhaps he’ll take her up on it—just for fun.

“Good for calculating how many threats there are--”

“Yeah, that, or being a little-”

“Next,” he navigates her hand to a second preset.

The thermal deactivates with one push and the sonic detectors engage with another.

It must be disorienting for her to focus on all the surrounding sounds of the settlement, the steel swallowing her senses, Din remembers the first time he donned a helmet—one much smaller and lighter than his current but all the same in terms of abilities and desensitising him from the outside world. Pair that with the power to be able to hear a whisper from over a hundred metres away, it can turn situations sticky and muddled if not appropriately centred.

“What do you hear?”

She’s mute and motionless, suspended in the limbo of space and time.

Din presses a kiss to the nape of her neck in an attempt to declutter her mind but it does very little; sharp claws of concern grasping at the back of his head and scampering upwards until the pressure against his temples is unbearable and it finally conquers him.

He shouldn’t have imposed this on her. He of all people should’ve known better. It takes years of getting accustomed to it.

“Hey. Hey, okay, no more.”

It’s eased up halfway before she interrupts and pulls it back down. “I’m fine. Just trying to focus. There are too many conversations, it’s distracting.” She chuckles. “Good thing I didn’t have it this morning. You snore, you know. Would’ve rendered me deaf.”

Din grumbles beneath his breath—something even the detectors can’t distinguish with the crackles in his vocal cords—and sharply flicks the back of the steel with his forefinger, grinning when she compresses a hand against the side where her ear resides.

“Ow,” she whines. “Okay, okay, turn it off. I’m sick of hearing you breathe down my neck.”

It disables with a final push of his vambrace.

The Girl explores the surface of the beskar with either hand and Din subconsciously annotates how dilatory she is with it—her fingers dipping from the cheek ridges to the face and around the ear caps before resting against the sealed cooling vents at the back—solely dedicating the time to recognise the only face she can put a name to but from his perspective.

Combine that with being endowed with the pleasure of seeing her in his shirt and helmet provokes Din’s heart to stammer against the bones, his jaw to tighten and he seizes the beskar by the edge and twists it to face him. He enables virtually no time for her to comprehend what he’s planning and it’s undetermined whether she managed to shut her eyes before his face is frontwards, but he trusts they are.

It’s outlandish to gaze into the cold dark visor when there’s another lifeform beneath it. Sure, he’s encountered incalculable Mandalorians in his lifetime but never has anybody worn his helmet—it’s a fragment of his Creed, of Him, and he’d rather fall victim to a sarlacc and endure the agony of being digested for millennia than to witness another being wield his persona.

Omitting the Girl from the equation, naturally.

She could carve out his heart with his vibro-knife and he wouldn’t complain one bit. It’s incomprehensible what she does to him. Just a touch of her finger on his face and he’s primed to brandish a blaster and confront her greatest enemy even if he’s incapable of victory.

Nonetheless, it astonishes him how she can gaze into the nullity of a slit and not request—demand—for more. She’s more than deserving of it and yet she doesn’t wish for it.

Perhaps she sees a mirrored image of what’s before him. Not a slab of shiny steel nor a devout Creed but merely the living tissue, the pumping blood, beneath it.

Din trails a digit along the steel jawline and lifts as he reaches the transparisteel visor connecting to the curve at the bottom. It lifts only a little, just enough for her lips and the point of her nose to peek beneath. The soft hills separate instinctively and he wastes no time slotting his own in their place, cupping the back of her neck with his free hand to drag her in close.

Those damned words. They utterly refuse to vacate his mind—duplicating by the dozen and submerging his thoughts and sensations with foreign statements. It links together into a lengthy chain made of high-grade alloy, fortified greater than freshly smelted beskar, and packages his consciousness into overburdened disarray.

Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum.

Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum. Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum.

Din needs her to know; needs her to hear those words tumble out of his vocal cords.

He needs to enunciate them—to listen to himself admit the feelings hidden within him aren't pseudo.

But he can’t; his lips cease their endeavours against hers yet he still can’t discover the courage to say three little fucking words. Thank the stars he disabled the sonic detectors because he wouldn’t be able to take the speculative questioning upon hearing the thumping in his chest, deep and muffled pulses of his heart struggling to compete with his nerves.

“Din,” she whispers. “You’re overthinking again, aren’t you?”

“No…”

“Come on, you need to get some fresh air. Let’s go see the kid.”

No, not yet, he thinks. Please, just a little while longer.

She hoists the beskar from her head slowly, inches of her impeccable face unmasking at a time. He cups her jaw and tilts her head to peck at her chin, her cheeks, and forehead as the helmet is relieved from each section.

Din records the movement of flesh underneath his lips as she smiles against his intimacy and it urges something intense and unexplored in his centre, his core, and the helmet bounces off the cot and crashes to the floor below with a small push of his three fingers; his lips refusing to curb their hunger for cushiony skin and his weight slowly applies against her until she inclines onto her back with him above.

“Din.”

“Mmm,” he hums, leathers stroking the strands of hair out of her face before reconnecting his lips to her cheekbones.

“We—we can’t. The kid is waiting for you.” Her actions overpower her words; a hand slides down his cape feebly, her fingers catching on the folds to thrust him closer.

“You’re addictive.”

“Not so bad yourself.”

Din emits a gravelly groan and slides a knee between her legs, the edge of his cuisse brushing against the peak of her groin. “Can I have a taste, Cyar—sweetheart, please?”

They don’t have the privilege of time on their side, Din’s more than aware of this fact and yet he can’t stop the glove from slithering down her neck and the curve of her chest to idle at the hem of her pants.

“You’re insatiable,” she says, fingers firmly rooted within the scratchy cloak.

She’s hitting the nail on the head with that proclamation; he’s utterly unsated and deprived of her sweetness. Din requires it like sustenance—like medicine.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“Never.”

The aftertaste of her slick is on his tongue and he needs more. He wants to binge on her for eternity and, maybe, then he’ll finally be content; a belly full of her translucent flavours, the gums of his throat and mouth coated in the thickness to the brink of suffocation.

Din’s fingers toy with her buckle loosely, queuing for approval.

“Can’t,” she whines pitifully. “We’ve already made our presence known. They’ll be expecting us out there. Besides, you should spend time with the kid. I’m not going anywhere.”

“No?”

She grins. “Well—maybe back to the Crest. Has that offer got an expiry date?”

“Offer?”

“Already forgotten, huh? If I remember correctly, you said you’ll fuck me in your bunk whenever I want.” She mimics his words, “Name the time.”

Shit—it wasn’t just pillow-talk.

“Why didn’t you mention it while we were there?”

“Oh no, Din.” He’s dragged inwards, his lips brushing the tip of her ear as she diabolically whispers into his, “I got something special planned for that.”

A chill runs beneath his beskar, brandishing his flesh with a bumpiness the dunes of Tatooine would envy. There are endless possibilities for what she’s got in mind but Din’s been excluded from her brainstorming. It doesn’t cease his imagination to run wild with disgusting thoughts of deviancy; ones involving her bent over on that shitty cot of his, the familiar manacles capturing her wrists, shameful noises slipping past those beautiful lips as he takes her night long and into the rise of the sun.

It had to be bigger than that. Don’t get him wrong, he wants to give her all of that, badly, but she could’ve done it earlier. They would’ve had the equipment on hand, no preparation necessary. No, she’s suggesting something else. Something bigger.

But she won’t indicate anything further, won’t give him a little taste of what’s to come, and cruelly urges him back onto his feet to recollect his helmet with a heavy hand.

She observes him upon hearing the click of his locking system inside the helm, either hand on his hip with an inclined head that just reads don’t leave me hanging.

“Suspense makes it all that much better,” she sweetly says.

He’s beginning to realise that sweetness is all exterior, a disguise for all the hot and heaviness she possesses within. A decoy that he’s fallen victim to. He’s like that of a fish foolishly nipping at a too good to be true enticement, the Girl laying in wait for him to latch on and reel him into his doom.

But she’s inexperienced. Unsuspecting of his abilities. Oblivious to his attachment to her lure.

She’s sweet but she’s also sour.

Salty in the heat of the moment.

Bitter in times of hurt.

Saliva constructed of pure savoury goodness.

She’s got all the nourishments he requires and there’s an endless supply; flavours he can taste straight from the source.

So, one can assume the agony, the clenched fists in his gloves, as they saunter through the chatty crowd, her hips swaying ahead of him a little too provocatively. She knows what she does to him, he’s demonstrated his need in various positions, and she’ll go above and beyond to find one way or another to fuck with him—to poke and prod to test his self-control before he drags her behind a hut and fucks her against the walls, whether it was outside or not he couldn’t care.

To fuse her fingers with the puppet strings attached to his pauldrons.

“This should be quiet enough,” she announces and throws herself onto the handcrafted bench, tossing a leg over the other and patting the empty space beside her. “I know you like quiet.”

Din plops down with the Child on his lap, a slothful hand massaging the green wrinkles at the summit of his head. There’s a handful of farmers in their own respective groups scattered around them, producing enough noise that allows thoughts to wander without concerning themselves with maintaining a conversation.

Sorgan’s moons are at their pinnacles, puffy grey plumes illuminated into off-whites from their luminescence. One sphere perches in the vast black, performing as a repellent to the swarms of haze, while the other is blinded by the thickness of the clouds; a circular radiance perceived through the fluffiness the only indication the planet possessed more than one.

A vague shadow surmounts the moon’s edge, the dawdling process of the eclipse having commenced but it’ll be quite some time before anything worthwhile transpires—Din sullenly groans at the missed opportunity to give her his tongue back on the cot. It’s not as though they were missing out on anything. It would’ve only taken him a couple of minutes to work her up to the brink, a couple more to—

“I never asked,” she says. “What’s the deal with you and the kid?”

“What do you mean?”

She shifts in search of a comfortable position among the splinters. “He’s a bounty and you’re a bounty hunter; please don’t make me explain further.”

Din sighs and swipes a finger across the leafy brim of his ear, provoking a gentle burble into the Crest’s gear knob. “I handed him over but they were doing experiments on him and I couldn’t leave him there. Things didn’t go to plan--”

“Because you don’t plan.”

“--and there was a shootout with the Guild.”

“So,” She ponders, “you’ve got a bounty of your own now.”

He scoffs. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Too late.”

Din entertains her amusement with a quiet huff of air through his filters, soft enough for her to register it’s not an annoyance. The subject of the Guild raises some questions he’s not wanting to voice—they’ll only ruin the mood and he doesn’t want to admit defeat—but he’s to play the hand he’s been dealt.

“We need to discuss where we’re heading next,” he says.

“So soon? It’s only been two days.”

“Should consider ourselves lucky we’ve managed to survive this long here. There could be hunters stationed from the last time I was here.”

“Right—and the Crest would’ve got their attention,” she agrees. “Okay. Where are you thinking?”

Somewhere reclusive. An isolated backwater planet much like Sorgan but one where nobody knows their names or reputation. Although discovering a planet with the aforementioned qualities is easier said than done, especially with the threats of audacious bounty hunters on their thrusters. Idling in space until they stumble across a safe-enough planet—or if pirates picked them off—was always an option.

Din sighs.

The Girl was right; he doesn’t plan. He’d just been traversing from parsec to parsec all his life, picking up commissions for fuel and a bite to eat, partaking in activities that simply aided his survival. Now with the Child, he’s expected to have a procedure—to shield him from the dangers Din automatically puts him in upon rescuing him from the client. But he doesn’t have the scheme to save their lives, literally.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Nothing wrong with not knowing. With my skills behind a rifle and your—uh… Point is, we’ll figure it out. Lighten up a little, you’ll wrinkle that pretty face of yours.”

With a roll of his eyes behind the visor, he settles for her words of reassurance and heeds her suggestion to relax his forehead.

“Mandalorian—Mando,” Omera’s abrupt panic-stricken tone is plenty for both of them to straighten their posture and bury the quips. Din twists his helmet to where she stands behind him, noting the fumbling hands before her lap, the twitch in her eyebrow ridges.

Din deposits the Child into the Girl’s arms and stands. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Caben and Stoke...they—they weren’t with you?”

“No, they never returned for us.”

The Girl interjects, “We assumed they headed back before us.”

“No, no. Nobody has seen them.”

Shit—he should’ve realised something was wrong when they failed to show up. Raiders? There was no sign of them on that trail—but Din wasn’t exactly in the right mindset, being too haunted by the Girl’s temptations.

“I’m sorry to ask this of you...at an unfortunate time, no less, but-”

“I’ll go trace their route and see if I pick anything up,” Din says.

“Thank you, thank you.” Omera clasps his hands in gratitude, her thumbs brushing along the stitching.

“It’s not a problem. If I don’t come across them on the trail, I’ll question the neighbouring settlement. They should have some information.”

“I’m coming with you,” the Girl pipes up.

“No. Stay with the kid here.”

She shoots him a curved eyebrow and places a hand on her hip, her other cradling the Child into her side. “I hardly think watching the moon is of importance right now. I won’t let you go out there alone and it’ll be quicker if there’s two of us looking.”

“I don’t want-”

“Don’t want, what, to drag me into this? I think we’re far past all that, no?”

Din sighs. “Fine.”

No use arguing with someone so cocksure like her. Besides, when push comes to shove she’ll be resourceful with the rifle.

The Child isn’t happy at the circumstances, to say the least. He finally finds serenity wrapped in cold beskar edges and has been stripped away so soon—he glares at his guardian in the warmth of poncho-clad arms while Din and the Girl retreat into the woods once more. He’ll make it up to the kid when he gets back; Din’s certain he’ll face the wrath of a foot-long baby if he doesn’t.

“I think you should take the rifle. Just in case.”

“No. You need something to protect yourself.” Din brushes her suggestion off and activates the thermals on his vambrace.

“I’ve got my blaster.”

“That’s not enough. Here, hold it up. Press that. Be careful with the bayonet.”

She glances at him with questioning eyes and rests the rifle against her hip. “What’d you do?”

“It’ll administer electricity to anybody who touches it. There're only so many cartridges—” Din presents a cluster of steel cylinders in his glove and she shoves them in a pocket in her pants, “Pair your blaster with the bayonet and use the ammunition sparingly.”

“You think we’ll need them?”

“Just be prepared.”

They fall into a sharply cold silence, Din utilising his sonic detectors as they trudge through the bush to discern any commotion that may be of use. The Girl retains a pace a few steps behind his own, purposefully slotting her boots into his prints to avoid a stray twig snap here or a tumble there. It’s wordlessly recognised if there are raiders in these parts it’s best not to disclose their presence, especially not when there’s two of them. It supplies them with a lead on their opponent, at least until they identify how many there are.

The thermals are nothing but counterproductive. If they had passed through recently the track would surely be lit in fire-orange but it’s all blues and greys; Din thumbs the button to restore his vision, relieving the burden of having to focus on where he steps and clicks another for his sonic detectors. His vambrace was really getting put to the test today.

“Where——or….hurt you.”

Din freezes, the Girl sharp in his guide, and adjusts his helmet to pinpoint the muffling in his sensors. It’s quiet. Shallow. It could be flooded with a singular flask of water.

