#he needs to be added to mercenaries like this i beg

[moodyspoodys]

An important message from Wesker

[silverflqmes]

begging for a cloud x reader fluff of reader hiring him to help her get her cat stuck out of the tree but he loves her so much thats it free of charge

໒⦂ 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐄.

notes. CLOUD HELPING A KITTY YES<3 anon you are onto something fr tysm for this request, i hope this fulfills what you had in mind, it’s a little on the shorter side.. but enjoy<3

genre. fluff

cloud strife x gn!reader.

getting a cat out of a tree was the last request cloud would have ever thought he’d receive. what was he, an animal whisperer? he could barely communicate with people as it was, and now.. he was standing at the base of a great oak, lips flattened, with mild regret weighing on his conscience.

oh, the things he did for love.

“cloud, be careful! she’s shy around people!” you warned him a few feet away, gazing up at your feline companion — who clung helplessly to a worn down branch.

the blond had to wonder what on earth possessed your fuzzy friend to go into a tree and find the worst possible branch to lay on. it was completely absurd, and downright risky??

a sigh left his lips as he grabbed onto the protruding pieces of bark, shaking his head. “it can’t any worse than getting stabbed in the same place twice.” the former infantryman muttered, scaling the tree slowly, carefully.

cats were typically.. skittish. he remembered that much at least from the time he’d helped out wedge with finding his. therefore, the spiky haired male had to be slow with his advances and quiet, as they didn’t favor loud noises or sudden movements, either.

as cloud finally reached the level the cat was on, he shifted to sit on a sturdy branch, locking eyes with sora — your calico kitty.

distress was evident on her features as she let out a meow that sounded more or less like a cry for help, but the mercenary could tell she had been on guard, too.

“you’re doing great cloud!” you cheered from the ground, stepping closer in case your friend decided to jump down rather than accept your lover’s assistance. “almost there!”

his lips pursed together at the praise, cheeks tinting with pink as he lowered himself, almost hugging the bough he sat atop. “pspspspsps..” ugh, this is so embarrassing. “over here, sora.. gonna need you to inch closer.” he mumbled to the cat, outstretching his hand as far as it could go — which.. was just barely out of reach.

meaning, your feline friend would have to find it in herself to not only put her trust in him, but risk the wood snapping beneath her in an attempt at moving in on him.

a tough decision, indeed.

a frown ghosted the blond’s lips as he curled his fingers toward himself, a gesture to urge the cat to follow. “this is so stupid.. come on, please? y/n’s worried about you.” he pressed, scooting forward, only for the cat to scoot back. just.. great.

cloud let out a groan, nearly tossing his head back, but he didn’t want to risk scaring her. “they’re expecting me to save you, and you’re very important to them — which..” he grumbled, looking away. “means you’re important to me, too.. pay or not.”

something almost seemed to change in sora’s ivy orbs as she blinked up slowly at the other, considering his words — from what he could tell, at least.

you found difficulty in making out their conversation, or well, whatever cloud was trying to tell your cat. it seemed he wanted it kept between her and him.

despite the current situation, you couldn’t help but stifle a laugh into your hand. and he said he wasn’t an animal whisperer.

feeling the tips of his ears redden at the intense stare he was given, the owner of strife delivery service let out a low exhale before reaching his hand out one last time. “come on, y/n has treats waiting for you and somewhere way more comfortable to hang out than.. whatever spot you found here.” he added awkwardly, closing his eyes to receive his rejection once more, only.. it never came.

a low crunching noise filled his ears and his sapphire-mako eyes shot open, finding that sora had shifted closer.. at the expense of the branch she held onto.

panic flooded cloud’s system as lunged forward for the multi-colored cat, stretching one hand out to retrieve her while the other grasped onto the limb he previously sat atop.

the gasp that entered his ears was expected, followed by the noise of surprise you’d let out when he safely caught sora.

when aquamarine met olive, cloud shook his head at the cat in his hands before bringing her close to his chest and allowing himself to drop. “you need to be more careful. you may have nine lives, but i don’t..”

a confused meow, as though the feline was feigning ignorance ( most likely ), had been the only response cloud earned in return for his doings as he felt her cheek nuzzle into his chest. were cats always this bipolar?

with the danger gone, you ran up to your boyfriend, panting in relief at the sight of your furry companion clinging him. “geez, — that nearly gave me a heart attack. you just had to wait till the last minute.. you’re lucky cloud was there!”

sora seemed to lower her ears into something akin to the wings of an airplane before she leaned into her savior more, purring quietly.

the action had you gasping, appalled and yet.. touched at the same time that she had taken a liking to your partner.. unless it was just her being defiant.

still, it made cloud blink, not used to being favored by animals as he sheepishly placed a gloved hand to pet her gently. “um.. maybe just stick to cat condos from now on..” he offered quietly when you peered over at him expectantly.

notes. cloud with kitties will never not be cute — i wish he picked up wedge’s cat like tifa did during the plate fall😭 but it’s fine, edits and art exists.. anyways, i hope you enjoyed anon<3

↳ return to main masterlist . request rules . send an ask

[pluto-glow]

I threw together a quick thing for that Church lives au I was talking about the other day, just a possible scenario of the Reds and Blues meeting Alpha on Chorus.

I wrote this in one sitting not long after waking up, so sorry ahead of time for any mistakes.

(Writing under cut)

“Felix what does Alpha say about our chances here?” Kimball asked the mercenary.

“Alpha?” The orange sim trooper asked who has surprisingly come to a meeting for once. Caboose for one, wasn’t at the meeting this time.

“I was trying to keep him secret, but I can trust you guys to not go rat to Doyle and his goons. This, is Alpha.” And with that the hologram of an AI in light blue sim trooper armor flickered to life on Felix’s shoulder with a ‘sup?’

“Church?!” Tucker said in disbelief.

“No I’m not religious.” Said the AI.

“It can’t be- the EMP- we went back and looked for you- how-” Tucker just stammered.

“He was in range of the EMP with the rest of the AI- unless his body protected him, could it do that?” Simmons rambled on and theorized.

“Church? Like your old teammate? Felix why does your AI look like their old teammate?” Kimball asked, turning to Felix.

“Hey I know as much about this as you do!” Felix responded, throwing his hands up in defense.

“Guys are we really sure that that’s Church?” Grif asked in disbelief.

“Who the fuck is Church and why do you think I’m him? Do I look like a mother fucking ghost to you?” Alpha asked, raising his voice.

“Yep that’s Church.” Grif responded.

“We didn’t mention anything about ghosts.” Simmons pointed out.

“You said the guy was dead, if I was him what else would I be?” Alpha defended.

“The last thing Church said before the EMP was calling himself a ‘mother fucking ghost’.” Tucker added.

“I think we need to back track, I know grief is rough, but my AI isn’t your dead friend.” Felix said, chuckling a little but trying to sound sympathetic.

“Let’s just ask him something only Church would know.” Tucker suggested, still convinced.

“Why? He isn’t Church.” Felix responded, finally putting his foot down.

“Humor them Felix, then we can get back to the matter at hand.” Kimball ordered, stern but with some sympathy for the sim troopers in her voice.

“Fine. Ask away.” Felix responded, shaking his head and crossing his arms.

“What happened to Tucker after he got his sword?” Grif asked.

“Seriously dude?! There was better questions than that!” Tucker snapped at Grif, lightly shoving him.

“I don’t know?” Alpha responded.

“Just- take a guess? Like a Kimball said, humor us so we can get closure and we’ll get back to the meeting.” Simmons requested.

“I really don’t know! What do you expect me to do, pull something out of my ass like ‘have an alien baby who got kidnapped repeatedly’?!” Alpha fired back. The sim troopers were speechless. “I’m sorry you’re missing your former leader, but like I said, I don’t know-”

“No you were right.” Tucker finally spoke up.

“What?!” Alpha and Felix shouted at the same time.

“You’re kidding.” Kimball responded in disbelief.

“Yeah Tucker has an alien kid.” Grif responded.

“His name is Junior, he’s the coolest.” Tucker boasted like a proud dad.

“You’re fucking with us.” Felix insisted.

“Nope, he really did have an alien kid, just ask Caboose.” Simmons replied.

“Caboose isn’t the best source.” Felix defended. “I love the guy, but he isn’t.”

“He has the scars from where it bit him.” Grif explained casually.

“So- Tucker had an alien baby- and it bit Caboose hard enough to leave a scar?” Kimball asked, partially hoping this was a joke.

“Yeah, no one warned us that the baby alien-” Tucker started to explain before getting cut off.

“Funny joke guys, can we get on with the meeting?” Felix begged.

“All that blood was a pain in the ass to clean up.” Alpha commented. The sim troopers gave the AI another look. “What? Is my armor on funny?”

“We never mentioned the blood.” Tucker explained.

“Yeah you did, the thing bit Caboose because it fed on blood.” Alpha defended himself.

“They didn’t mention that.” Kimball mentioned before adding. “Alpha, how did you know that?”

“What?! No they mentioned it!” Alpha insisted.

“They didn’t, we’re in the same room I would have heard it too.” Kimball argued.

“No- they did- they must have, I couldn’t have known other wise- I- I-” Alpha started to stammer while his hologram started to glitch.

“Great, you guys broke my AI. I’m gonna go see if I can get him sorted out.” Felix said before directing at Alpha “Alpha, power down.”

“But-” Alpha started to argue.

“Now Alpha.” Felix commanded. The mercenary looked up to see the look the sim troopers and Kimball were giving him through their helmets so he explained “I don’t want him to get damaged or anything, he’s been a big help in this fight.” And with that he turned around the left the meeting room.

“Fine, I guess we’ll meet another time.”

“What do we tell Caboose?”

[ashes-2-ashes57cba]

The Bad Batch: Valkyrie

Episode 4: The Pilgrimage

That's right! Another original episode! Sorry, but this means we won't be following Tech's absolutely awesome Fast and Furious storyline. This is a short episode, but still very important.

 It was quiet in Cid’s Parlor; the Bad Batch had returned in the early hours of the morning, getting what rest they could from a mission that took too long and a client that talked too much. Specter, Echo, and Wrecker rested at the bar while Hunter, Tech, and Omega found seats throughout the room.  

“Hey! Wake up, chuckleheads, no sleeping on the job,” Cid appeared from the back, slamming a hand on the bar, startling the group.

“But we just finished a job,” Omega protested, slouching and rubbing her face.

“What happened to ‘wakey wakey eggs and bakey’?” Specter mumbled, barely opening her eyes, propping herself upright from the bar.

“Sorry, sweetheart, no continental breakfast here. Just more work,” the Trandoshan said.

“What do you need?” Echo asked, turning toward her.

“Just to deliver some goods. 50 or so cases of Nerf nuggets,” Cid waved her hand absentmindedly, still looking at her datapad. Hunter stepped forward to argue—their skills could be put to use for more of a higher paying job—but Specter held up her hand, stopping him. It was a conversation she had to remind him of constantly.

“It’s better to take every job we can rather than picking and choosing. We’ll have more of a steady income and not burn through our money from big cash grabs,” she had advised him. 

So, Hunter sighed, turning to Echo, who nodded in reply.

“Echo and I can make the delivery. Where to?” Hunter asked. 

“Some colony planet. Kant’himmel,” Cid shrugged. Specter almost fell out of her seat.

“Let me go too!” she exclaimed. All eyes turned toward her. She blushed and shied away at the attention to her enthusiastic outburst. “So… so it could be an even split,” she meekly added. A smile flickered over Hunter's lips, but he remained professional.

“Alright, then. Well, let’s load up and head out then,” he said.

As hyperspace flew past, Specter read through the Valkyrie file again. She had already finished it but was going through it once more to try and gain a better understanding. 

There was no further information on the apparent corruption of the original DNA sample, and there was no discernable pattern between her sisters other than their pre-developmental deaths. Not much was documented about the incidents, anything that had been written down was redacted. Specter gave brief thanks to Crosshair’s DNA rather than fussing about what had happened—she couldn’t change what was already lost. 

Despite that, Specter looked over each of her sisters’ profiles and formulated names from their designations.

“Sidne… Sidne…” she whispered to herself.

“What’s that?” Hunter asked, turning in his seat to face her.

“My Valkyrie name. My official designation was Valkyrie-010sdne, so Omega thought of ‘Sidne,’” Specter explained. 

“I like it,” Hunter said with a smile but noticed Specter’s smile flickered. “Hey, what’s wrong?” He went to sit next to her. She sighed.

“It just feels weird. I have this name and my sisters, and I’m going to the birthplace of the Valkyries—my home—it’s like I’m just abandoning everything else,” said Specter. Hunter intently listened. “I know my past—all of it. But I still don’t know who I am. Soldier? Mercenary? Valkyrie?” Her sisters offered no guidance to the answer she sought, but their shades still occupied her head, chanting war songs that never came to be, speaking of strategies in an uncreated language, and begging her to take arms alongside them. 

Hunter placed his hand on top of hers; he had no idea she was still struggling. Echo had told him how she lashed out on Serenno, and Tech informed him about her need for distraction before her solo mission the other night. Hunter knew there wasn’t anything he could do except be there for Specter on this journey of self-discovery. 