“Does….Child,” It’s speech tears.

East, about ninety metres out. The forest is thickened around these parts—too dense to trace any campfires or shadows—but there’s somebody there and they’re referencing a child; there’s not a doubt in his mind it’s The Child.

They’re not raiders. They’re not people who’ll go down without a fight.

“Guild members,” Din slips.

“Any clue how many?”

He hones in on the vocals, isolating each individual muffle or change of tone that could indicate there’s more than just the one. Even if he’s wrong, it’s best to be over-prepared. “Two. No, wait...three. I think.” She quietly mulls the possibility over, the strap of the rifle flinging over her shoulder as she makes way inwards. Din seizes her wrist and suspends her movements. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll get the high ground and see if I can spot Caben and Stoke. There’s no point starting something if they’re not there.”

“High ground?” Din questions.

She grins and breaks his grasp. “How’d you think I got those targets up in the trees?”

The Girl cracks her knuckles, the clicks and pops of joints puncturing his eardrums through the detectors like a bubble underneath a needlepoint. Either of her hands sprawls on the sides of a trunk, fingers dig into the bark for traction, and she hoists her feet up—she’s like the Crest in its ascent, agile and coordinated as she frog-kicks herself up into the branches.

Din’s eyebrows raise in dismay; he didn’t know what he was expecting but it wasn’t that.

The potential one possesses outside a suit of steel is still an astonishing concept to Din even after all these years of branding himself to the insides of his helmet. There’s an endless list of skills he’ll never be able to master—untapped aptitudes that have greyed into a colourless nothing.

Steel platings obstruct his movements, the helmet an obstacle to his sensations; his birthrights.

Brittle tree arms creak and whine above him, the leaves rustling as she navigates the long-arm’s lens to her sight. He’ll be left in amazement if she can distinguish the bodies from the swaying of blunted foliage. The land is too compact with trunks reaching the clouds, even with the magnified scope it’ll be near impossible to identify how many there are or whether the missing duo is being held captive.

His thermals would come in handy right about now for her; with her height advantage and his helmet, she’d assuredly recognise their precise positioning. Hell, she’d be an unstoppable force—a marksman even the greatest of bounty hunters would shake in their armour witnessing.

The Girl’s low tone sails through the treetops, gliding with the bitter night edge, and into his sonic detectors, “I see them—they’ve got them in the middle of the camp. Minimum six hostiles. All equipped with blasters. I can take two of them out from here.”

Well, he’s definitely left in amazement.

That’ll leave him with the remaining four, so long as there’s not more concealed within the shadows.

A lack of communication between them serves as nothing but an impediment, but time isn’t on their side and Din can’t waste any more of it to collect the comm units from the Crest. Weapons locker, second drawer, to the left.

If only he had thought of it earlier.

Din’s helmet inclines skywards, his visor scaling in and outlining her frame.

They’ve got each other's credibility and that, strictly, is sufficient for Din to jump into action; cutting through the undergrowth and stealthing between pillars of wood, each succeeding stride premeditated.

His scanners crackle against his ears, a gruff voice laced with croaks and coughs slipping through the beskar, “Where is he? Look at me! You’ll tell me where he is, boy, otherwise I’ll gut you right here. Perhaps watching you die will encourage your friend to speak, yeah?”

Caben and Stoke quake ahead of the lambent light illuminating their features; previously happy expressions replaced with terror, identical to when the AT-ST had broken through a dozen sturdy trees to gaze upon its victims with hollow eyes.

A burly Weequay paces before them, twin thumbs hooked on the hoops of his trousers in an attempt to appear stockier.

Fuckin’ Weequays.

Din’s blaster will come up short in a confrontation with that layered flesh of his and, with the lack of communication between them, he can’t depend on the Girl on being able to snipe him—he may not be one of the two she can manage. Another Guild member sits off to the side of the farmers, intimidatingly polishing a small vibro-knife in his fist. The remaining four she spoke of patrol their encampment; all either human or made with skin he can puncture.

It won’t be easy and the Weequay has the advantage; Din will need to take him out first and foremost.

He’ll put his faith in the Girl’s abilities that she can ward off the other’s long enough.

Din shovels a cluster of rocks into his hand and hurls them overhead and into the copse recesses, the rustling effectively tearing the hunters’ focus from their posts—Din springs to action and leaps from behind the greenery boscage, blaster pistol in his dominant hand and vibro-knife in the other.

The Weequay’s back faces Din and he exploits the factor, pouncing like a predatory loth-cat onto him and slicing a gash into the leathery hide of his neck. It does minimal damage, a small notch for a dribble of blood to meet with the neck of his shirt. He’s thrown off of the hunter and stumbles backwards into a tree, grunting and raising his blaster outwards; the trigger snaps against the alloy hold, a burning beam of cherry drilling into a fleshy build. It drops to the dirt, blaster bouncing astray.

“Mandalorian!” Caben exclaims into his detectors.

Din doesn’t reply nor impart his eyes to analyse their condition - they’re alive and that’s all that mattered while in the midst of battle.

The Weequay restores his attention to his surroundings, scowling at the Mandalorian before him and dipping calloused fingers into the wound of his neck. He snarls at the amassed blood on his tips. “You’ll pay for that, Mando, just as soon as you tell me where the bounty is.”

Child--bounty.

Any doubt that he had about them being after the kid is shattered, obliterated entirely.

Din’s vibro-knife pulses in his fist, his finger planted against the trigger in his other. The four scrawnier minions gather around his position against the tree, brandishing arrogant smirks as they languidly handle their blasters.

“I said-” The Weequay spits between his boots. “-tell me where the bounty is. You may have taken one of us but there are plenty more. There’s only one of you—your friends here aren’t much fighters.”

One. He scoffs.

A henchman, typically made of flesh and bones and blood, pops beside the Weequay; organic matter dissolving to flaky dust onto the forest floor. It leaves nothing behind that proves it was once a humanoid, barring the hunter’s blaster which plummets to the soil and knocks against the boot of his partner.

“What the pfassk!” One of them cries.

His detectors pick up the familiar whistle of a rifle pellet.

The Weequay raids his surroundings, concluding Din’s ally to be the in the only place that’d see them from this distance: “In the trees! Go!”

The hunters follow their orders but abruptly stop; a second member obliterating the moment his boot sole leaves the ground. Particles scatter with the breeze through the leafy canopies. They lie in wait, suspecting of another incoming granule but Din knows it won’t come—they’re well out of her sight.

But he can’t let them head in her direction; Din flicks the point of his blade between two fingers and slings the knife through the air and into the Weequay’s gullet once more—deeper and thrumming out splotches of plasma, an unnerving outcome of the intensity the knife is throbbing.

He staggers backwards in shock but Din focuses on the others, administering two perfectly aligned bolts into either of their unsuspecting chests; they nosedive into snapped twigs and gravel where sticky liquid accumulates underneath their bodies.

One to go.

Din didn’t act in accordance with his plan—the Weequay winding up as the last he’s to tend to—but this works, too.

The blade is ripped from his gullet, a spurt of hot blood following its dislodging, and the Weequay balefully boasts the dagger in his clutch. “Come now, Mandalorian. It’s going to take more than that,” he snarls.

He scoffs to himself in response and edges closer to one of the hunters drift melee weapons, footsteps precariously slow to ensure he doesn’t allude to his intentions—the bushes swish, a deep crack of a stick, and they freeze as one.

Visor and darkened pools of black sharpen against the lightless forest, apparently having forgotten about each other’s threat to concentrate on their snooping bystander.

The Girl steps out from the dusk, amban rifle hoisted forehead level with the Weequay. She stands stout on her feet, the wooden stock butting into her shoulder, eyes perfectly trained on her target before her. She doesn’t shoot, she won’t without his expressed permission.

The hunter recognises defeat and tosses the Mandalorian’s vibro-knife before his boots.

Din decompresses somewhat, allowing a sigh to flee from his filters and swoops up the knife and creeps past the defeated frame to shred through the rope bindings around Caben and Stoke’s wrists. “Thank—thank you,” Caben hisses and rubs the rash they’ve left in their wake.

Stoke imparts a gratified nod and smoothes out his clothing. “We’re sorry. They ambushed us on our way back---wanted to use us as leverage to draw you out. We’re just glad they didn’t track us back to the settlement.”

“Are you okay?” Din asks and quickly glances over their appearance. Some creased clothing and maturing bruises but for the most part untouched - no blood, no wounds.

They nod their heads in unison.

“He’s--” Caben glares at his captor warily. “He’s after the kid—your kid.”

Din suspected as much. “We’ll deal with him. Where’s the speeder?”

“Destroyed!”

He sighs and contemplates his options as if he had any. No speeder, no ride. “Follow the trail back to the village. We’ll be right behind you.”

They share a concerned look between each other but heed Din’s instructions, slipping past the growling figure and bounding through the bushland towards their escape route without glancing back.

“Quit wasting moonlight, boy. Get your hands dirty,” the Weequay sneers.

Judging by the bravado performance he puts on, he reckons he won’t suffer at the hands of an irritated Mandalorian tonight—he couldn’t be more incorrect even if he were to claim Din was of another species underneath his armour. A nettlesome Gungan. A hard-headed Klatoonian. An emotionless droid. He’s heard it all and they’re all closer to being more correct than he assumes of his safety.

There could be a message to send; violate every bone in his body to signify not to challenge the wrath of a well-equipped storm.

He’ll be in pain, Din’s sure of it, only, it’s undecided to what extent.

The Weequay grins, a sharp menacing clenched-teeth smile that puts Din back in his place, a guffaw that transmits a surge of electricity down the bumps of his spine; sounds of self-assuredness he shouldn’t possess in his perspective, unless...

No—he’s laughing at their idiocy. He’s pending for the upper hand.

Din spins on the heels of his boots, blaster pistol scanning the thicket. There’s more. There’s fucking more of the bastards and they’re smart about it; they laid in wait and let Din kill their teammates, let Din think he had the advantage, and only to fucking swoop in once they’ve noted all of his abilities—his sonic detectors. They’re too quiet for him to sense.

He thumbs his vambrace to activate his thermal but he doesn’t get the opportunity before he’s kicked in the back, staggering a few steps before crashing to the ground in a heap of steel. Grunting and groaning, he surveys behind him for the abruptness. The Girl is preoccupied in a feud of her own with three ambushers, applying his previously described strategy of paralysing with the bayonet before finishing them with her pistol.

She’s tossed around a bit; slammed into the trunks of trees and thrown onto the ground but she recovers and snaps the trigger of her sidearm with such ease. She’s capable, she’ll be fine.

Din needs to focus on this fucker—he needs to kill the scumbag.

Who knows how many of these guys there are. They literally came out of the fucking woodworks; the Girl wasn’t the only one who thought of taking the high ground and with it being so dark out Din hadn’t even thought to assess the treetops.

But they still didn’t know the extent of his capabilities. The hidden gems implanted in his vambraces. They weren’t just for show, after all.

The lurkers are dismissed for the time being—they’re distant, patient until he makes a miscalculation, and he can work with that—his attention focuses on the leathery neck oozing taunting blood. Din’s fingers curl around the vibrating hilt of his blade and lunges while the Weequay is empty-handed, delivering another slash across an arm this time.

It’s too protective, too tough for him to pierce and really leave some damage.

If Din can get one good stab in his throat, he could fucking skin him alive.

But he’s being surrounded. Hunters making their debut from behind bushes and circling him as if he were a fire in the midst of a snowstorm. It just doesn’t end; this was supposed to be a calming few days away from combat and here they were. Din anticipated this happening—tranquillity scarcely presenting itself to him—but he didn’t expect it so soon. The last he was on this planet, he’d been endowed with a few weeks at the least.

A shrill scream erupts, resonating through the forest and waking the creatures dormant in their hides, but it’s so much louder within his helmet on the account of his detectors. His ears pulse with frigid blood. His windpipe snaps closed, lungs thumping against his ribs.

He doesn’t want to look, he doesn’t. But he needs to - needs to reassure himself that it wasn't the shriek of a girl who’d just obtained something severe, something that makes her screams force time to fall dead.

It’s blurry and hazy, his cloddish eyes simply refusing to cooperate, like observing the scene unfold through a brimming glass of steaming caf. Din manages to discern a pillar, mobile with a rifle in its arms, but it’s not the Girl. Din’s learnt her figure greater than the Creed he wears. He’s felt all of its curves and bumps underneath his callouses. He’s dedicated the inches of his tongue to its sweat.

Din could sculpt her physique out of a slab of concrete with nothing but his fingernails.

That pillar isn’t the Girl—so why does it have her rifle?

Eyes stoop lower, the haze clearing and the Girl becoming so clear-cut it aches his retinas. She’s on the ground—the dirty fucking ground—being suppressed with a boot on her midsection; her hands claw at what little shin she can reach but her efforts are depleted, slowed and weak.

The knife thrums intensively and numbs the tips of his fingers, complementing the tingling billowing through his veins, his organs, wrapping around his bones and urging his legs towards her but a hunter steps before him to block his view.

His heart stutters inside his ribs. Stopping and starting. Leaping and dropping.

Pull your head in and kill these assholes, Din demands himself the willpower to snap his scrutiny around the four hunters caging him in a circle. He’s not in the mood to entertain their wishes for a brawl and triggers the flamethrower in his gauntlet, swirling on his feet to enkindle them with orange heat that’ll leave a mark if not end them.

Clothes of two of them ignite, hastily engulfing their frames and biting its brand into their flesh.

Din relishes in their screams, their desperate tries to distinguish the unforgiving flames, and, in his foolish stupor, he’s forced onto the ground—two thickset weights on either of his arms, the front of his helmet slamming against the dirt and knocking against his nose with a vengeance.

He struggles underneath their grip but hardly moves an inch.

The Girl whimpers, faint but oh-so lively with his detectors. Din’s helmet scrapes across the ground as he cranes his neck to peer at her—the hand that’d been working at a shin now flat against the ground, her writhing the only indication she’s still conscious.

Din wants to look away, wants to shut off his sonic detectors and close his eyes.

It hurts to look at her; that pain he’d receive the day after a tussle with a high-end bounty but intensified by a dozen and stripping away at his internal organs as opposed to muscle tissue.

She’s being brutalised. A boot on her abdominals milking her of pained mewling.

“You’re impudent, Mandalorian,” the Weequay gurgles. “Should teach you some manners. Oi, bring her ‘ere.”

Din’s muscles tense. No armour can conceal the visible discomfort those words bring to him but he tries for his voice anyways, “What is it you want? To take me back to the Guild? I’ll go--leave her alone, she’s not a part of this.”

“She killed my men.” Leather-face huffs a breath. “Bring her ‘ere.”

The lackey complies, rugged gloves tearing into her skin and thrusting her in their general direction. Din scans her body for injuries, the spotlight of his eyes staring at the dark vermillion patch seeping through the black of his shirt at her belly. He struggles for a breath. Struggles to swallow the rising liquids that burn the back of his throat. Struggles to not implode with cusses that’ll only edge their retaliation over the brink.

Fucking vermillion.

A colour that looked fantastic on his foes but so fucking unsettling on His Girl.

Her competitor wears the same colour as her, a circular bolt wound in his shoulder and it doesn’t take a genius to piece them together. She must’ve been fooled. She must’ve been attacked with the knife in his hand while tending to the other hunters that now lay dead among the bark.

She can’t stand upright without the arm fisting her shirt and she drops to her knees and successively her stomach before him. They’re both a quivering mess, though for wholly different circumstances, and Din can’t fucking take the look she gives him. So painful. So devoid of that sweetness.

“Sorry, Me’suum’ika,” she whispers.

She feels as though she failed him—that somehow her getting injured resulted in him immobile, anchored to the forest floors and staring at his companion face-to-face while she bleeds out unattended to. Not the fact he can’t control the emotions that overwhelm him. Not the fact that it’s his own incompetence.

“No—pretty girl, look at me. Look at me.” Din trashes his weight against their hold but the position is awkward and his legs are unable to administer any power into his core. He’s as hopeless as captured krill, simply flailing about in hopes it’ll get him somewhere.

The Weequay wipes blood from his neck and nudges a foot into her side, squirming it underneath her stomach and flipping her onto her back to expose that hellish colour tainting her midsection. It melts through the shirt and adheres the fabric against the invisible wound beneath; Din’s eyes refuse to cut away.

It’s painful. Identical to those atrocious holodramas that’d screen late at night in the sketchy areas of town—it’s a shootout of a mess and he just can’t look away.

“She’s dying,” the Weequay announces. “There ain’t no medicine out in these parts. She’ll be gone before you can even lift her off the ground.”

Din’s stunned into silence. What’s he to do? His Girl is an arms-length away from him, bleeding out and moaning in pain, and he can’t do so much as stroke the hair out of her face and reassure her that she’ll be okay.

The Weequay snatches her rifle from his men, twisting the framework in his arms and hovering the prongs directly over her forehead—barely an inch of space between beautiful soft skin and a fatally paralysing influx of electricity.

“Don’t,” Din warns, tone more emotional than he wants to display. “Touch her and I will never stop looking for you.”

“I can end it all for her right now. Turn her to dust. Take mercy on her. Look at her, she’s in agony.”

The Girl’s mouth opens and closes rhythmically, an arm strewn across her front to stop the gush of blood—it’s fucking bad. It worsens when she looks at him, the angle causing tension to find a path along her neck and down to her belly but she shuns the idea of glancing away. Din’s throat tightens.

“All you need to do is point me in the direction of the bounty.”

The fucking choobies on this guy.

“Get her assistance and we’ll talk,” he bluffs.

They’re not impressed by his demands, a singular knee from either of the hunters digging into his forearm. The vambraces support a majority of the weight but it’s still hefty, still——

Vambraces. He’s exhausted what little fuel remains for his flamethrowers but there are still a few tricks in wait up there—techniques that they’ll never anticipate.

Din strains his arm beneath the hunter, flicking his fist as best as he can manage for specks of bright blue to ignite within the cavities of his wrist. A handful of the explosive tips dispense into the still air above him. The birds sing their tune as they coordinate their attacks, dedicating themselves to targeting each individual quarry. One dives into the side of a hunter to Din’s left followed by another to his right, the muscles pinning him down becoming limp, the third impact into the chest of the Girl’s half-defeated foe.

They lay lifeless among the forest; scorch marks where they’d been touched with his beskar sparrows.

Two birds remain circling overhead.

Two?

One dips through the air targeting the Weequay like a missile with his name written on it but Din conducts a staredown with the last, his eyes swiftly tracing the projectile. It makes its move—identifying the bleeding woman coiled on the floor as a threat to his safety, but Din matches its tempo and hurtles himself atop of her body.

His weight stimulates a displeased groan from her throat.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says.

Din cages her head in with his arms and tucks her face into his cowl before caving in on himself, a poor attempt to cover every inch of soft flesh with reverberating beskar and it works.

He feels the menacing tink through his spine as it bounces off the steel and into a tree.

He peels himself from her, cherry liquid having been smeared across his beskar platings, and examines her condition—the shirt drags up and tracks the blood to her ribs, a wide three-inch chamber in her stomach that convulses with each unsteady exhale.

She grunts incoherently and latches her fingers onto the perimeter of his vambraces, beseeching eyes demolishing the resolve within him. “We’ll get you fixed up, all right?” Din examines the incision with trained eyes, plush grey-purple tissue beneath all the vermillion causing his heart to drop.

It’s not that she was trying to stop the bleeding; she’s trying to prevent her fucking intestines from spilling out.

They’re still tucked away inside, where they belong, but if she moves too much they’ll slip out with ease.

His glove compresses around the fabric, wringing out the garment of her insides. His helmet sharply tosses in the direction of a small explosion by his final whistling bird. Weequay remains upright. Din’s insides boil.

This fucker. This son of a bitch.

This is his fault.

His Girl lays beneath the stars, her essence draining from her disoriented body, all because a handful of good for nothing guild members needed to get their hands dirty for a lousy couple thousand credits.

Din’s knees crack as he raises to his feet, his shoulders contracting and fingers crunching around a blade’s hilt. She sputters for a breath, her lungs failing to cooperate with her demands; the distressing audio flourishes the growing rage within him and he scowls under his visor.

He wishes it wasn’t there—wishes he could pluck the damned steel from around his face to burn the Weequay’s leather hide with stewing caf; a tribute of his ire. To permit the one who attributed so much agony on his beloved to gaze into his eyes as he snips his vocal cords through the wound in his gullet; darkened eyes that haven’t touched daylight in decades to swallow him whole in their shadows.

Like a hibernating beast longing for its first meal upon awakening.

Din cocks his vambrace controls and fires out his grappling cord, cleanly winding it around the maimed throat of his opponent, jerking forwards and concurrently rushing into his physique so they tumble to the turf and fend off each other’s clamouring.

That message he had been planning on distributing for the galaxy’s eyes is burnt to ash, much like that of the Weequay’s comrades. Din simply wants to murder the bastard—murder. An act far worse than killing. Killing somebody had always implied his survival, a requirement to take matters into his own hands so that he returns to the Crest with a beating heart.

This wasn’t survival.

This is harsh tidal waves crashing against the foundations of a lighthouse.

This is the crack of lightning in the sky in an unstoppable catastrophe.

This is a whole new side to Din that he’s never witnessed before. Anger that drowns him from the inside out. A bitterness that prods his taste buds. Overheating caf scorching holes through the visor.

Din registers the whipcord and how his fingers hook around the thread.

Din registers the dire clawing at his helmet, the Weequay’s desperation urging him on.

But what Din can’t register is anything in between; his consciousness, usually so clouded with his own grievances, is utterly blank as if he were a wiped droid. All circuitry and no sentiments.

“Ash’amur,” Din spits and applies every pound in his build.

The whipcord is constructed of refined shivs that slice through the thick neck and into Din’s gloves, drawing blood from his palms and fingertips.

It’s the gurgling that does it for him. That vile bubbling of blood and saliva in his pipes as it rises upwards and leaks from clenched teeth down his frilled jowls. It’s too horrendous to sustain—Din cringes and seizes his vibro-knife, only to be punched in the side of his neck the moment he removes a hand from that rubbery fucking throat.

Din groans and slams the cord-entangled hand into his jaw, roughhousing his cranium into the dirt and presenting the vulnerable wound like the perfect target to practice his precision. The blade dips through the seams and excavates deeper through the muscles, intensifying his suffering and crackled spluttering. Coriaceous hands fumble at slippery beskar, mouth belching and spraying ruby drops across the surface of his Creed.

He digs his knee into the fleshy stomach beneath him, extracts his knife and plunges it directly through the crevice once more.

The appendages slink down his torso and thighs, accumulating in a motionless mound atop of twigs and stones—dull eyes rolling into the back of his skull.

That filthy noise pollution continues—fluids frothing and popping in the oceanic limbo of fucking somewhere. Din’s mouth reshapes into a sneer and he impales the blade through the muscle again and again, but the ruckus persists; striking his eardrums with more zeal than his efforts to numb it.

It’s too loud, too distracting, his senses simmering down to solely auditory perception as it spikes in volume. It needs to be stopped, he needs to vanquish it.

Din white-knuckles the rubber hilt and repeatedly thrusts the blade in and out of the wound with rigid movements, his chest heaving with floundering breaths as he falls into a mania of knife-plungings.

The Weequay is long-lifeless but its body rocks with each frantic stab, the blood squelching within the open wound, and Din doesn’t realise the chilling mass beneath him isn’t the cause of the carnage on his sonic detectors until it’s splintered and calling his name between cracks and coughs.

He visibly recoils.

That agonised suffocating on blood wasn’t him at all.

The Girl coughs again, liquid gargling in the deep of her throat.

Vibro-knife rips through the skin as he withdraws the blade and reverts back to the Girl’s aid, flipping her onto her side and smoothing out the hair. “Spit it up, Sweetheart,” he instructs. Vermillion amasses into a puddle beneath her mouth and floods the forest floors. “That’s it, keep going.”

She mewls, incapable of urging up the last swish of metallic liquid—Din intervenes and slips his hand free of his glove to wedge two fingers into her mouth, sweeping out the remainder of accrued blood and clearing her airways.

“Breathe in, there we go, and out.”

She exhales and nods to her wound. “Didn’t—didn’t see the knife in time. Thought I-I killed him.”

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay, all right?”

There’s disbelief written on her face, her eyebrows and teeth tense as she chews on soft gums, but she gives him the faintest of smiles and a nod that’s more to reassure him than it is her.

She’s lost too much blood and the volume is only ballooning with time. Din acts fast and slashes a load of his cloak with his knife, again, the woollen trimmings serving as a tourniquet around her midsection; it’s a shitty solution and functions more to irritate the wound than anything—the fibres of the garment eating away at the uncovered pulsing muscle—but it’s all he’s got. They’ve got nothing going for them here and the Crest had to be a decent twenty minute trek outwards on a good day which this is fucking not, maybe thirty with her condition.

It has to last until then. It needs to.

If he can make it to the Crest in time and without dumping her guts out she has a chance—a chance, not a high one, but a fucking chance—of survival but he needs to go now.

“I’m gonna pick you up, okay?”

She’s light. All that weight sitting on his shoulders mere hours ago is replaced with a floatiness that makes her feel non-existent, like a figment of his imagination. She compresses against the beskar while he zips through the forest like the pellets she’d administered to the hunters; agile, coordinated, but his concentration bounces from his path to her face every few leaps.

“Hey! Hey. Open your eyes. Show me your pretty eyes, sweet girl...there they are. Keep them open for me.”

She strains, “Sorry.”

The syrupy goodness of her tone he starved for—binged on—has boiled over to a sticky mess that only drags him in closer at the touch of his heart. It coats the organ like tar and hardens until it struggles to continue beating, slinking downwards and catching along the walls of his lungs to harass his breathing.

Din chews on his lower lip, his teeth burrowing into the pillows with each step of his boots and shredding them with his enamel until he tastes his blood at the back of his tongue.

She hums and allows her head to roll into the soft bicep beside it, situating her lips against the flight suit to commit a forceless kiss onto the only part of him that she can reach.

“Guess - guess I won’t be taking you up on that offer.” She smiles and exhales a breath—a laugh but she’s too weak to give anything more.

“Don’t… Stop acting like you’re--”

“Dying?” She scoffs. “Well, I-I am, aren’t I?”

No, you can’t Din thinks, you can’t fucking leave me here.

The urge to vomit creeps upon him; disguises itself among the churning of his stomach and the soreness in his throat. Perhaps he would empty his stomach right here and now, discount the concealing of his identity before the Girl just to have the opportunity to bend over and heave until there’s nothing but saliva expelling, but he doesn’t have the luxury of slowing down. In fact, he needs to pick up his pace.

He does just that—albeit not by much but every difference counts.

Din risks another glimpse at her; skin all pale and face scrunched to not let the pain escape from her throat or eyes. She struggles to restrain herself from allowing her eyelids to snap close, to let that twinge in her retinas finally rest—because Din asked to see those pretty eyes and what Din asks, Din receives.

She takes notice of his lack of reassuring words, the shortage of comforting glances, the cold absence of her Mandalorian as he distances himself from his emotions.

“Me’suum’ika.”

He regrets teaching her that word. It sounds so pleasing coming from her vocals, all soft and bouncy like a mattress he wishes to rest on, but currently, it’s pained. It’s croaky and poorly pronounced. It sounds dreadful—tainting the beautiful memory of exchanging nicknames.

She tries for his attention again, “Me’suum’ika…”

No. No, no. Don’t say it. Do not fucking say it.

“Din.”

Their motion suspends as fast as a string snaps. Boots kick pebbles ahead of their path. They’re in a wide clearing, the firs having been repelled at least a twenty-metre radius around them. Quiet. Open. Peaceful.

Forearms quiver with her maturing weight, mysteriously so fucking heavy like he was supporting a thruster of his Crest. The helmet is inert on his shoulders, staring off into the distance where the path narrows between rows of evergreen. Fingers on her waist and the underside of her thigh tunnels into the flesh, his one ungloved hand perceiving her dwindling warmth.

Despair overcomes him like an explosion. No ticking to warn him, no preparation. Just one big fucking detonation that blasts against his calves, staggering his stance and plugging his lungs and helmet with clotted smoke particles that stings his eyes and throat. His tongue liquefies and slips down his pipe where he gags on his own muscle.

“Put me down.”

“No,” he chokes. “I can do it, we can make it. I just—”

His vocals fissure. They crack and pop and it’s not on the account of his vocoder.

The hook underneath the rim of his helmet drags it downwards and every bone in his body tenses at the sight. The sight of His Girl so emptied of expression that she can barely hold eye contact with his black slit. The colour deficiency in her face leaves a sharp taste of salt on his lips, streaks on his cheeks.

Din she says softly, no—not softly but so devoid of strength that it comes out oh-so weak and quiet, put me down Din.

His knees buckle. His arms quake. He sinks to the gravel brutally.

The stones poke and prod against his caps, sharp edges cutting through his garment but he’s completely numb except for his hands and face—enduring the physical touch of a falling star versus the tides that roll beneath the steel.

He doesn’t want to drop her.

He doesn’t want to let her touch the planet's crust because he knows she won’t get back up.

“Me’suum’ika.” She wipes at his armoured chest with her sleeve. “You’re all bloody.”

Din shakes, scrambling not to cave into the overwhelming itch in his forearms—to not permit her perfect figure to be tainted with more grime than it already has been subjected to—except she’s made of duracrete, weighing him down like an anchor on a flimsy rowboat and he can’t come out victorious.

It’s a sluggish descent, all slowed to record each millimetre until she’s flat on the ground. A vermillion reservoir spawns beneath her and trails to seep into his flight suit, his ungloved hand gently laying rest on her concealed wound—the cloak lumpy and outlining something soft, squishy.

He retracts his hand as if it were in the mouth of a rancor.

There’s an unspoken statement that floats above them, circles them and weighs their shoulders down.