“You know, if Project Valkyrie was successful, I still would have been a twin,” she said, looking at the data pad again.

“What was her name?” Hunter asked.

“Sigrun. Heh, could you imagine someone looking exactly like me?” she asked with a rueful smile. Hunter looked her in the eyes: warm brown with a halo of green around her iris and a speck of silver just in the corner. 

“Specter, no one could ever be like you, even if they were a clone,” he said. She felt her heart skip a beat at his sincerity. She broke eye contact, eyes flickering downward before finally landing on their hands. Focusing on his touch made everything quiet and peaceful. 

“Coming up on Kant’himmel,” Echo suddenly announced, snapping both of them out of their thoughts. The pair awkwardly nodded at each other before standing and entering the cockpit. 

Specter watched as they left hyperspace, and the planet grew closer and closer. 

This was it. This was where the idea of her came from. Her sisters buzzed, urging her to take them home. Specter’s hand dropped to her side, gently grasping onto Hunter’s. He squeezed her back. Neither of them noticed Echo glancing over at them and smiling to himself.

It was more of a town than a city. Apartments were stacked on shops, individual houses scattered the outer lands, and a large social square centered the town. Hunter and Echo went to deliver the crates, letting Specter explore—after she promised not to wander too far. 

Life buzzed around her with no trace of the Empire, echoes of the Republic, or remnants of the Separatists. Children ran through the streets or watched performers set up on small platforms meant to be their stage. They spoke Basic with some sort of lilted accent, but their native language was unfamiliar to Specter. She could only describe it as an ocean, smooth with a constant and soothing hush, and every now and then, a harsh wave of a consonant crested over and broke through the calm.

A small but sizable crowd had gathered near the edge of a square, watching as an old woman sang in that ocean language. Specter drifted closer, hearing music from an instrument in her lap… and seeing that she was blind. She watched her sing and tell a story—the children that gathered near intently listened—finding the melody charming and enchanting.

The song continued, and the melody of the old woman’s voice rose to a melancholic peak before suddenly stopping. It echoed in her head, feeling… familiar. The song continued, and Specter leaned over to a man next to her, clutching his heart and blinking away tears. 

“What did she sing?” she whispered. 

“It's a story. The Tragedy of the Valkyrie Sigrdrifa, the one who swallowed a star,” he explained in a lore voice before turning his attention back to the performance. 

The story soon finished and was met with applause before the crowd dispersed, some stopping to drop coins into a bag by the old woman's feet. Specter turned to go as well before she was called out.

“You, girl! Short brown hair! An axe at your hip,” the blind woman announced. Specter stopped, slowly turning toward her, curious if the woman was referring to her. She carefully made her way over toward the old woman and stood before her, hoping she meant to call someone else. “Brown eyes. Green at the center. And a fleck of silver just at the corner.” It was her. Specter kneeled at her feet. “The eyes of a Valkyrie,” she said, turning her clouded eyes toward her.

“How did you—”

“Where are your sisters?” the woman interrupted. 

“I don’t—I’m not—” Specter scrambled for an answer until she realized what she meant. The woman called her Valkyrie. “They aren’t here… they didn’t make it,” she solemnly corrected herself. The lady hummed, taking Specter’s hands into her own and gently patting them. She looked at the lady, trying to peer into her pale gaze; at one point in her life, her eyes would have mirrored Specter’s. Brown with an inner halo of green and a silver fleck. “Who are you?”

“It’s rude to stare, Valkyrie. What are you called?”

“Specter.”

“And your name?”

“...Sidne.” The woman gripped her hands a little tighter before smiling and chuckling.

“And you say you aren’t a Valkyrie. But you can’t trick me. My eyes may be blind, but I see the truth. Your eyes see Life and Death, and your name is of legend,” she said, amused. “Even the tattoo on your right shoulder is a rune of the Valkyries.” Specter rubbed her shoulder and chuckled politely with her but soon enough deflated. 

“I’m not… I don’t know if I really am a Valkyrie. I don’t know who I am,” she admitted, hanging her head. “I’ve lived my life under a different name, a different purpose. I only just discovered that I’m a Valkyrie, but I haven’t lived up to my name or any legend.” The woman, still smiling, tilted her head.

“You’ve made it this far. That means you must have done something right then. One does not make a pilgrimage without already having what they need.” Specter looked up at her. “A pilgrimage is made so that your mind and soul know how to return home,” the woman continued before reaching out blindly to brush Specter’s cheek, “but this place isn’t your home, girl. This place is here only to show you that you needn’t go any further.” 

Specter shivered, and not from the chill of the evening breeze.

“I will say this, Sidne,” the woman continued. “It will do you no good to dwell on the past and listen to voices other than your own. Even if they are your sisters.” Specter then noticed that her sisters were indeed quiet. 

“I know,” she sighed.

The woman nodded and boxed up her instrument, grunting as she stood up, Specter joining her. She let the lady’s fingers reach up and trace her face, shaping an image in her mind as her clouded gaze was trained ahead.

“I wish I could have seen you, Valkyrie,” she sighed.

“Who are you?” Specter asked again, still shivering. The old woman only smiled, caressing the side of her face as though she were her mother.

“Only a marker on your path. You will have only one chance tonight if you wish to see your sisters off. Himmelen vil åpne seg og stjernene vil falle,” the woman said as she hoisted her boxed-up instrument over her shoulder and slowly made her way home.

Specter found she had somehow truly understood.

The heavens will open, and the stars will fall… I know what I have to do.

Specter was quiet as she and the boys walked back to the Marauder. Even as they gave their fortunately uneventful report of the transaction and made observations about the settlement, Hunter and Echo noticed their teammate acting peculiarly. It was as though she were in a daze.

“Are you alright?” Echo tentatively asked. She only nodded and offered a small smile before staring off again, her eyes flickering up towards the sky. “Specter?” Echo asked again, noticing she had stopped a few paces behind him and Hunter.

Suddenly, she broke out into a sprint, dashing toward a hill adjacent to the Marauder. The boys glanced at each other before following, though they knew they could never catch up with her. She crested at the top of the hill, finding the sky alive with falling stars leaving trails of glowing colors in their wake; it was a blinding portrait of green, blue, purple, white, and yellow.

By the time Hunter and Echo caught up with her, Specter was still gazing at the lights, not noticing the tears streaming down her face. She muttered names neither of them recognized. 

Regildana. 

Brynhildr.

Synhilde.

Hjamadra.

Hlotha. 

Hlodrifa.

Svitha.

Orifa.

Thruva. 

Herja.

Kara.

Sigrun. 