She’s dying.

Din knows it. He can see it. He can see her life vacuuming out of a three-inch slit in her abdominals and there’s nothing he can do to delay the inevitable. There’s nothing he can do to save her life. He’s never felt more incompetent but there’s a flicker of hope that she’ll make it. That she’ll just reabsorb the sticky liquid and suture her tissue back together—denial. He’s in utter fucking denial.

“Come here,” she breathes, fingertips stroking the scruff of his jaw underneath his cowl.

His teeth clench. “No, Cyar’ika. Sweetheart, please. I can make it. Just hold on for a little longer.”

“I can’t.”

Eyelids pinch together behind the tint but it doesn’t stop the nipping at his retinas. Gloved hand remains at the rear of her skull, cushioning it from stray rubble but he clenches around air when she hoists herself onto her elbows—approaching him since he’s too shaken to go to her—and knocks against the front of his helmet.

Din forces his eyelids to peel back and it’s a huge mistake.

All he can see is the bottom of her chin, the curve of her jaw, but he’s clever enough to string the clues together; the diminishing heat of her breath warming him on the inside.

The gentle press of her lips against the summit of beskar.

She doesn’t allow him to think, to speak, she does it all for him. But they’re not words he wishes to hear. They’re not I’ll be okay or let’s go home.

“Look.” She nods upwards. “Me’suum’ika.”

She’s not referring to him, but the real moon; its silver-white glow snuffed out and overtaken with oranges as warm as the sunrises that’d rebound off his beskar as he strides back to the Crest, a bounty in hand and dark crescents forming underneath his eyes. Reds as deep as the blood besmirching her gorgeous soft skin.

“Pretty, ain’t it?”

Pretty?

It’s obscene. It’s nauseating. It’s not fucking pretty.

It’s mocking them—mirroring the scene laid underneath it reminding Din of his foolish missteps; she’s all red and bloody because of you; she looks like me because you allowed her to tag along.

Din wants to pilot his Crest all the way up there and put an end to the disrespectful satellite.

How dare it look so full, so complete, while he’s disintegrating before it.

The Girl said he was one and the same with the moon—she fucking said that—so how can it be so unaffected by the loss of life beneath it?

The loss of their Girl.

Din isn’t the moon. He’s the abyssal milky ways that attract eyes at first impression only to exploit that and drag unsuspecting victims into the black holes in the galactic centre of his chest—he’s destruction and chaos and unrelenting, his gravitational pull too great for escape and it only ever ends one way.

“Don’t...don’t look like that.”

“Like what?” he snaps.

It’s unintentional. An overload of emotions that’s been festering for too long and shows its ugly face in the form of a pitch curated with venom and tears.

“You can’t even see me.”

He’s going about it all wrong except he’s right—she can’t see him nor can she feel his warmth but that never intimidated her. She’d found ways to adapt; ways to read his mannerisms and speech rather than facial expressions.

Din has the opportunity to seize that from her; to show rather than tell.

Explosion smoke splutters from his lungs and his fingertips ache as they fumble for the switch beneath the rim, the Girl’s blood soiling his clothed throat and the insides of his Creed. It unclasps, detectors maximizing its violent hiss. He has it maybe below his lips before she pulls and pins it down.

“You’re not ready.”

Din’s heart fractures; the beskar steel of his organ—that’s made to withstand a lightsaber—cracking and creaking at her words.

“No! No, no. You told me you weren’t going anywhere—you said that. You said you would look if I wanted you to see and, Mesh’la, I want you to fucking see.” Din’s fingers tremble against the back of her hands. “Sweetheart, please look at me. Let me do this...I don’t have anything else to offer.”

“Din…no.”

“Let me,” he demands but all the authority is suppressed with a heartache that chews him up and spits him back out.

There’s an attempt to conceal the groans and hisses—an attempt—as she breathes in deep, gathering as much fresh oxygen in her lungs as possible.

Din tries for his helmet again, employing her hands beneath the rim to lift, but she overexerts herself to stop him; tight fingers latched on the insides, knuckles brushing against a sharp jawline and collecting the wetness that streams directly into her grasp.

“This is the Way,” she says it as a reminder and a reassurance that she’s content with never seeing his face because This is the Way, but it only frustrates him; boils the tears on his face until they convert into vapour that attacks his visor, leaving only the crust of salt residue on his cheeks.

You’re dying in my fucking arms he thinks the least I can do is desecrate my Creed.

It wouldn’t even be a desecration, not really. That would imply a disrespectful act was to occur and this was anything but. It’d be an honour, a homage of an unspoken pledge uttered in the dead of the Crest that outweighs the one he took among tinted visors and enkindled torches.

Din’s taut. Rigid muscle constructed of resolute alloy.

It’s not comfortable to rest among sharp edges that prod into her sore skin but rather than peel away—rather than let her breathe without the weight of steel to her side—Din cradles her against his chest, transferring the most minuscule amount of body heat that slips through his seams into her.

His hand is glazed with sticky deep vermillion that oozes from his fingertips, the gravity magnetising droplets onto the beautiful cheek it hovers above. Din wants to touch her, wants to feel the sun warm his flesh and blood, but he’s scared that if he touches her he’ll ruin her iconic softness with coarse fingers.

Blood smears onto her face and fills her sinuses with metallic scents to match those flavours in her mouth, her cheek gluing itself to his hand for him. She offers him a weak smile and entitles herself to a moment to browse his solid face, following the edges of his cheeks and swiping a thumb across the chin’s rim.

“Kiss me,” Din requests. “Just—just once.”

“Just once?”

He nods. “Just once. Do—can you manage one?”

The Girl chuffs out a laugh but cringes at the disturbance in her core. “I might have one in the bank for you.”

She elevates the beskar to the dip in his nose, scenic eyes securely held shut to preserve the Creed he’s already decided he would renounce for her if she would just let him. She deserves to see him, to gaze into his simmering caf. His thoughts range from disloyal alternatives that scour against the sincerity of his mind, wiping him clean of the trust he’s built around himself, all the way to options where he doesn’t go against her words—thoughts where the beskar lifts no higher than his mouth.

He condemns both of the options; either tricking her into seeing him for his own greediness or listening to her pleas despite how much it fucking hurts.

It’s not fair.

Din’s lips hurtle themselves into her; hungry and distraught, a false hope that if he engorges on her taste alone it’ll dispel those macabre thoughts from his consciousness. All he can fucking taste is salt and metal that’s been left in the rain. Her zest, her sweetness, the flavours that taste of her, is gone.

It doesn’t stop him.

He compiles it in the back of his throat simply to have something of her inside him. He’s indulged in her tasteless saliva, the saltiness of her sweat, the syrup of her slick, and now the rancid warmth of her blood.

He can’t hear. He can’t see. He can only feel and touch.

She’s hardly lukewarm, the sun’s rays disappearing over her horizon.

“Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum.” Din brushes the hair out of her face. “Not a minute passes where you’re not in the forefront of my mind, Sweetheart. I’ve never encountered somebody so...extraordinary as you. I just need you to know before—before…”

“Din…” Her voice pops, tears of her own brewing.

“I love you,” he confesses, wet beads plummeting from his jawline to her neck. “You taught me how to love; you are my love and that will never change. I love you, ner Cyare—my beloved.”

Din recoils like he’s poked in the chest. The snuffling and mewling that erupts from her vocal cords upon his confession burn him—singe his lungs until they’re tender with each inhale. Nothing could have prepared him for this reaction; the unmasked sobs and vulnerability she’s never shown, not to this extent.

Fingers that dig into his flight suit feel like minuscule vibro-knifes in his biceps. Statements that gush out of her mouth and landslide his heart into submission—I love you, Din. I love you. I love you.

A star and a satellite falling in love; it’s an implausible outcome bound for disaster.

The sun manipulates its flames that allows colourful flowers to bloom or for lively forests to ignite. The moon pushes and pulls the tides fit for a gentle roll across a beach or to capsize rigs with a single flick.

The Sun and the Moon.

Fire and Water.

They’re polar opposites and, despite everything in the universe working against them, they’ve merged as one. Two equally fractured vases exchanging their missing pieces for compensation; a bright orange that’s warm to the touch in Din’s heart and within her lies a sparkly silver shard, a piece of his beskar residing within her to ward off onslaught.

He’s trawled inwards, naked cheek against naked cheek; scruff pricking against the bone of her jaw. Their tears fuse as one and wedge between their pressed flesh. She sobs against him, the hand on his helmet dipping underneath the silver to tangle her fingers within his knotty locks.

I’m fucking scared Din she breaks, I don’t want to go.

Din’s lip trembles. He can’t paralyse the pain that brings forth the donning of a brave face when confronted—that crinkle in her brow isn’t fooling anybody—but, perhaps, he can distract her. Draw her attention away from the gnawing of her intestines against scratchy wool.

“I know, Darling, I know.” Voice so soft and comforting it encourages her fraught muscles to slack and abandon her awareness. “Focus on me, okay?”

Her lips part when he nudges against them, accepting the tongue that requests entrance. It’s one final deliverance on both sides; a diversion for the Girl and a concluding act of love for Din—something to burn into his lips for decades to come, something to remind him he’s deserving of love.

He takes it slow for her sake, concerned that his usual greed would be too overstimulating. They’re lackadaisical; movements so weakened they’re hardly moving, simply holding each other as they quietly sob into the others mouth.

His scalp is heavy with her fingers and he synchronises his own to the nape of her neck, dirtying her pretty hair with sticky plasma. Pretty hair he’ll never be able to touch again—he’ll never be able to feel the strands between his knuckles as he tilts her head back and deepens their devout kisses. Kisses he’ll never be blessed with again.

Fuck.

He can’t stomach it, can’t bear the thought that he’s going to be abandoned all over again.

First, his parents and now his beloved girl—everybody he cared for is slipping through the gaps of his fingers.

It’s not even a gradual process; there’s not enough time for him to tell her how much he loves her, how he’ll never love another lifeform a fraction as much as he does her.

It’s as rapid as a waterfall, a suffocating surge that’s stern against his protests; his silent pleas of please don’t take her away from me.

Din feels the pulsing in her tongue fade; acknowledges how her fingers lax against his scalp, registers how he’s been deserted despite their tongues intertwined. Beskar slips down the slope of his dewy face as he recedes within himself.

The Girl is static, still, silent.

She’s not got a fingernail’s worth of oxygen in her lungs, not a twitch in her eyebrows.

Din’s beloved Girl is gone.

The sun’s solace warmth has been wiped from the face of the galaxy, leaving residual liquid flames that paste in thick layers to his armour. Only an odious sphere of blended carmines remains perched in the celestials—a blood-red lunar eclipse that penetrates through the solid of his heartplate and devours his internal organs.

Din remains idle for what feels like a century, his consciousness paralysed with a stab of her amban rifle’s bayonet. Deprived of sensation—drained of emotion and thoughts—the tears have stopped and left behind an ache beneath his eyes.

When he does eventually move it’s wearisome. The momentum of a dawdling crawl; a by-product of the corpse in his arms and bedrock in his boots.

It takes him longer than it should to reach the Crest.

It takes him longer than it should to lay her body to rest atop the hold’s crates.

Din tries to tell himself she looks peaceful, that she’s somewhere better, that's what people said to others in times of grief, but what could be better than roosting between his arms in the comfort of a secure body of beskar?

The Razor Crest’s lethargic humdrum probes his sockets, the absence of a thumping heartbeat so fucking apparent that it’s harrowing and Din can’t tolerate it for another second. His Creed rips from his head and hurtles through the air to slam into the duralloy walls of his supposed sanctuary, denting a dome where the summit of beskar impacts but it’ll never be enough to damage that fucking helmet.

His trademark steely stoic persona is substituted for tan mien; his inability to conceal his expressions from years of never needing to palpable at the faintest indication of an eyebrow twinge.

Din presses his lips against her forehead, a frigid and stiffness that transfers to his mouth. He luxuriates on her, delivering docile pecks across her face that burns his lips. Din surrenders the last of his breath to her but he’ll never receive any equivalent ever again.

Memories are all that remains—reminiscences that tug on his lungs. They obscure his mind's eye with dull images of the individual circumstances he’d separated the man from the religion.

He wasn’t to ever remove his helmet. His heart sinks. Din had never contemplated the impact of the decree—the implicit statement that it included whether one’s eyes were shut or not.

His heart’s arteries melt into the muscle and flood it until it capsizes within itself.

Din had been subconsciously unearthing methods and plot holes to eliminate beskar from the equation to indulge in the Girl’s temptations—to permit him the opportunity of a lifetime and experience affairs that scarcely presented themselves to him—but it had backfired.

The helmet was removed, whether her eyes were shut or not it didn’t matter.

His Creed was tarnished the moment he even thought about being with the Girl and it only continued downhill from then on—a terminal illness that burrows its relentless claws into his core and carefully conquers each inch of his body without ever drawing attention to itself.

“Cyare.” His vocals crack and pop. “Open your eyes.”

Look at me. I’ve dishonoured my vows for you. Open your eyes and look into mine—savour the caf you were so curious about. You have to look at me. You need to. Please don’t let my sacrilege go undervalued.

They’d been wasting precious moments this entire fucking time. Din’s Honour was non-existent and he could’ve bestowed her with the knowledge of how his eyes brightened whenever she glanced his way, how indentations of shallow dimples formed in his cheeks when he’d smile at her snarky remarks.

His fist slams against the crate beside her. “Stubborn girl.”

Why couldn’t she be like the no-good schemers that yearned to see beneath the steel?

Why did she have to be so protective of his oath?

She died never knowing what the man who loved her looked like.

A sparkle beneath her shirt catches his eyes, solid alloy beckoning his hands. Beskar is still warm to the touch from her sternum. Din rubs the face of the pendant's skull raw, dried blood flaking off onto the steel, his thumb heating with the friction. It’s not much, hardly anything actually, but it’s something that she claimed ownership of—something physical that he can touch and hold that was once pressed against the beat of her heart. With nothing else in her possession of her own, it’s all Din’s got.

It’s knotted around his neck, the thread weighing like a bantha and the pendant torching a permanent mark into his chest. He welcomes it, remains stoic and unflinching as it intensifies and scars over—he wasn’t afraid of being burnt, after all.

Din wipes away the scarlet meadow of clumped hair adhered to her cheek and sets the hem of her shirt as low as it'll reach, concealing the hump of soaked wool. He believed himself to be incapable of shedding more salty liquid from his ducts but tonight is full of surprises. Their foreheads pin against each other, wetness streaming down the curve of his cheekbones and into her hair.

He’s uncertain where he stands with his Creed—it’s not of importance right now—but he was raised on their culture, their words so beautiful that it only felt right to say a final remembrance.

My Sun, Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.

----

jatnese be te jatnese - the best of the best ni kar'tayl gar darasuum - i love you me'suum'ika - moon choobies - testicles ash'amur - die ner cyare - my beloved ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum - i'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.

A/N: i'm so sorry. there might be an epilogue if you guys are interested in that.

taglist: @ohhersheybars, @greatcircle79, @northernpunk, @tanzthompson, @djarrex, @omgreally, @spideysimpossiblegirl

[gardenofkore]

“Her name implied Joy, for among the three Graces Euphrosyne was the bestowed of joy; and Lynnaeus gave the name to a honey-coloured butterfly prettily striked with black. But this woman, familiarly known as Frosina, who was certainly young and beautiful and very probably foolish and cruel, neither gave nor received much joy in her short life; on the contrary, she proved to be, both for herself and others, a veritable harbinger of death.”

Leonardo Sciascia, Il mare colore del vino (The Wine-Dark Sea), pp. 135-6

Eufrosia (or Eufrosina) was born in Palermo around 1559. Her father was Vincenzo Siracusa, renowned and wealthy jurist, while her mother's name was Vincenza Valdaura. On September 25h 1575, the teen girl married her peer Calcerando (or Calcerano) Corbera. Her husband was the firstborn of Don Antonio Corbera, baron of Miserendino, and Elisabetta Scavuzzo. The Corbera family was a noble and ancient one. If in the past, members of the family had played important roles in the government of the Island (another Calcerando Corbera had been Vicar of the Kingdom from 1449 to 1552), by the end of XVIth century, the family was experiencing a financial crisis (they were forced to mortgage their fiefs' production), like the majority of the other Sicilian noble ones.

Wishing to replenish the family's coffers and to save its face, in 1572 Don Antonio had asked and obtained the licentia populandi (in the Kingdom of Sicily that meant the right, conceded by the King or the Viceroy, to build and populate a village) of his fief of Miserendino (located in Val di Mazara, between Sambuca and Calatamauro), where he intended to build a farmhouse and a tower. Despite obtaining the licentia, he hadn't enough money to start the works, so the title of baron of Miserendino was empty of any tangible valour.

It's then easy to understand the reason behind Eufrosia and Calcerando's marriage. The Corberas needed the Siracusas' wealth, while the latter wanted to socially raise themselves. It's even clearer  noticed in the nuptial agreements: out of the 1600 onzes part of the bride's dowry, 1200 were given cash on hand to Don Antonio Corbera. Moreover, Eufrosia's mother bestowed the couple of two fiefs (Maganuci and Traversa di Iato, in Val di Mazara), some warehouses, an oil mill, the ownership and income of many houses and buildings. Vincenza Valdaura would have kept the usufruct of her former possessions, perhaps an attempt to protect the family's belongings from the elder Corbera's greedy clutches. If that was the reason, Vincenza didn't succeed as both she and her husband died one month before their daughter's marriage. On the other hand, Antonio Corbera ceded his son the nominal title of baron of Miserendino, although he reserved the incomes derived from the barony.

Taking advantage of the fact that the young and now vulnerable  Eufrosia was now the sole heir of her considerable family fortune, Don Antonio felt he was now free to dispose of it as if it was his own. For example, two years later he forced his weak-willed son and his daughter-in-law to borrow a large sum from the Baron of Cutò to expand and embellish the palace where they all lived and for other luxurious expenses. It's no surprise Eufrosia quickly developed a burning hate towards her father-in-law, exacerbated by Calcerando's submissive character towards his despotic father.

Eufrosia's life changed drastically when she met Viceroy and Prince Marcantonio II Colonna, newly appointed Viceroy of Sicily under Felipe II of Spain. The Hero of Lepanto was 25 years older than her, brilliant, brave, hailed as the greatest man of his time. In a nutshell, Colonna was in every way the opposite of poor Calcerando.

The Baroness of Miserendino and the Viceroy met in Palermo during a banquet and it was love at first sight. Like Eufrosia, Colonna too was married. His wife, Princess Felice Orsini, belonged to one of the oldest and most important noble families in Italy and Europe.

The relationship between Eufrosia and Colonna progressed so quickly that, in a letter dated 1579, the Viceroy describes himself as having fallen so hard for Donna Eufrosina to the point of feeling as his heart had been ripped out of his chest and beating like a drum. In her answer, the woman (who admits to reciprocating his feelings) begs his Excellency to forget about her. That won't happen.

The meeting with Colonna gives Eufrosia the strength to oppose her husband and her father-in-law. She refused to pay off Don Antonio's debts and forced her husband to fictitiously donate her his property to preserve her dowry.

Her father-in-law was so piqued, he retaliated by accusing his daughter-in-law of cheating on Calcerando with a page. The poor man died after being questioned about his affair with his mistress. Since the Corbera was an esteemed noble family, nobody was charged and the page's murder was left unavenged.

In September 1580, Eufrosina found out she was pregnant with Colonna. She tried in many ways to have an abortion until she naturally miscarried in January 1581. Luckily for her, nor her husband or her father-in-law never learnt about her secret pregnancy.

When the relationship between the Viceroy and the Baroness became public knowledge, Don Antonio was enraged. He went as far as publically menacing Colonna. Fearing for his life, the Viceroy had the older Corbera arrested with the charge of insolvency. Shortly after, on February 2nd 1581, he was found mysteriously dead in his cell. It's almost certain he had been poisoned.

With her father-in-law out of the picture, Eufrosia was now freer to dispose of her financial situation. She obtained the separation of property and even sued her husband, accusing him of having paid off his debts just to please him. She obtained the return of her dowry, but she was still legally married to her husband. In debt, the baron tried to put up a brave face, thinking that openly accepting his wife's affair would have socially and economically benefitted him. In summer 1581 Calcerando accepted an offer to join a mission to quell a revolt of the Knights of Malta. The Baron  left for the island, but on August 28th he was found murdered near his Maltese habitation, he had been stabbed. Calcerando was buried in Malta as his widow didn't make any attempt to have the body transferred and buried in his family tomb.

Like it had happened on the occasion of his father's mysterious death, the Viceroy was by many accused to be the instigator behind the murder.

The couple continued their dalliances, with Eufrosia sleeping with her lover in his palace. An anecdote recounts that they were once caught red-handed by Donna Felice. To avoid been seen, a naked and barefoot Eufrosia tried to hide on the balcony. As the Vicereine entered the chamber, she immediately noticed the baroness' slippers. Long since aware of her husband's infidelity and his many lovers, Felice Orsini jokingly asked her husband if those slippers were a gift for her. When the Viceroy shamelessly answered that it was indeed so, the betrayed wife went to the balcony and foud her husband's freezing lover. The Princess then addressed Eufrosia "Bear with me, I'd like my husband all to myself tonight". She then had the baroness generously escorted home.

“Lord Marcantonio [...] was so blinded by his passion that, careless of his viceregal authority and reputation, he became a second Antony to his Cleopatra.” (Leonardo Sciascia, Il mare colore del vino, pp. 136). If the Vicereine once again closed her eyes, the people of Palermo were deeply scandalised when the Viceroy had a new fountain built by the end of the XVIth century at the end of the Colonna Promenade (and near Porta Felice!). The mermaid which decorated it, according to many, looked suspiciously a lot like the Viceroy's already famous mistress.

The lovers' happiness won't last long though. Ottavio Bonnet, a kinsman of the deceased Baron of Miserendino, took upon himself to get revenge for Don Antonio and Calcerando's death. Firstly he managed to remove little Vincenzo Corbera (Calcerando's 6 years old brother and his heir) from Eufrosia's custody. Bonnet then travelled to Madrid to accuse the Viceroy in front of the court. Bonnet's accuses were welcomed by the anti-Colonna faction, which added Corbera's dual murders to Colonna's many misdeeds and managed to have the Viceroy summoned to the capital.

In 1584 Marcantonio Colonna left Sicily, but he would never reach Madrid. On August 1st 1584, he died mysteriously in Medinaceli. According to some sources, he was poisoned by a betrayed husband.

The distraught Eufrosia sought protection from the one person who would have had all the reasons to refuse her, Felice Orsini. Instead of turning her down, the kind and sympathetic princess welcomed her deceased husband's lover to her palace in Rome. Here, the former Vicereine introduced Eufrosia to the widowed Roman nobleman Lelio Massimo. At that time, Eufrosia was 25 and still beautiful and  charming, so it was almost natural that at some point Massimo proposed to her. Unfortunately for the future couple, his sons were against this match. On June 18th 1585, a few weeks before the wedding, Eufrosia was lured by her future sons-in-law with an excuse and killed. Lelio Massimo died soon after of heartbreak, while his sons were arrested and executed.

Even the Mermaid fountain's fate was a sad one. In 1820 it was moved to Piano di Santa Teresa (nowadays Piazza Indipendenza), but twenty years later it was destroyed during the Sicilian revolution of 1848. In his stead an obelisk was erected to commemorate the martyrs of the Italian Independence.

Sources:

Leonardo Sciascia, Il mare colore del vino

Orazio Caschetto, Il Vicerè e la Baronessa

Pietro Burgarella, Calcerando Corbera in  Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani

[lifeofresulullah]

The Life of The Prophet Muhammad(pbuh): Before His Birth, His Birth and His Childhood

Death of Hazrat Amina

After spending a month in Medina with her son, the Master of the Universe (PBUH), Hazrat Amina decided to return to Mecca. They said their goodbyes to their relatives and left the city.

There were three travelers in this desert:  Hazrat Amina, her glorious son, and Umm Ayman. They were all considered exceptional in the spiritual realm. The breeze of longing and separation was blowing close by.

Hazrat Amina’s eyes resembled a stream of overflowing water when she thought about her husband who passed away at a very young age during the first months of their marriage. Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) could not bear seeing his saintly mother’s teardrops; thus he began to cry ardently as well. His garment was soaked by his teardrops that fell like the rain.

Instantly, Hazrat Amina became ill while they were halfway through the road. Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) and Umm Ayman were alarmed. What could they do in the face of an illness that was only getting worse in its intensity of pain?

They had no solution other than to encamp underneath a tree’s shade that was 23 miles to the south of Medina. Strength and stamina had withdrawn from Hazrat Amina’s knees as she collapsed onto the ground without being able to contain herself. They covered her. Hazrat Amina was sweating due to the severity of her illness. Our Beloved Prophet’s (PBUH) teardrops fell out of fear of losing her and remaining motherless. It was as if everything came to a halt. There was no sound, and stillness dominated the sky.

Hazrat Amina lay on the ground in a weak state.

At one point, our Holy Prophet (PBUH) was able to collect himself and he asked his mother, “How are you, dear mother?”

The mother, whose heart was a trove of compassion, did not want her only child to be upset. In order not to rouse to her dear son the fact that she quivered with intense pain, she answered, "I am fine, my dear, nothing is wrong”.

She lost consciousness after speaking those few words. This illness had now wrested her energy to speak. At one point, she was heard to have said “water”. Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) brought water to his beloved mother at the speed of an arrow being sprung from its bow.

Hazrat Amina drank the water. She held the container of water and her beloved child’s very soft hands. She opened her eyes. She looked at our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) face that radiated noor (light) to her heart’s content, and caressed his hands with her motherly compassion.

At one point, the Master of the Universe (PBUH) slightly straightened out his mother’s position and put her head on his lap. The holy tears that dripped from his eyes were falling on his mother’s shoulders like April rain.

In addition to the anguish of losing her husband, was she now going to have to bid farewell to her son? This was an intolerable agony and an unbearable heartache. She was tormented more by this separation than the illness that she had been afflicted with. Yet, what could she do? This was an unchangeable decree of the Divine fate.

Hazrat Amina now understood that she could not be saved from this illness. In her final moment, with a feeling of deep longing, she looked at her radiant child’s face that shone like the sun, and as she smelled his hands to her heart’s content, the following words spilled from her tongue:

“You are the son of the man who was saved from the terrible arrow of death with Allah’s help and beneficence and in exchange for a hundred camels. May Allah render you glorious and relentless. If what I have seen in my dreams is true, then you will be sent as a Prophet by Allah to inform the sons of Adam of what is lawful and unlawful, and upon this, you will possess majesty and many gifts. You will be sent to complete the submission and religion of our forefather, Ibrahim. Allah is going to protect and withhold you and nations from idol worshipping and idols. Every living being will die and everything new will wear out. Everyone who becomes old will disappear. Everything is ephemeral, everything will leave. Yes, I am going to die as well. However, my name will remain forever because I have given birth to an immaculate child and am leaving a memorable and auspicious person behind me”. 

After speaking these painful and foretelling words, Hazrat Amina’s eyes lapsed and she surrendered her soul to Allah.

Place: The Abwa Village, which is located in between Medina and Mecca.

Date: 576 AD.

Hazrat Amina’s Burial

Our Beloved Prophet (PBUH) and Umm Ayman were frozen. In fact, their tongues were stiff. It was only our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) tears that spoke.

At one point, Umm Ayman was able to collect herself and she wiped the saintly child’s tears. Afterwards, she nestled and tried to comfort him. She said, “Do not be sad, and do not cry, my precious, Muhammad. We must surrender to Divine fate. Both life and possessions belong to Him. Everything has been entrusted to us; He takes back a trust just as He has given it”.

Our Beloved Prophet (PBUH) took a deep breath and said, “I know. I will always submit to His authority. However, a mother’s face is unforgettable. I am sad that I will never be able to see her face again”. Afterwards, he immediately gathered himself, wiped his tears, and said to Ummi Ayman “Alright, she surrendered that trust to its owner. We should submit her corpse to the soil so that she can be in peace”.

They submitted the corpse of the world’s most fortunate mother, Hazrat Amina, to the bosom of the earth. Considering the fact that she gave birth to the Master of the Universe (PBUH), who knows how and at what heights her soul rejoiced with the angels.

After the Burial

The duty of taking this precious orphan to Mecca had fallen on his nanny, Umm Ayman.

With all her effort, Umm Ayman was doing everything she could throughout the entire journey to not have him feel that he had been left motherless. She nestled him as if he was her own child and tried to comfort him. In fact, our Holy Prophet (PBUH) accepted her as a mother and began to refer to her with that title. Much later, he would pay her the compliment of being “the mother who came after my mother” each time he saw her. 

Both Motherless and Fatherless!

The radiant-faced Master of the Universe (PBUH) was now an orphan without a father and mother. However, he had a true guardian and patron. That Guard kept our Holy Prophet (PBUH) under His impeccable custody and complete supervision and protected him from all kinds of danger and trouble throughout the his entire life.

We are reminded of this particular incident in the verse, “Did your Lord not find you an orphan and give you shelter and care?” 

Years later, during the Hudaybiya Umrah, in the sixth year of the Hijra, the Master of the Universe (PBUH) passed through Abwa once more. With Allah’s permission, he visited his mother’s grave and tidied it up with his hands. Afterwards, he cried out of deep emotion.

The Sahaba (his companions) also cried after seeing his tears of longing and asked, “Oh Messenger of Allah, why are you crying?”

Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) responded, “I remembered the compassion and mercy that my mother showed me and that is why I cried”.

The wisdom behind their early death

This question may come to mind here:

“Why did God Almighty not let his venerable mother and father see his prophethood and why they were not able to be Muslim?”