Hunter recognized Sigrun as the name of what would have been Specter’s twin. She was saying goodbye to her sisters, letting them go one by one to ride off with the other true Valkyries among the stars, making their pilgrimage home. Specter cried in both joyous euphoria and bittersweet sorrow, missing the life and family she never had but realizing she had all the family and identity she needed right there with her. Starlight reflected off her tears. 

Hunter let his hand drop, venturing to intertwine his fingers with hers. She took it, squeezing tight; he relaxed, knowing she was alright. Echo, who had waited a few steps back, smiled at the pair before calmly walking off to power up the ship.

“Are you sure you’re fine?” Hunter asked her. She didn’t answer, too caught up in trying to get air in after her cries and laughing with some strange understanding. They didn’t know it—they didn’t know anything—but she had figured it out. The woman had said it, and it finally made sense. Specter sloppily wiped her tears with her hands, smiling so she wouldn’t worry him.

She took a deep breath, suddenly serene and calm. It surprised him to the point where he had to blink hard to make sure it was still his Specter.

“I am,” she sighed, using her other hand to pull him close and rest her head on his shoulder. “I am everything I need to be.”

Bonus scene:

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked, watching as the last of the stars fell.

“It is,” he said, looking right at her.

That bonus scene was cute, huh? Find me on Ao3 for an alternative bonus scene ;) I hope you liked this original episode!

[sinarastyx]

Sneak peek of a chapter

Her delicate fingers were already wrapped around a quill, signing her soul away in black ink. For the briefest of moments, he wondered how Renata's fingers would feel entwined with his. Were her hands soft from years of luxury, or perhaps roughened by the grip of a sword? Lamberto froze mid-step, the thoughts of Renata taunting him, pulling him into a reverie he couldn't afford to fall into.  This was his enemy, not anything else!

"Son?" Davide asked calmly, with a hint of worry.

Lamberto snapped from his brain fog, he realized that she just signed the contract to join them.

"What did you do? I told you to wait, I would have-" Lamberto was cut off by his father.

"You would have what, Lamberto? I hope you have not gone behind my back, son." There was a warning in Davide's voice.

"Nothing, nothing at all. I am just so glad that she is here forever..." Lamberto replied through gritted teeth. The most he can do is sit down next to Renata, and attempt to ignore her smug face.

"Good, I am glad you see it my way. As for you Renata, I already have a mission in mind for you." Davide shared a look between the two, and Lamberto didn't like that one bit.

"You will be training Lamberto in the art of cloak and dagger. You will make him into an assassin like you." The words hung in the air, it felt like a curse was just spoken.

Lamberto fell from his seat, tumbling backward. "WHAT??" he bellowed from the ground, scrambling to his feet and rushing to his father's desk. "You cannot be serious, Father!"

Renata went to cover her face with a hand.

"What a cruel punishment you are putting me through. And here I was starting to like you, Davide." She drops her hand down."What do you need me to do?"

Davide placed his hands softly on the table, "Clearly though my son has skill and aptitude, yet he is not fit to do what I need him to do."

"No," Lamberto spoke up, "don't tell me you want me to --"

"Train under her. Yes. And there will be no disagreement upon this affair as I will make it my final decision." He snarled, "And if you dare speak up against me, child, I swear upon your mother that you will be locked in the cellar until you reach my age."

"Father - It cannot be with her, I will not train with this demon! Are you certain there is no one else?" Lamberto could feel his whole world shatter over his father's words.

"No." Davide sounded quite serious and firm, maybe Renata could still talk him out of this silly idea.

"You want me to train him? Hmm, how hard and how far do you want me to push him?" The worst part about this is she is mildly interested in this plan.

Davide was generally surprised at her reaction.

"Father - you cannot be serious. Do you not see the look in her eyes?" Lamberto pleaded, his voice filled with urgency.

"What look?" Davide looked confused as he searched Renata's face.

"They are filled with malice." Lamberto climbed onto Davide's desk, knocking over papers and other items. He would beg his father if he must!

Davide shook his head and shoved Lamberto off of his desk, "If you are to rule our mercenary guild and strike fear to those that cross you, then you must do more than just learn how to read..." He snarled.

"But!" Lamberto whined out as he popped back up over the desk.

( please check out the rest of the writing on Wattpad! Username: SinaraStyx, story name Ad Velume )

[onecantsimply]

Just some Stalker Jack The Ripper x Mercenary GN reader headcanons- He’s most likely Yandere too- Don’t mind me- I wanna continue this- Very very bad-

-

• Jack has always wanted his meeting with you to be perfect, which is why he’s watching you from afar. Just stalking you, even if you’re doing your job. He loves to watch through a dark spot while your target is probably begging for his life. What a nice color of fear you added…

• But still, other than that, Jack will find out every bit of information about you. Every small detail is added to his mind.

• Due to how he’s a sort of mercenary as well, he doesn’t exactly want to be meeting with you yet. So he’s specifically requesting for Red Widow to never put him in any jobs with you. She went bitch mode and said “maybe” before leaving him to his next target’s file.

• Well, Jack is back to stalking you from afar again. He gets to observe your daily life. The others you interact with, the things you enjoy, the places you visit on a daily basis, your home, your hobbies, your mercenary job, and most definitely some other things.

• Even if the figures you interact with are platonic, he can’t help but get that slowly growing feeling of jealousy. But for the sake of your happiness, and the fact that those people haven’t gone far with you yet, Jack won’t be doing anything to them.

• He wants to be close to you. He aches so badly to be by your side so he doesn’t look like this creep that’s always staring at you with the faintest of lovestruck expressions. By the time he notices that it’s already midnight, he realizes that he has to do his own job. So begrudgingly, he slips away.

• I pray for the person he’s supposed to kill if he’s somehow irritated at something. Jack normal doesn’t get irritated. Hell, it’s hard enough to get him like that. But interrupting his stalking time is something he doesn’t take kindly to. While he will bask in the color of fear, he has shit to do so he may make things a bit more quick than last time.

• Well… back home he goes. You’re most likely at home, safe. Right-?

• … Mother of fuck. You have him going over to your house to see if you’re okay. Gladly enough, you are. Toying with your younger siblings while doing your own thing as well. Jack has the biggest temptation to keep staring, but he himself needs to go home. Comforted with the thought of you, Jack goes home in a better mood.

• The very next day, he’s already getting his day started by going to Alice’s Cafe. He got paid by Red Widow, so he’s perfectly fine with staying out of the job for a few days to stalk you however he’d like. But first, he needs his energy. Once every now and then, he sees you pass by with your younger siblings. Possibly to get something for them or treat them? Well, one of those days were today, and Jack couldn’t help but stare at you while waiting for his order of apple pie.