Badiuzzaman Said Nursi answers this question in his book “The Letters,” in The Risale-i Nur Collection:

“Through His munificence, in order to gratify the Noble Prophet (Upon whom be blessings and peace's sentiments), Almighty God did not put His Noble Beloved’s parents under any obligation to him. His mercy required that to make them happy and to please His Noble Beloved, He did not take them from the rank of parenthood and put them in that of spiritual offspring; He did not place his parents and grandfather among his community. However, He bestowed on them the merit, virtues, and happiness of his community. Indeed, if an exalted field marshal's father, who has the rank of captain, entered his presence, he would be overwhelmed by two opposing emotions. So, compassionately, the king does not post the father to the retinue of his elevated lieutenant, the field marshal.”

THE ISSUE OF THE BELIEF OF THE PARENTS OF THE PROPHET

Islamic scholars agree that:

"None of the noble individuals of the chain coming from Prophet Ibrahim (Abraham) to Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon them) was indifferent to the true religion and none of them blemished their heart with shirk (idol-worship, to associate anyone or anything with Allah) and kufr (disbelief, blasphemy)" 

Many Islamic scholars put forward with clear evidence that Prophet Muhammad’s (pbuh) parents will be among the people of salvation in the afterlife, through similar explanations. We can list those explanations as follows:

1) His parents, Hazrat Abdullah and Hazrat Amina, passed away long before their son undertook the task of the prophethood. So, they lived in the period of (fatrat) interregnum and they are regarded as people of interregnum. There is no torment of Hell for those who died during the period of interregnum. 

One day someone asked a well-known scholar Sharaf al-Din al-Munawi, "Are our prophet’s parents in Hell?"

Al-Munawi replied, "They passed away during the interregnum. There is no torment before sending down a Prophet" 

It is well defined in the Quran and hadith (saying or tradition of the Prophet Muhammad) that no one who did not hear an invitation of a Prophet will have torment in the afterlife. It is also known that no previous Prophet’s invitation reached Prophet Muhammad’s (pbuh) parents. So, we can say that they will have no torment in the afterlife and they are among the people of salvation.

2) There is no information that the Prophet’s parents were in shirk and kufr. On the contrary, they were among the “Hanif” people who were practicing the beliefs and traditions coming from their grandfather Prophet Ibrahim (pbuh), like Zayd Ibn Amr Ibn Nufayl, Waraqa Ibn Nawfal and others.

3) Another piece of evidence that they were not in shirk is a hadith of Prophet Muhammad (pbuh), "I come from a continuous line of clean fathers and always mothers" 

In the Quran, people of shirk is defined as “unclean people”. Since cleanness and uncleanness, faith and shirk, believers and unbelievers are opposites, and when we consider the above hadith, we must accept that no one from the ancestors of Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) was in shirk. 

In short, “While Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) is said to be a mercy to the universe by Allah, it would not be logical and harmonious with good manners to think that his parents, who carried him in their bodies before the sun of prophethood was born would be deprived of the prosperity and light of their sun. The parents of the Messenger of Allah lived in the Period of Ignorance (Jahiliyyah). They did not live during the time of the prophethood of Hazrat Muhammad (pbuh).”

Then, a believer should know and accept the following:

“The parents of Allah’s Messenger are surely from the people of salvation, people of Paradise and people of belief. Surely Allah Almighty will not hurt His dear messenger’s tender and compassionate heart.” 

The following stanza expresses that truth in a nice way:

While the sun of the two worlds were in the sign of bliss

How would Allah not give his parents honor?

Oh my heart! Look at the diver with equitable eyes

Would he take the pearl and throw away the mother-of pearl?

Its Meaning:

Is it possible that God Almighty will not honor the Prophet’s mother and father while Hazrat Muhammad (pbuh), who is the sun of the both worlds, is in the sign of happiness?

O my heart! Look mercifully at the diver! Is it possible that he will take the pearl and throw away the mother-of-pearl?

[simpleidiotpsychic]

Serizawa Week Ficlet #4: Future

@serizawaweek2019

Day 4: Future. Slight Serirei. Reigen reads Serizawa’s fortune. (A day late shhhh)

AO3 Link

Reigen was up to his usual antics.

Serizawa could only watch with mild amusement from his desk where he’d just finished his math homework and was now keeping out of the way while Reigen performed a… what was this? It wasn’t a seance. Oh right. He was prediting their customer’s future.

Reigen and the customer--a middle aged woman with a coral pink cardigan--were sitting across from each other in the center of the office, on plain straight-backed chairs. They were close enough that their knees almost touched, and Reigen currently had the woman’s hand rested in his, tracing her palm with a very energetic finger. She was blushing a little. He was always popular with the older ladies…

“I see, I see…” he was muttering to himself, scrutinizing her hand with a look of utmost gravity. He was wearing his black suit and tie today because their lineup of scheduled jobs had required an extra sense of austere theatrics. Reigen was all about presentation. He knew the sort of haircut Serizawa would need back when he first started here, although for the most part he left Serizawa to his own devices after that, and Reigen himself was pre-planned down to the last button sometimes, if it could eke out a few extra yen. If you looked carefully enough (which Serizawa had had a long time to do) you’d notice that Reigen’s dress shoes were actually quite old and banged up from running through a few adventures in their day. There was even the barest slit of a hole in the right one, where he was about ready to walk right out of his insole. But Reigen shined his shoes so meticulously, and kept his shoelaces so perfectly symmetrical, that customers never even gave them a second glance.

It was all sleight of hand. Reigen was a master.

He leaned forward a bit for dramatic effect (and because causing a middle aged woman’s heart to flutter could be good for business sometimes).

“This mark across your lifeline… It’s an ill omen,” he said seriously. She was absolutely entranced, leaning in too to latch onto his every word.

He always started with some bad news as a hook, but what Serizawa appreciated about Reigen’s “fortunetelling” was that he always foretold a happy ending.

“Your sons are at college… You miss them,” he said, with enough mystique that she completely forgot she’d told him that ten minutes ago. “I foresee a longer period of loneliness with your house empty… Ah, but wait!”

Here it came.

Reigen tapped the very middle of her palm with his finger in incredible earnestness.

“I see… You’re going to get… A gym membership!”

“A gym membership?” she repeated.

“Yes! Ah, it’s coming so clearly. Excuse me, sometimes the vibrations are just so high I get overwhelmed… Yes, a gym membership! You’re going to take this time for yourself to feel more energized and get reaquainted with your own health. It’s easy to get caught up in the daily grind, you understand, and forget to actually live life. But the stars foresee great renewal. Your husband should join too. You must take back the life that you set aside for parenthood and embrace selfishness! Yes yes, that is your fate.”

He let go of her hand with great circumstance and she immediately covered her chest in emotion.

“Oh… That sounds delightful, Reigen-sensei!” she said.

“Doesn’t it? Fate works in mysterious ways.”

He used the line Fate works in mysterious ways very often.

It was all a ruse, but Serizawa thought of it as a ruse with strange benefits. Reigen didn’t realize sometimes his own positive impact. He wasn’t hurting their customers with unnecessary fears or antagonism, and mostly just gave everyone helpful life advice. They came to him with money wanting to hear something in particular and he gave them that. In some ways it was better than an actual fortune, which no doubt would include just as much heartache as life itself did.

She offered him a tip which he graciously declined in a carefully calculated fashion just so that she would say “no no I insist!” and then he could accept it with extra benevolence, hoarding it very quickly into his pocket. She scheduled another appointment in a couple of months. If anything, Reigen was kind of like a therapist for some of these people.

He smiled radiantly and bowed her out of the door. Then he turned to Serizawa and the customer service smile immediately fell into his usual bland expression.

“What’s with that face?” Reigen asked.

Serizawa chuckled. He hadn’t realized it, but he was kind of smirking at Reigen. He shook his head. “You continue to impress,” he said, not without fondness.

“Sounds like you doubt your master’s abilities,” said Reigen, sitting back in one of those plain chairs in the center of the room, crossing one leg over the other, and thumbing through his money.

Reigen had never quite told Serizawa that he had no powers, at least not in so many words. Serizawa knew of course because he wasn’t stupid. And he had a feeling Reigen knew that he knew. But they still danced around it like this, like it was a joke between them now.

It was funny to think how terrified Serizawa was on his first day here and how long those nerves had lasted. Even now he could have high anxiety days, just waking up with some extra energy buzzing around in his gut, but he'd gotten so used to the daily routine of Spirits and Such that he could do his work even with his mind elsewhere. And Reigen… well, he was Reigen. Imagining being afraid of Reigen now was kind of hilarious.

He was as familiar as the routine, maybe moreso. Serizawa thought he could probably be with Reigen all the time and not mind it at all. That was a lot coming from someone who'd spent fifteen years barely socializing and still didn't have the highest stamina for it.

Serizawa stood, sliding his math notebook into his backpack leaning against his desk, and then circled around to approach Reigen's chair. In perfect sync, Reigen pulled out half the bills--already counted--and held them out for Serizawa.

"We have a safe," Serizawa pointed out, tucking his share in his pocket. He didn't count it a second time. Reigen was always a wizard with money, never a mistake to be had.

"Sometimes it's good to feel your paycheck weighing down your pocket," Reigen said, taking out his wallet to properly deposit his own now. "Appreciate the little things. Right?"

"It feels almost like I'm your customer now."

Reigen shot him a sharp grin.

"Want me to peer into your future?" he joked.

The old Serizawa would have laughed and graciously bowed away from this bluff, the submissive and perhaps even shy route.

The new Serizawa understood he was allowed to have fun sometimes and so rose to the challenge.

"Yes actually," he said, with the barest faux-serious smile and deposited himself in the chair opposite Reigen.

Reigen looked a little surprised but quickly recovered, shaking out his hands at the wrists as if in preparation.

"Alright then. I guess I'll give you the employee discount," he said, jumping back on track with the banter.

"How kind."

It was now something like an extension of their usual joke. I know you have no powers, and I'm teasing you for it. What will you do to show me up?

Reigen held out a hand and Serizawa laid his own hand on top of it, his knuckles settling into Reigen's palm. Reigen's touch was warm. Serizawa's hand was somewhat larger than his, particularly in the fingers, but Reigen cupped it easily as he brushed the heel of it with his other thumb.

"Hmmmmmm," Reigen said, staring down at the lines in Serizawa's hand with exaggerated contemplation.

Serizawa watched his face. Up close like this he couldn't help but notice the exact fall of his hair over his forehead, the ruminative pinch of his eyebrows. There was a stray eyelash on his cheek and Serizawa almost brushed it away just on instinct, as naturally as if it were his own, but he stopped himself.

He'd really grown a lot of confidence, hadn't he? But he suspected this level of comfort was something only possible with Reigen.

A little sheepish at his own daring, he averted his eyes down to his hand. He didn't usually look at his own hands much, but now he found himself noticing all the details he typically took for granted. His knuckles and the back of his hands down to the wrist were coated in fine black hair that was visible on the side on his thumb and disappeared past the bones of his wrist into his buttoned sleeve. He had a new wristwatch hugging his wrist, the small face actually turned to lay against his pulse because that was where he instinctively looked to check it. It had been a gift from Reigen actually, on his birthday. It was one of Serizawa's favorite possessions because it was one of the only gifts from a friend in his modest collection.

Yes, Reigen was absolutely a friend by now.

Reigen traced two fingers down the line across the very center of Serizawa's palm, his touch so feathery light it almost tickled.

"Your life line," Reigen said. "It's very long and steady."

It wasn't, really. It was short and cut off in a few places. Serizawa wasn't sure what that actually meant for his future, but he smiled warmly.

"Oh is it?"

"Yes," said Reigen confidently. "I foresee a lot of happiness in your future, and… hmmmm hang on, I've got some conflicting vibes."

"Of course, take your time."

"I see a lot of success." Reigen was looking very determinedly down at Serizawa's hand, avoiding his gaze, and that was Serizawa's cue that this joke had taken a turn into a brave patch of genuineness. Reigen stroked the side of his hand idly with his thumb as he spoke. It was nice… it was oddly gentle and calming. "There'll be some bullshit of course but I see someone who can handle it. And your career is going well… You must have a great boss."

Serizawa laughed, and it got kinda caught in his throat, where a bubble of giddiness had accumulated. He was so happy. Not just now, but in general. Sometimes it just hit him all at once, that reminder. How he was truly, deeply happy.

"Your money line looks great!" Serizawa wasn’t sure if real palmistry actually had a money line but it was one of Reigen’s favorites. "And your love line…"

Reigen faltered as he traced the line with his fingers. For too long. The touch of his fingertip tingled in a way that seemed to travel all the way up Serizawa’s arm, into the crook of his elbow. His eyes darted up to meet Serizawa's for a split moment, oddly shy, and then fell again. He suddenly laid his palm flat over Serizawa's instead, just holding his hand there for a moment. It was such an oddly tender gesture that Serizawa's heart did a weird sort of backflip.

"You'll be very happy, Serizawa," Reigen said with finality, his mouth twisting into a crooked little smile, almost in self deprecation.

Then he gave Serizawa's hand a few dismissive pats and let it go. He finally looked up again, all the secret softness he'd shown schooling carefully into humor again. "Don't make me a liar. Happiness means continued work."

A part of Serizawa kind of wanted to cry, from just how happy he was and so glad to have this man in his life. Instead he just laughed. It was all he could do.

"I'll do my best," he said, with a strangely tremulous sincerity in the promise.

"You always do."

[felicismagic18873]

Beyond the Blaze (2)

Summary: 4 Years old, Alyssa Potter finds her life taking a magical turn as she steps into a world of cute green giants, talking robots and misunderstood aliens. All of it is almost enough to make her forget the probable destruction of her own world.

Word Count:2.7k

As sunshine filled the sky chasing away the darkness, a lady with breathtaking beauty was seen standing at the edge of a dazzling lake.

Her white-gold hair flowed around her porcelain-like face as the wind blew through them. Her lips resembling red of an autumn leaf lifted up into a small smile as the soft wind caressed her face. Her beauty seemed ageless and impossible, like crafted out of pure magic. That should be the case since this was one of the 12 witches that Hecate chose as her daughters, Melina.

Melina looked at the lake and soon got lost deep in her thoughts. She hoped to overcome her nervousness and lose herself in the beauty of the lake. Even after centuries, the lake held the same glory as the day she saw it as a child of mere 40 moons.

The flashes of blues and greens from the lake were reflecting on her light breeze whispered stories of past and future, made her hair move. This was the Lake of time, the start and end of time began from here.

The water was clear and pure with millions of crystals shinning at its bottom. Melina absently noticed that the dates and events written on the crystals were changing.

The Lake had an allure that drew anyone to it and Melina standing there just added to its beauty.

Melina turned as she heard the crunch of leaves and saw the one she desired to meet coming towards her. She knelt down,

"Mother."

"Stand my daughter." Hecates' gown seemed to ripple as if the cloth was ink spilling off, her silver-gold hair was set in an Ancient Greek style high-set ponytail. As usual, her sea-green aura seemed to outshine everything. Her face pale, beautiful, and ageless face was set in stone. "I know of which you desire and the answer is no."

"Mother please, do not do this. They-I know what they have done-" Melina said trying to hide the desperation she felt.

"Then you must know why this is necessary." Hecate interrupted with a knowing glance.

"They don't even know what they have done. Most of them are innocent, Mother."

"Oh of course," Hecate voice was colder than plains of Jotunheim. "This is not about them, is it? This is about the girl. Alyssa was it?"

Melina didn't back down."She is my descendant, mother."

"So were others, but you would destroy the order of things for her?"

"Mo-"

"No Melina." Melina looked down, her Mother's power forcing her submission." For centuries they have misused the gift I have granted them. Contaminating powers bestowed upon them. Killing my beloved creations! Now I shall take back what is rightly mine. If it destroys them so be it." Hecate's eyes flashed like lightning as she disappeared.

"I'm sorry mother." She stood up," but I cannot let this happen."

She hoped Fate would help her since she could not do this without her. It was time to set her plan to save Alyssa Potter into motion.

"Where are we going Mel?" Alyssa asked softly tugging on Melina's maroon robes.

"You shall see, child." She knelt down, her eyes roaming on Alyssa's face before settling on her scar. " We'll have to cover that of course. Hmm maybe... "

"Pfff!" Alyssa huffs as the hood of the heavy cloak fell on her face."Oooooo I can be a dwarf!" She pushed off the hood smiling at Mel.

"And what a pretty dwarf you shall be!" Melina ruffled her hair making her laugh. "Though," she held her chin and pretended to be in deep thought." goblins are more commonly seen here "

"Goblins, Goblins!" Alyssa hopped on her tiptoes, " Help the poor and needy ones that cluster all about, or the goblins will get ya if ya don't watch out!" She laughed reciting the poem looking up at Melina with a smile.

Mel smiled back looking thoughtful as if just remembering something. Then she sighed and ran a hand through her hair.

"Maybe I am getting old. I could have just-" She straightened her red robe and twirled her finger.

Alyssa's forehead tingled and the scar, whose significance Alyssa still didn't know, disappeared as if it were never there.

"Oh no!" Ally cried touching her head.

"It's only temporary my darling it'll come back."

Ally looked incredulous, "I like my scar but I wanna be a goblin!"

Melina's laughter made several people turn around, " Then a goblin you shall be.", she pulled the hood of the robe over Alyssa's face.

Perhaps if curiosity hadn't taken over mind, Alyssa might have wondered why she needed to hide.

As they walked into a dirty old shop Alyssa looked around. She wondered if Mel had made a mistake. The place looked creepy and dirty and not magical at all.

"This is bloody awful!" A small boy, though he was probably taller than her, spat out his drink.

"Ronald Billius Weasley! Who taught you that!" Alyssa giggled with surprise as a woman sitting next to him waved a stick? (Maybe it was a magic wand! Like-Like Merlin! )and soap bubbles came out of the little boy's mouth.

"Goblins don't giggle," Melina whispered to her teasingly.

"Oops sorry." Alyssa gave a sheepish smile that Mel couldn't see.

Melina stepped into a door in the back and in front of Alyssa's eyes, the dead-end turned into an archway.

Alyssa tried to say something but the only thing that came out was,"Woah!"

Her eyed widened taking in the sudden onslaught of noise and the magical mess of buildings that was Diagon Ally.

Melina smiled softly, "Shall we go in?" Ally nodded with excitement. So Mel held her hand and together they walked into the world of if her child couldn't have the whole experience Mel wanted her to have a piece of it that she could hold on to for, hopefully, the rest of her life

"Goblins," Alyssa whispered in awe, "They won't eat me will they?" She took off the hood of the cloak looking around with wide eyes.

"Oh, I sure hope not. It will prove to be quite an inconvenience." Alyssa looked at Melina with horror-filled eyes before her shoulders relaxed seeing the teasing smile.

"Don't do that!" Alyssa glared at her looking as menacing as a wet kitten.

Ally didn't really understand what happened next. One moment everything was normal then the goblin at the desk seemed to twitch as he looked at them.

She looked on with wonder as his face seemed to lose all color.

"Your Majesty!" He whispered in a rough voice.

Mel must have done something because the goblin just nodded before another goblin came to them, this one had one eye missing.

"Come."

Ally had to fight herself all the way to the cart. Don't ask what happened to his eye. Don't ask what happened to his eye. Don't-

"What happened to your eye?" Ally blurted before clamping her hand on her mouth. That was so rude! She was so much trouble. She glanced at Melina from the corner of her seemed to be holding back a smile.

The goblin gave a sharp smile showing all his teeth but Ally felt that this was a good smile as opposed to earlier.

"Taming the dragon." His deep voice made Ally shiver she leaned forward with interest.

"There are dragons here!? Like the Hornback?"

"Horn-tail." The corner of Melina's lips twitched. The goblin was about to face, for the first time, something he couldn't tackle. A little girl's questions.

Sharptooth was one of the senior goblins of Gringotts. He had actually been a guard of the royal family. After retiring from the job, he was given the second-highest honor. The keeper of the vaults. The keeper was required to be fast, sharp and vigilant.

He was sure nothing could truly shock him.

"We'll take all of it."

Except a daughter of magic walking in with the child-who-lived, demanding to take out the whole Potter fortune.

"A-All of it?"

"Yes Sharptooth all of it. Excluding the artifacts, what is the current balance of the Potter account?"

"About 1 b-billion 24 thousand galleons, 5 million 40 thousand Sickles and 1 million 78 thousand knuts."

Sharptooth felt a shiver down his spine, a sensation he had quite forgotten, as a gleam entered the lady's eyes.

"That will do."

"Mel! Could you come and look at this?" The curious childling called from where she was tinkering with a chest. And Hecate! What a curious childling she was. Sharptooth was amazed that she didn't fall from the cart, leaning over to see the dragon or over the edge of the vault, amazed at the golden glow of galleons.

The Lady reached out a hand, Sharptooth had to restrain himself from stepping back, and pulled something from thin air, " Put everything in here."

The pendant seemed to out glow all the galleons in the world. Platinum chain with a lily flower, the petals curling in, the material wa-

"Taaffeite."

The Lady smiled at his amazement, "I'll pick it up in a week." She walked gracefully to the child and whispered something to her. The child nodded looking longingly at the dagger in her hand before putting it back.

"Buh-Bye Sharptooth!", she laughed, waving at him as they walked out hand in hand. Leaving him with the pendant in his hand. The pendant made out of Taaffeite. An extinct gem.

Apparently, he could be shocked. Shocked enough to stand frozen outside a vault until break time.

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

"Up", Alyssa giggled, her hair bouncing as she was carried into the air." and down"

Using her gift in her room had become one of her most favorite past times. The books called it magic but Melina called it a gift so that is what Alyssa thought of it as. She smiled as her feet touched the ground.

"What are you doing!" Her eyes widened as she saw her Aunt standing at the door," You...YOU FREAK!"

Alyssa took a step back, "A-Aunt?"

Petunia was taking deep breaths, her face was red and she was muttering something before she strode forward and grabbed Alyssa's arm.

"I will not have this-this freakishness in my home! You are just like her, that witch. I knew your mother's blood would show itself someday! Oh, I bet you put that money in Dudley's room didn't you, you little thief! You put his favorite toy over it to frame my son!" She was screaming as she pulled Alyssa towards the door.

"Aunt, you're hurting me," Alyssa said through her tears. She struggled to get her arm out of her Aunt's bruising grip.

"I am hurting you am I?"" Petunia looked at her with a smile that sent shivers down her spine. Alyssa struggled against her aunt, gasping as a sharp pain went through her arm.

"Petunia, what are you doing!" Alyssa saw her Uncle wretched her aunt's hand away from her arm. It was like she was frozen, she couldn't understand what was going on. It was too much. She took a few steps back, panting. Her back made contact with the wall.

"She will bring ruin to us!," Her Aunt was screaming." They will come after us to kill her! It is all her fault, she killed them and now she will kill us."

"PETUNIA!" Her uncle shouted Petunia froze. Her husband had never shouted at her before.

"Go to our room."

"I-"

"Go," Vernon told her firmly. He ran a hand over his face as Petunia walked out. Her cold eyes bore into her with hatred.

Alyssa wrapped her arms around her knees.

"U-Uncle?"

"Just...Just stay here okay." Her uncle said before walking out of the room.

She kept starring at the closed door, she didn't know if it was minutes or hours before her uncle came back into the room. He was carrying an aged envelope in his hand.

He extended it towards her and she grabbed it unconsciously.

"This will-It will explain the..the things we should have told you about. You can...You can read it when you learn how to read in your class okay?" He left without waiting for her answer.

Mrs.P Dursley.

4 Privet Drive,

Little Whining,

Surrey.

Alyssa took out the letter that was addressed to her Aunt, her eyes frantic as they moved across the page.

31 October,1981

Dear Mrs. Dursley,

It is with great sorry that I write this letter for it brings you the heartbreaking news about the passing of your sister Lily Potter,née Evans.

As you may know Lord Voldemort-

-------

Melina looked on sadly as she saw her child sleeping on the floor, her features stressed. A letter was clutched in her hand. Sitting next to her she started running her fingers through her hair.

Emerald eyes opened slowly and Alyssa held out her hand.

She looked doomed, disoriented, and her usually bright eyes looked blank, absolutely blank mirroring nothing but fright and sadness that seemed to be seeping through her body. Melina sat next to her pulling the girl close to her, hugging her.

''Alyssa, my child. Speak to me'' She whispered.

Something seemed to snap inside her, Alyssa clutched her robe burrowing her head into her embrace ''They…They...I never.." , her broken voice was strained in pain

Melina could feel by the trembling of the child's body and the wetness on her robe showed that her beloved child was crying. So she did the only thing she could, She held her close, whispering words of comfort. Alyssa was too engrossed in her own torment to recognize the pain Melina was feeling as was not how she had wanted Alyssa to find out.

They sat like that for a very long time, each in their own thoughts.

Finally, Melina pulled away and looked at her cheeks that were wet and flushed. Alyssa raised a hand to rub her eyes that were red and swollen from crying.

''Dear heart, say something." She held Alyssa's hands and rubbed them soothingly.

Aly drew her hands away from her and looked away in an effort to control her tears as she didn't know where to start. Melina didn't let go of her. She wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to a side hug, sensing her vulnerable state. Her other hand rubbed her arm soothingly, comforting her.

'' Aunt said..She always said that they died in a car accident Mel. I-I always thought, why them? B-But she lied, she always lies.'', she said sniffling as she wiped away the last tears.

"It was all a lie. My parents didn't die in c-car crash. H-He killed them Mel. He-he.."

Melina listened to her grasping her each word, emotion, her thumb drawing circles on the back of Alyssa's forearm on its to soothe her state of turbulence. She knew that Alyssa needed to get it out or the wound will never heal.

Slowly Alyssa started recounting everything the letter told her. Who her parents were, about her status as the girl who lived. She hiccuped as a new gush of tears flowed from her reddened eyes remembering the words about her parents' death.

''H-He was a b-bad man, Mel. He w-wanted me and…and It's all my fault…Its all my fault"

Melina wrapped her both arms around her and in no time she scooped her up from the ground into her lap hugging her as close as possible.

"Shhh...It's not your fault. Its not your fault love. They-I always said that your parents loved you, remember? They loved you so much that they couldn't imagine living in a world without you." Cupping her face, She said." You are not responsible for someone else's thoughts, decisions, as matter of fact their fates. They-They just chose to live forever with you. In here." She touched pointed to her heart.

Alyssa looked down, "C-Can you tell me about them, Melina?"

Melina looked up for a second, remembering all the time she had spent looking over her descendant's life. Even if she hadn't interfered with it.

"Lily Potter (née Evans). Lily Potter was one of my brightest children-"

Alyssa relaxed in her lap, as her sadness dimmed a little making place for the feeling love.

So Melina took a deep breath willing this phase of the storm to pass away and wondering how come everything got even more complicated.

[darkangeldesignstudio]

Mother’s Day

Sorry this chapter was posted a bit late today, but its been crazy around here and I feel like crap today lol. But, I promised a chapter every other day and here it is. Chapter 4 is here. Only one left to go. Love yall and thanks for all of the love and support I’ve been receiving since I started posting this story.

Negan x Reader

Honestly, writing this story was hard. The angst was real and the PTSD was not fun to deal with, but I feel like sharing this story with you all has made me stronger in the long run and I hope you all enjoy it. Remember, if you are ever going through something like this or know someone who is, talk about it, ask for help and know in your heart that, no matter what happens. YOU ARE STRONG!!

Summary: When the world ended, you used it to escape a living hell. Later, found yourself a place to call home in Alexandria. You  and your two children were welcomed into the community and you soon found a friend in the reformed soul of a prisoner named, Negan. Your relationship grows steadily over time and he becomes an irreplaceable part of your family, but when a nightmare from the past rears its ugly head, will your love be enough to keep you alive?

Warnings: Negan’s foul language (as usual), implied smut, talks of mental and physical abuse towards children and women, threats of sexual assault, violence, and death.

Chapter 4

By the time winter came and left, you were all thankful for what the community fair had brought in the fall. Winter had been extremely hard that year. Snow covered the ground on multiple occasions, knocking out power and forcing everyone to gather in the only three houses that had fireplaces. The kids kept up high spirits, having fun despite the cramped space and grumpy adults. Snowball fights were abundant on sunnier days and by the time spring appeared, you all had gotten used to the close quarters. Even Negan came out of the ordeal with a few friends.

With spring, came another special day organized by the communities. Mother's Day was just around the corner and the council had decided to make a spectacle of the date. It was almost impossible to be sure of the exact date for Mother's Day, but everyone was excited to celebrate anyway.

All of the kids would be participating in crafts, making gifts for their mothers and grandmothers and even their sisters and friends. It would be a great day for the women of the communities. Love was abound and everyone was happy.

When the day came, your ex was the farthest thing from your mind and even if he hadn't been, there was no reason to suspect that he would come anywhere near Alexandria. Unfortunately, he showed his face about halfway through the festivities. He was with a woman that you didn't know, chatting with her as if he didn't even care that you were there, but that thought went right out of your head when he turned to you and gave a menacing grin. You immediately knew something was off.

Hurrying back towards the crowd, you spied Negan and the children huddled together and, by the way they were whispering, there was no doubt that they were planning your gift. Determined not to ruin their fun, you went in search of someone working as security for the festival.

As you skirted the crowd, nobody was the wiser when the gun was pressed to the small of your back. “[Y/N], its so nice to see you again.”

You fought the urge to shiver in disgust as his breath caressed your ear. “What do you want, Bryan?”

His chuckle sent fear shooting up your spine. “I just wanted to see my best girl and my boys. I was devastated when I couldn't find you. Followed your family all the way to Virginia before I realized you weren't with them.”

His hand slid up your forearm in a lovers caress before clamping down hard on your elbow. “Start walking, don't fight me or I'll take the boys back to Hilltop with me.”

Anger coursed your body, but you only nodded, feigning submission. He forced you to lead the way into a secluded area away from the rest of the crowd, stopping when you were seemingly far enough to be unseen by the guards around the wall.