• The longer you remain within his eyesight, the more he can’t restrain the reflex to follow you. So maybe fortunately, you had disappeared behind some buildings with your siblings. In that very same instant, Jack is served his favored apple pie. He’ll eat it with a warm expression on his face before paying and finding out where you are. Ensure the stalking.

• Best believe that Jack will not tolerate anyone coming up to you. Even if you kick their ass yourself, Jack is making sure that the person is his next target. Even if it does make him lose time in stalking you, especially at such an early time in the morning, Jack has to make sure the scum doesn’t ever return in your life again. A tough decision, but he made it just for the best of you.

• Best to keep in mind that Jack may not just hunt for fear this time. The second he finds out of where that thing lives, he’s going right back to you. He wasted more than enough time on scum, and he needs a coping method- ✨Stalking✨

• Luckily for him, you’re getting your siblings some things to eat. He thinks it’s lovely how you can take care of children so easily. Maybe you can do that if he adopts or has a child with you? Jack can’t wait for that time to come. But for now, he has to remain patient.

• Goodness, Jack can’t help but mentally praise you for how you are. Such a perfect being. He craves to finally be within your presence instead of simply stalking from behind. This settles it. Tomorrow… he’ll officially meet you. He’s gained up enough confidence, and he’s sick of having other scum approaching you.

• The mere thought of it has him shivering from ecstasy. Have no worry, for Jack will protect you from every scum in the Earth, even if it means abducting you and keeping you on his bed for him to cuddle up to every night.

[wyvernthekriger]

The Moon Knows - 2

The Past will always remember Moon Knight x Avatar Reader part 1 part 2

“You’re not her. She’s dead, I held her. Who the fuck are you?"

If looks could kill you would have been added to Marc's incredible body count. You angled your head down slightly to try and see him clearer, the spots in your vision slowly fading.

"I was. You're right, I was." Your throat suddenly becoming dry. "I'll explain everything, Marc, I promise, but now is not the time. Where is Arthur?" The man's arms shook as he retreated them from your figure, a click could be heard as he put his knife back. "He got away, and he has something I need."

"We need." You corrected him. "The Golden Scarab is a sacred item and incredibly powerful, if he continues on his path with it there will be severe consequences. We need to get it back under the council's protection." His eyebrows crinkle, creating an ominous shadow across his face, the face of a haunted man looking back at you. "The same council that banished Khonshu? How'd they even lose it in the first place?" "Why would they tell me that? All Anubis said was it needs to be found and returned before Ammit rises. We're talking thousands of casualties if we fail."

Before Marc could respond, a loud motor tore through the tension, making both of you flinch. A woman rides up, throwing a dirty look in our direction. "Who is this?" She asked Marc, never breaking eye contact. "Look, Layla now is not the time." She snapped her gaze at Marc, realizing now that it was no longer Steven in control. "Marc??" "Yes, again, not the time. Please. We need to get out of here and figure something out."

"It seems that the past will always catch up with you."

Khonshu's booming voice echoed through the empty streets, though only Marc and You glance his way. "Shut the hell up." Is all Marc spat at him before turning and walking towards the main street.

"And it seems you still have a knack for making your Avatars despise you, old friend."

is all Anubis said before disappearing, a cloud of ash being left in his place. You ignore the two Gods and walk after Marc, offering a polite smile towards Layla. "So... you're Marc's wife, huh?" though small talk wasn't your strength you'd rather try to ease the tension between the two of you before reaching what you assumed to be their home. "Yes. And you are?"

Cringing a bit at her tone, you look forward, watching the figure of your best friend trudge forwards, stomping a bit like he does when he's upset. "I'm an old friend of Marc's. We used to work together when he was a mercenary. We were stationed just a few miles outside of my hometown in Egypt. I was a devoted follower of Khonshu and Sobek, and worked as a priestess when I lived there so I visited the tombs and temples a lot to give offerings and keep the tombs clean. I was the guide while we were there so no one got lost."

She looked at you, curiosity filled her features, "He only ever told me about one of his crew members, a woman who died during his last mission. It haunted him." You smile sadly, offering only a glance at her. You had a feeling it wasn't just your death that haunted him, but also the God you begged to save him. "I'm sorry, I don't mean for my presence to stir up any conflict. I just ran into him today, and only because of the Scarab." You try easing her mind as you feel she might have the wrong idea about you.

"No worries, there are things going on between him and I that have nothing to do with you. But I do appreciate the sentiment." You only nod at her as you two catch up with Marc, entering an apartment building. Once you got to his room you were confused to see an apartment with no hints at being lived in by a woman. Confusion leaked into your features as the door was closed behind you.

Walking around what seems to be the dining area, you look down at a pile of papers on the table. A small gasp leaving your mouth as you figured out what was going on. "Bachelor pad." You mumbled to yourself, making notes not to bring any of this up to either of them, hoping to avoid conflict.

You hear Layla and Marc talking quietly to one another as you finally walked up to them. Marc's eyes full of pain when he glances up at you. "Speak." Is all he spat out at you. Layla looked between the two of you and sat down, waiting for whatever was about to unfold. "Well what do you want to know?" "Everything. Who are you and why are you parading around as Y/N?!" You scratched the back of your neck and grimaced.

"I'm me, Marc. It's me. I know what you saw in that temple and it happened, it was real, but Anubis brought me back. He decided to cut me a deal." His eye were full of emotions you couldn't quite pin. "You made a deal with him." "Yes, it was either that or stay dead. I obviously didn't want to die in the first place but he gave me no choice. Either die or be tortured for information I wasn't allowed to tell."

He knew exactly who you were talking about, and he balled his fists, almost making you think he was going to start swinging at you. "I had no choice, Marc. A rogue mercenary is not someone you want to let get their hands on you. I was afraid, not only for my safety but for my resolve. I didn't trust that I wouldn't let the information go." "You were one of the best, you knew better than to tell him anything."

"It doesn't matter now, none of it does. I'm here, you're here, and if Arthur gets to Ammit then my death would have been for nothing anyways." Your voice trailed off at the end. The pain filling you was almost too much to bare, but you held on. You wanted to run into his arms, hold him close, but things have changed and you're not sure if you even want to stick around to team up with him.

He walked over to a duffel bag on his counter, rummaging through it while mumbling curses to himself. You and Layla just exchanged glances before he stopped. "You said if you ever died first that I would save your Ankh necklace." He said, walking over and extending his arm out to you, a beautiful and still shining necklace intertwined through his fingers. You gently took it and put it on, holding onto the pendant gently. "Thank you Marc, I'm sure my Am'ma would be thanking you for keeping this safe."

He nodded and you could tell he was offering his condolences as well. Your mother was among the casualties from the night you died. You just wish she stayed home instead of offering her intellect.