He released your arm and you turned to face him, backing away a few paces. He lowered his gun, but didn't holster it and you knew you would only get one chance to escape with your life. You had to keep him talking, distract him until Negan or the guards came to find you.

Taking a steadying breath you lifted your chin, channeling your inner bad ass “What the fuck do you want? You never, really, gave a damn about me or the boys. This is just a new form of entertainment for your fucked up mind, isn't it?”

Honestly, it was probably a bad idea to curse the way you did, but Negan's brash ways had rubbed off on you and the angrier you got, the more confident you felt in the face of the danger this man posed. There was a risk that angering him would put you in more danger, but if Bryan was the same man you remembered him to be, your defiance would just encourage him to talk more. He would try to break your spirit down before hurting you physically.

Your gamble paid off. He laughed in your face and his face grew darker, more menacing. “Oh, the little whore wants to get some balls now? Guess its been too long since someone put you in your place.”

You didn't back down, you couldn't. Any weakness you showed would mean death for your family. “Like you used to? With your hateful words and your threats? You think, after everything I survived, everything I've been through, that I would be scared of a fucked up piece of shit like you?!”

His face was growing darker with every word you spoke, but you ignored the anger in his stare and stepped closer to him pointing at him as if you held your own gun. “I survived walker hoards, bands of villains that were bigger than you, smarter than you, I survived them all and I came through it stronger! I will NEVER fear you or anyone else! I found a home here and people that love me and MY children and I will be DAMNED if I will let you ruin this for me! So, Bryan, the best thing you can do right now is to take that little gun of yours, shove it up your cowardly ass and go fuck yourself!”

The last words you spoke were punctuated with your finger poking Bryan's chest until you finally shoved him bodily away from you. His surprise was so great, he stumbled a bit before regaining his balance. He was looking towards the ground as if he couldn't face you, then you heard it.

Bryan's laugh started quietly, his shoulders were the only thing to betray him as it grew to a higher volume. It was wicked, maniacal, like nothing you had ever heard before and you knew you had pushed him too far.

He took a deep breath before looking up at your fear filled eyes. “FUCKING BITCH!! I'LL KILL YOU!!”

His fist was flying before you even got the chance to move away. The butt of his pistol connected with your arm, blocking him just in time to avoid hitting your face. The blow was still hard enough to send you sprawling on the ground, a scream was pulled from your throat as the skin on your legs tore open on the ground.

You looked up just in time for him to grab the collar of your shirt and pull you up. His next blow connected with your gut, knocking the wind out of you as he laughed and taunted you. “Nobody's coming to help you bitch.”

Another blow connected with your right shoulder, separating it from the socket. Your scream was cut short by his hand over your mouth. “After I'm done with you, I'll go take my anger out on those two little weakling brats and then I'll have my way with that pretty little thing that follows them around.”

Anger and disgust churned in your gut, his depravity knew no bounds. Nobody was safe if this prick was allowed to live. You bit down on his palm and saw red at the first taste of his blood. His scream filled you with glee as you spit his blood onto the ground.

Unfortunately, you knew that you wouldn't be worth much in a fight with your dominant arm separated from its socket and tried to think of a way to get out of this mess safely.

Fortunately, Bryan must have assumed the same and holstered his gun. He always found more joy in using his fists than a weapon and this time it would be his downfall.

You got into a fighting stance, hoping and praying that your plan would work until your screams brought someone to you. But, just to make sure, you screamed once more, the fiercest battle cry you could muster, before charging Bryan's direction.

He was bigger than you, stronger than you, but you were faster and he didn't have training like you did. You were able to dodge and evade most of his blows. The few that connected were blocked or only grazed you. His power did him no good if he couldn't connect with you fully.

It felt like hours, the pain in your arm was draining what little bit of energy you had left. You were slowing down. So, when you heard the footsteps, you were relieved. Someone was coming, you just hoped it wasn't Negan, but fate was a cruel mistress that day.

Negan's voice caused you to stiffen in fear for a whole other reason. “[Y/N], what the fuck's going on!”

You turned to face him, wincing at the pain in your shoulder. You had no idea how bad you looked, but you could guess from the look of pure rage that filled his face. Walking slowly towards him, trying hard not to cry out at the pain in your body, you collapsed in his arms.

Negan's voice was filled with fear, fear for you. “Baby, why is he here? Why didn't you come get me?”

Mustering the last bit of strength you had, you straightened your spine, balancing on your own two feet again. “He had a gun, threatened the boys and Judith if I didn't cooperate.”

Those words were enough, Negan helped you to sit on the curb, never taking his eyes off of Bryan. His voice was hard, brokering no argument when he spoke. “Sit here, this wont take long.”

Looking up at him, you felt the most fear you had ever felt. “Please, Negan, be careful. He has a gun.”

Negan's smile was cocky as he looked towards his opponent. “Don't worry doll, this fucker couldn't kill me if he had twenty guns.”

Rolling your eyes heavenward, you caught the small smirk cross Negan's features and smiled back. If there was ever a time not to joke, it was definitely in that moment, but that never seemed to matter to this man and that made you love him all the more.

As Negan walked nonchalantly towards your ex you smiled wickedly. “Hey Negan?”

He looked over his shoulder at you, brow cocked in inquiry.

“Kick his fucking ass so we can go home.”

Negan laughed as he walked on, it seemed he was going to test his wit before he started talking with his fists. “Bloodthirsty little thing, isn't she? Why the hell would you ever let that go, man?”

Bryan only sneered. “Bitch needs to know her place.”

Negan's voice was an octave lower when he stopped, only feet away from Bryan. “She has a place, beside me as the confident and bad ass woman that she is. By the looks of it, she gave you a run for your money, just like I taught her.”

Taking offense, you yelled at Negan's smug smile. “Michonne taught me most of that, you ass. I only used you for practice.”

His shoulders shook as he laughed, whether it was at your reply or Bryan's angry face you didn't know. “Told you she was feisty”

Bryan, turning his attention back to Negan, didn't notice as Michonne and the other leaders joined you. Michonne gestured for you to keep quiet. Apparently there was a plan in place that you weren't privy to. Bryan's voice pulled you back to the problem at hand. “I don't know who the hell you are to that whore and I don't give a shit, she was keeping me from seeing my children.”

Negan stepped a fraction closer to Bryan, forcing him to focus on only him and their conversation. “You mean the kids you beat and tortured every damn day of their lives? The way I see it, they are better off thinking you are dead. You get one chance to walk away before I decide to make that thought into a fucking reality. Then, they will finally be able to live in peace.”

Bryan laughed, throwing his head back and covering his eyes as if he couldn't bear to look at Negan's face. Taking the opportunity, Negan stepped a bit closer and tried to get him talking again. “I don't see anything funny about this fucked up situation. Are you really that sick in the head?”

When Bryan looked back at Negan, you could see the madness in his eyes. “I get it, your that little bitch's dad or something. What was her name, Judith? I'll make you a deal, give me the bitch and those two brat sons of mine and I wont hurt your sweet girl. [Y/N] is a small price to pay to keep your kids safe right? What do ya say?”

You saw the minute shift in Negan's posture just before his fist flew into Bryan's face. “I think I'll just save us all some trouble and fucking KILL YOU!!”

The volume at which Negan yelled was enough to get Michonne and the others to come out of hiding. You all watched as Bryan was driven to the ground again and again. His screams of agony as bones broke was like a symphony as he finally got what he deserved a million times over. You never thought of yourself as someone who liked violence, but this was one of the best things you ever could have witnessed.

Only, it was over much too soon. Bryan lay collapsed on the ground as Negan stood over him. He wasn't dead, you could tell he was breathing and you didn't know whether to feel relieved or angry that Negan hadn't bashed the jackass's skull in.

Turning back to you and the small crowd of leaders at your back, Negan wiped the blood from his hands and walked back towards you all slowly. The look on Michonne's face spoke volumes, she was just as mad as you and Negan. The threat to her daughter had, apparently reached her ears along with everyone else's. All of their faces were hard, ready for another confrontation that, from the looks of your ex's broken form, wasn't coming soon.

Moving slowly away from the group, you met Negan halfway. He touched you softly, trying not to jostle your injured shoulder. “Told you I'd win.”

Rolling your eyes at the cocky grin, firmly plastered to his face at this point, you barely caught the movement from Bryan as he raised his gun, aiming at Negan's back.

Moving with a speed you didn't know you possessed, you pulled Negan's gun from his waistband. Shooting left handed was not something you did often, but at this point you were running on instinct. You snaked your way around Negan's back, shielding him with your body as you took aim and pulled the trigger.

Pain shot through your left hand and the gun fell to the ground. Landing on your knees, you screamed in agony when your right arm flopped limply at your side, but you had hit your mark. Bryan lay dead on the ground, the bullet finding a new home in his head. He never got a shot off.

“[Y/N], what the fuck!?”

Looking up at Negan as he crouched in front of you, you winced at the pain as you shook your right hand at him, smiling the whole time. “What the hell did you put in that gun? Fucking buckshot?”

Negan looked as if he wanted to yell at you, but appeared to think better of it with the sorry state you were in. Anyway, who could really complain when their woman just saved their ass. So, he took a page out of your book and rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation. “Should have fucking done that begin with.”

Taking a breath suddenly became hard as darkness began to overtake your vision. “Yeah, you really...should...have.”

The last thing you saw was Negan's face as he jumped to catch you, calling your name as you passed out.

[guttergodsknife]

Character Info: Rashk Geilt

BASICS.

Full name: ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓  ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓

Pronunciation:  raa-SHK

Alias: Rashk Geilt, Rashk Wimborne, the Charlatan, Kismet, various others. 

Nicknames: ▓ ▓ ▓ ▓

Height: Short (somewhere around 5′2, give or take a little depending on the height of his heels)

Age: 25-ish (wibbly wobbly timey wimey).

Zodiac: Nald’thal/Balance (Libra)

Languages: Hyur Common, old Sharlayan, Lominsan sign language, a few thieves’ cant variants.

 PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.

Hair Colour: Jet black

Eye Colour: Right eye dark, nearly black. Left eye very pale with a milky pupil, looks blind.

Skin Tone: A warm-toned deep grey.

Body type: Small but has lean muscle, a bit of a swimmer’s or a dancer’s body. Androgynous, has a lot of curve to his hips/rear and his waist is tiny, but his shoulders are a bit broad for him to come off as strictly feminine.

Accent: Ul’dahn upper class accent. Sometimes the intonation shifts strangely …

Dominant hand: Ambidextrous but favours his right hand (and does all his writing with it).

Posture: Often found model-posing or lounging lazily.

Scars: A lightning scar over his left eye. The centre mass is on his left shoulder/chest area and the scar extends down his arm and side from there. It has no pigment, standing out in stark contrast against his deep skintone.

Tattoos: An upside-down teardrop on his forehead. Anything else is hidden.  

Most noticeable features: The scar on his face and the pale eye that goes with it. The white constellation flecks of fur on his tail. His very long mass of wavy hair.

 CHILDHOOD.

Place of birth: The Black Shroud.

Hometown: A secret.

Birth weight/height: Whatever is normal.

Manner of birth: The usual way.

First words: Something like ‘ma’.

Siblings: None.

Parents: Recently adopted by an Ul’dahn noble (Lady Camilla Wimborne) to gain Ul’dah’s citizenship. Birth mother unknown.

Parental involvement: He was orphaned at a young age and adopted by someone who later vanished/died. His current family arrangement was born out of necessity (and a bit of con artistry gone wrong) but he cares for Camilla and has tea with her regularly.

 ADULT LIFE

Occupation: Fortune teller, broken seer, flame-lover, con artist, reformed thief (who keeps relapsing), socialite, fashion critic, acolyte of the Order of Nald’thal, mimic octopus, fate-fucker (curses anyone?)

Current residence: Ul’dah, the Gold Court. Never seems to be home, though …

Close friends: Busy pretending he doesn’t have any.

Relationship status: It’s Complicated (too busy repressing to have discussed his relationship status with anyone). If one listens to Ul’dahn gossip, he’s rumoured to be found on the arm of a Priestess of the Order lately.

Financial Status: Poor. His savings involve things he doesn’t know how to liquidate and he’s unwilling to accept financial aid from his adoptive mother.  

Vices: Drugs (currently recovering from a somnus addiction and hasn’t touched any drugs). Alcohol. Causing trouble. Getting even.

 SEX & ROMANCE.

Sexual orientation: Pan.

Romantic orientation: Demi.

Preferred emotional role:  submissive | dominant | switch |  unsure

Preferred sexual role:  submissive  |  dominant  |  switch |  sex repulsed

Libido: Average to low. His chronic pain tends to be a boner killer sometimes.

Turn on’s: Strong personalities, clever minds and quick tongues, people with a mutual interest in causing some light trouble, bit of blood play, a sting of pain, tying up bigger men (it’s a catharsis thing), roughhousing, feeling connected, getting treated as something more than another notch on the bedpost.

Turn off’s: Uninspired attempts to pick him up from people he barely knows, rampant stupidity, overtly childish behaviour, people only wanting to sleep with him because he’s convenient at the time.

Love language: Bad at expressing his interest verbally. Unlikely to catch onto the fact that he IS in love. Might violate boundaries with stalker-like behaviour because he wants to know things about the person he’s interested in so he will dig through paperwork and ask around about them. Brings gifts in the form of dessert or something else he thinks the other person might be interested in. Prefers presents that were acquired through some ordeal rather than simply bought (might steal a painting if he thinks you’ll like it).

Relationship Tendencies: Again, distinct lack of boundaries might emerge if he ever gets close to someone. He thinks it’s fine to borrow your clothes. And show up at your home. And eat your food. And possibly harass you at your place of work. Yet he’s likely to get squirrely and weird at physical contact if he wasn’t ready for it. He also hesitates to sleep in the same bed with anyone. He can be very hot and cold and doesn’t like discussing his relationship status. Has Unresolved Issues.

 MISCELLANEOUS.

Hobbies to pass the time: Gathering information even when he has no reason to. Gossip. Parkouring over rooftops after dark. Stargazing. Trying to develop new curses. Boredly adjusting arcanima geometries to suit his adapted astrology rituals. Judging your outfit.

Mental illnesses: PTSD.

Physical illnesses: Chronic pain.

Left or right brained: Left-ish.

Fears: Death, being found out, his past catching up, going to hell, lightning bolts, sometimes the ocean, dealing with his own emotions. Ghosts, probably.

Self-confidence level: Low but tends to act like it’s high.

Vulnerabilities: Trust issues (either trusts someone blindly, or more often doesn’t trust anyone at all). Presumed nerve damage on his left side, chronic pain acts up on that side and makes his hand unreliable. About 90% blind in his left eye. Sensitive to sudden bright lights to due Keeper vision. Overheats easily during hot daylight hours if caught in the sun. Fucked up, fractured aetheric pattern that leaves him open to various magical effects. Perpetually leans towards astral fire. Probably cursed.

Tagged by: @mischiefandmystics (thank you for the tag! sorry for the late post on this asdgfh)

Tagging: ANYONE WHO WANTS TO DO IT