Clearing your throat, you look over at Layla, her closely observing the two of you. "Layla, do you happen to have any information on Arthur or the Scarab? Did you see or hear anything?" Layla stood up, joining you guys. "I did, actually."

You could see Marc's body tense, clear to everyone who could see him that he was far too unhappy with either of us being involved in this. You felt bad, not wanting to cause him pain, but this was no longer just his burden to bare. You needed to help stop Ammit.

Taking a deep breath you leaned your weight against Marc's counter, the ache still apparent in your head from Marc's attack earlier. "Please, tell us everything you know."

[jingyismom]

Time for more sex-cursed Lan Wangji!

a messy, self-indulgent spree imported from twt and lightly edited

explicit, wangxian, 9k, canon divergence fix-it

mild dubcon because of the nature of sex curses (but like, they do their best to communicate around it), and cw for brief thoughts of self harm, no other warnings

This curse's origin is mysterious, perhaps politically guided. Someone is trying to throttle Gusu Lan's alliance prospects by removing Lan Wangji's stellar marriageability after Sunshot. It works, after a fashion.

Wei Wuxian is in the Burial Mounds, farming and hardening his heart as the resentment worsens his health, subsisting on memories of Lan Wangji's single visit.

Lan Wangji is at home in Gusu, pining away while they rebuild the Cloud Recesses.

One day, he begins to burn up with unexplained fever.

The healers examine him quickly and thoroughly and determine first that he's been cursed. This is not entirely shocking, but it of course angers the entire sect. Next they test for the curse's nature. It turns out to be a very classic, very coarse type of love curse.

The afflicted will burn up, losing all their sense and senses, and eventually die, if their body's “needs” are not satisfied by the one it craves most.

The healers are disgusted. Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren are outraged. But Lan Wangji becomes very calm at the news.

Before, he felt anxiety. The urgent desperation of a dying man waiting to be told how to live.

Now he is just waiting to die.

For you see, the choice between throwing himself at another human being—no matter who they may be—and meeting death with dignity, is an easy one.

Everyone else privy to this information disagrees. The argument that follows is short, but heated:

"Well, Wangji?" Lan Qiren begins once the initial furor has died down. "How do you wish to...go about this?"

Lan Wangji, over-warm and aching, looks up at him from the examination bed. Gusu Lan funeral rites are ancient and immutable. He does not understand the question.

Lan Qiren purses his lips and glances around. "We must find the person first," he prompts.

Ah. The person responsible. Yes, Lan Wangji does have business with them before he dies. He stands, only swaying slightly. "I am well enough to exact justice. Let us cast the rebound."

Lan Xichen steps forward then, and gently pushes him back to sitting. "It has been cast. However, justice can wait. Your health must come first."

Lan Wangji looks between his uncle, his brother, and the one doctor allowed to be present. Surely they would not be joking at a time like this.

"I do not understand," he says.

The three exchange a look. "Breaking the curse must be our priority," says Lan Xichen.

Lan Wangji is not sure he heard correctly. But it would be cruel to give him unfounded hope. "I was unaware there was another way."

"...There is not," says Lan Xichen, his gentleness unfailing.

Lan Wangji experiences a moment of deep confusion before the horror sets in.

"You cannot mean this," he says through his shock. "Surely you cannot mean to cast aside so many disciplines at the whim of a base villain."

"The disciplines are a guide," Lan Qiren says, hands behind his back, looking into the distance, "to ensure a life well-lived. They are not meant to inspire martyrdom."

Lan Wangji's mouth falls open. He stares at his uncle, mute with betrayal. He has never heard of any such leeway before, not in regards to disciplines of such a serious nature.

"You can understand, can't you?" Lan Xichen says. "That no rule is more important than your life.”

Lan Wangji disagrees vehemently. "I would not buy my life with such behavior."

Lan Qiren huffs in irritation. "We may perform a marriage in haste, if you wish."

Lan Wangji balks at him. That his uncle should speak so flippantly of...such a thing. It is unimaginable. And besides, forcing a marriage on Wei—on anyone in this way is surely only adding insult to heinous injury.

"I refuse," he says.

Lan Xichen exchanges a look with the doctor, and sits beside him. "Perhaps the other person should be allowed part of that choice."

Ridiculous. "There is no such person." Preventing this course of action is worth one lie, Lan Wangji reasons.

"With respect, Hanguang-jun, if that were true, the curse would not have been able to take hold," says the doctor.

The use of his title feels uncomfortably ironic from a woman who helped deliver him at birth. He glares at her. She smiles tiredly in return.

"Wangji," Lan Xichen says. His tone is beginning to grate on Lan Wangji's raw nerves. "You will at least try, won't you?"

Lan Wangji stares at him in disbelief, in anger, in righteous indignation.

"Never," he says.

A hand slaps his shoulder. "Apologies," says the doctor, and the world goes dark.

-----

Lan Wangji wakes to dark wood beams dappled by lacy sunlight, and a faint smell of char in the air. His head is heavy, his limbs full of lead. He swallows around the dry thickness in his throat.

"Water," comes a familiar voice.

With effort, Lan Wangji sits up. His stomach is roiling, his mind fogged from the coma and the curse both. The doctor, crouching beside him in the carriage, offers him a bowl of water.

He takes it, and asks, "What have you done?"

She sighs.

"My duty," she says, "with the help of your brother."

She draws back the curtain at the carriage entrance, revealing a sea of black, twisted trees and gray tumbled walls.

Lan Wangji's blood freezes in his veins. He just barely stops himself from asking how they knew.

"Why," he asks instead, a much safer question.

She considers him. "Your brother said if he was wrong, he would beg forgiveness afterward. But it couldn't hurt to have an expert in resentment and curses look at you anyway."

A stab of sick embarrassment makes Lan Wangji’s stomach clench.

Has he been so obvious? Is he such a lovesick fool that anyone with eyes can see his shame?

The doctor pats his shoulder gruffly and he flinches, expecting more needles.

"Ah he's your brother, he's bound to know things you don't want him to," she says. "Come on. Out you get."

He allows her to tug him out of the carriage and onto solid ground. The air is stifling with resentment, but he is glad to be free of his bonds. Now he can look for his chance to get away.

There are six Lan disciples flanking them. He eyes them warily, wondering what they know. When the doctor pulls him out of earshot, and pitches her voice low, he is satisfied that they have not been fully informed.

"Your family and I agreed to give you a chance first," she says. "You have 24 hours to take care of this yourself. After that, I will personally tell Wei-gongzi of your brother's message. I have been assured he will not jeopardize your well-being if fully-informed."

Lan Wangji gapes at her. He does not know what he expected to happen, but it was not this...this...mercenary attempt at...forcing...

The curse has weakened him such that he cannot fly his sword. He can hardly walk in a straight line, let alone run. He has very little recourse now that everyone in his life has gone absolutely mad. His heart is racing with the adrenaline of upheaval, of fear, of impending death.

He wrenches his arm from her grasp and stalks off of the road, into the brush. She calls after him, but he does not mean to escape. He cannot manage that alone. Instead, he sits. He takes a deep breath. He sinks into meditation.

"Hanguang-jun," she calls. She approaches, hands on her hips. She sighs. "Well, if it's like that, then there's nothing stopping me from telling him right now."

She turns, and Lan Wangji feels a lurch of helplessness, when a new voice rings clear through the fog.

"Tell what to whom?"

Lan Wangji's eyes snap open. Wei Wuxian is standing on the other side of the carriage, the child A-Yuan in his arms, eyeing the Lan delegation with suspicion. Wen Ning is with him, and the Lan disciples shift nervously just looking at him, but Wei Wuxian sets A-Yuan in his arms, and he leaps away up the mountain.

"Might I assume this little party has come for me?" Wei Wuxian goes on, twirling his flute. His eyes are shrewd and cold, similar to the way they had looked when he had first returned during the war.

At the sight of him, at the sound of his voice, the curse...reacts.

A horrid, uncomfortable shiver of need runs through Lan Wangji's body alongside his own simple relief and joy at seeing Wei Wuxian again, looking relatively well. He fights it, keeping still among the weeds, hoping against hope to go unnoticed.

"Yiling Laozu," the doctor greets him with a deep bow. "We have indeed come to humbly beg your aid."

"I see," he says. "And what will you give me in return?"

The doctor hesitates, clearly discomfited by the context Wei Wuxian is currently unaware of. "We may...discuss that. Once we have informed you of the details."

Wei Wuxian hums, considering. Cold. Detached. "And if I am disinclined to—"

He breaks off. The doctor has moved so that she and Lan Wangji are both in Wei Wuxian's line of sight. Lan Wangji closes his eyes rather than see the moment of recognition, rather than feel the weight of Wei Wuxian's eyes on him, like this.

"Lan Zhan?"

Lan Wangji clamps his jaw shut. It is a struggle not simply to crawl to him.

The renewed ice in Wei Wuxian's voice when next he speaks makes Lan Wangji aware of the warmth with which he had said his name. His curls his shaking hands into fists on his knees.

"What have you done to him?"

The doctor sighs. "We have done nothing. He has been cursed, which is why we brought him here. If you—"

"Daifu," Lan Wangji interrupts, his voice thin.

She stops speaking.

Lan Wangji opens his eyes, but does not look at Wei Wuxian, not yet. If he is careful, and uses his remaining strength correctly, he can perhaps...perhaps guide the situation. Toward escape. With Wei Wuxian's help.

He may have to lie to him. He hopes he will be forgiven, all things considered.

Lan Wangji stands slowly, carefully, considering each movement so as not to reveal the state he is in.

"I will speak with him," he says to the doctor.

She eyes him. "24 hours," she says.

He does not acknowledge this. He thinks they both know it will not come to that, though his idea differs greatly from hers. He judges, from the time they have allotted and his own weakness, that he has perhaps a day and a half, total, to wait them out. Doable, if he is careful and intelligent about it.

He can manage.

He walks over to Wei Wuxian, careful to keep two arm's lengths between them. This close is already too close: a fine, constant tremor has made a home in all of his tightly-locked muscles. He feels the moment his fever begins to rise further. The sides of his throat hurt, the interiors of his ears. He wonders if his hearing will go first, or his eyes.

"Allow me to explain," he says to him.

"Of course," Wei Wuxian answers.

He sounds strange. Cold, still. Lan Wangji wants to look at him, and almost slips, but manages to stop himself. He follows him up the hill, past the wards, through the resentment that clings to them both, now. He keeps his careful distance, following behind.

"What happened?" Wei Wuxian asks, as they walk.

"A curse," Lan Wangji says carefully. "Origin unknown. The rebound has been cast. I did not wish to burden you with this, but they are...they will not listen to reason. Wei Ying, if you would but help me, I would deal with this on my own."

"Oh?"

"I...wish to seek justice. They will not allow it. But you understand. If there is another path off the mountain, if you would show me the way past them, I could—"

Wei Wuxian stops dead, and Lan Wangji, with his eyes in the ground, runs into him. 

For a blazing, agonizing moment, he is touching Wei Wuxian, clinging to him, every element in his body sighing and crying out at once in satisfaction, in the torturous need for more.

He tears himself away, stumbling back, almost falling. Wei Wuxian reaches out as if to catch him, but falters.

"Lan Zhan, you can hardly stand," he says, alarmed, "and you want to go and fight someone?"

Lan Wangji draws himself up taller again, trying hard to stop his shaking. He cannot look at him. He cannot look. He is already dying, now, just from not looking. "It is my right."

"...It is..." Wei Wuxian says at length, watching him closely. "And it still will be once you're well again. Your doctors really couldn't tell what type of curse it is?"

Lan Wangji says nothing, trying to think past the way every inch of his skin feels as if it is burning clean off. The pain of it screams through him, worse than anything he has ever felt. Wei Wuxian is still speaking, but it is hard to make sense of it. When Wei Wuxian begins walking again, slowly, it is all he can do to both follow and stay away from him. This, here, now, is worse than death. If it lasts, he certainly will not be sane when the end finally comes. He lets go of any thoughts of a dignified death.

Fortunately, by the time they reach the cool dark of the cave Wei Wuxian calls home, the pain has subsided to a distant roar. Unfortunately, he hoped never to reach this point. He tries his only play again, unable to think of any new tactic.

"Please show me the way off the mountain," he says without preamble.

Wei Wuxian is quiet for a beat. "You really don't want my help that much?"

Lan Wangji is so confused by this question, and then struck by the irony of it, that he almost begins to laugh. A shivery, jittery feeling fills his chest, and he leans against the nearest solid surface. He wishes he were wearing a loose outer layer over his blue travel robes, the better to hide his shaking. He does not know how to respond.

"You haven't so much as looked at me once since you got here," Wei Wuxian goes on, digging through strange pots and objects on a table, "so I get it. But you'll have to forgive me if I disregard your objection to the kind of work I do, when it comes to your life."

"My life, my life," Lan Wangji mocks, accidentally out loud. Why is everyone suddenly so obsessed with his life? He was ready to give it freely in the war, but chance let him keep it. What difference does giving it now in the name of keeping himself clean of shame make? Why will nobody allow him this choice?

"What shame?" Wei Wuxian asks.

Lan Wangji buckles at the realization that he has said all of this out loud. He goes to the floor, to his knees.

"Nothing," he says. "The shame of not having warded off such a simple attack."

"Lan Zhan...you want to die because you didn't defend against a curse you didn't know was coming?"

Lan Wangji lapses into silence. He has said too much already. He does not know how to get out of this. He can only...he can only stay quiet. Refuse to speak or move.

"Lan Zhan...I feel like I'm missing something here. I only want to help.”

Lan Wangji grits his teeth and stares hard at the floor in front of him. He has rarely ever felt so trapped, so utterly helpless. The extended, full-body pain is dulling his mind by the moment. The hems of Wei Wuxian's robes come into view, and it takes everything in him not to fall forward into him, to plead, to beg. His breath is hitching at random intervals now, his heart tripping as it prepares to fail entirely.

There is a soft gust of air, and an odd prickling sensation across his face.

"Now let's see—oh," Wei Wuxian says. "I...oh."

Lan Wangji wilts at his stilted, awkward tone. He knows now, surely. Can see him truly.

"So that's why you want to leave, and why they won't let you. They want me to find another way to break it, to stop you from...ah."

Lan Wangji sorts through the words, trying to comprehend them.

"Sorry," Wei Wuxian goes on. "I...it's unbreakable, otherwise. A very old, airtight spell. You...will Gusu Lan start a war with me if I do just let you go...ah, handle this the old-fashioned way?"

Comprehension dawns. And with it, a way out.

Lan Wangji rushes to agree. "They—" He cuts off. Will they? If they think Wei Wuxian has willingly let him die, rather than...

He takes a breath. Another. Forces his mind past the endless litany of pleas for relief.

"Show me the way " he says, his words breathless and short, "and then tell Lan-daifu what you have done. And why. But give me time to. Get away. And you will be safe."

Wei Wuxian pauses. "How...ah. How far—how much time?"

Lan Wangji tries hard to come up with an answer for that. His progress will be slow. But he need only find a place to hide.

"Half a day," he hazards.

Wei Wuxian seems to vacillate. "Are you sure you can make it on your own?"

Lan Wangji wants to rage. To weep. To curse himself to the heavens for being so depraved toward so endlessly kind a man. His heart hurts, even as his body strains toward him.

This lie may be the worst he will ever tell.

"I will be fine,” he says.

"Alright." Wei Wuxian sounds unconvinced. "I trust you."

Lan Wangji nearly convulses, holding back a sob. How will he ever be forgiven?

He cannot think of it. Only this, only what comes next. Only keeping Wei Wuxian safe from this mess.

"Lan Zhan?"

"Mn," he manages.

"Would you look at me, now? I haven't...used any demonic cultivation on you. It's safe, I promise I won't. I just. Can't we say goodbye properly?"

Lan Wangji has not moved from the floor. He does not move. He should try. A parting gift. Just one look.

But if he is going to leave. If he is going to succeed. He cannot.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says again, frustrated now.

Lan Wangji does not look. He is so close to freedom from the horrible pull, from the way his very veins are trying to tear themselves free to wrap around Wei Wuxian.

Wei Wuxian steps forward, and Lan Wangji's breath leaves him all at once. Suddenly, there are fingers beneath his jaw, kind but firm, tilting his chin up. He has no choice but to look.

(Inspired by this art.)

Wei Wuxian is there. Tall and strong and perfect, tiredness mixed with something bittersweet on his lovely face. Lan Wangji's entire being melts toward him, a deep, sharp tug from inside his bones, a mindless, helpless, straining need that pushes a low, wanting sound from his throat.

Wei Wuxian snatches his hand away and backs up half a step, staring at him.

"Sorry," he says, blank. Confused. "I thought it was...I didn't realize...sorry."

Lan Wangji, now that he has looked, cannot look away. He has overbalanced without Wei Wuxian's support, fallen forward onto his hands, but he cannot stop looking at him. He will look at him, and keep looking; he prays Wei Wuxian is the last thing he sees before he dies.

The most shameful part of this is that none of it is the curse twisting his thoughts. None of this is. All the curse is doing is making the way he always feels impossible to ignore.

"Wei Ying," his voice implores. He does not mean it to.

Wei Wuxian takes another step back and looks down at the bowl of powder in his hand, confused. "I was certain it was that curse," he says to himself. "If I was wrong, then maybe I could break it..."

Lan Wangji tries to scrape his composure back together. He tries. He tries. His fingers scrape on the rough stone floor. He does not reach out for him. That is something.

Wei Wuxian looks at him again, then hastily away. Lan Wangji does not ever want to know what it is he sees.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says, as Lan Wangji shakes, and shakes. "Where...where were you trying to go? I thought you...I thought you were, ah, thinking of a certain someone."

Lan Wangji's arms are weak. They are going to give out. He cannot answer him.

"I'm confused, and I...may have made a mistake," Wei Wuxian goes on, still backing away slowly, "but I just want to help. Can you tell me what was happening before, and what's happening now?"

Lan Wangji shakes his head, and the motion shatters his fragile balance. He falls, and curls tightly around himself in the dirt.

"Lan Zhan!" Wei Wuxian says, suddenly close.

Lan Wangji sees his hand reach out, then pause, and he can't stop himself from taking hold of it, just to be touching him. His body screams for it, and he gasps raggedly at the contact.

Wei Wuxian wrenches his arm free. Lan Wangji wishes he were dead.

"Fuck," Wei Wuxian mutters to himself. "I...I'm sorry. I made this so much worse, I..."

"No," Lan Wangji rasps. He cannot hear Wei Wuxian berate himself thus. His dignity has now died, and he himself will soon follow. This is all that matters. "Not your fault."

Wei Wuxian huffs, crouching beside him. "It is...at least partially my fault, at this point, I'm pretty sure. You wouldn't be...reacting. Like this. If it weren't. Is...can I...do a few more tests? To check what I got wrong, and maybe—"

"You were not wrong."

He does not mean to say it.

His need to reassure has overridden his sense, and his mind is too slow now to piece together what it will mean before it leaves his mouth. The regret once it does is instantaneous. He tries to curl himself yet smaller in the dirt.

Wei Wuxian is silent. Lan Wangji cannot stop making small, pitiful, pained sounds in the back of his throat. Everything hurts. Everything.

"I don't understand," Wei Wuxian says quietly.

Lan Wangji lies shivering on the floor, arms locked around himself to prevent any more untoward behavior. He cannot take it back. He cannot try to explain. There is nothing he could say, regardless.

"Lan Zhan...but you..."

He can hear Wei Wuxian thinking, but it only registers in the far back of his mind. The rest of his consciousness is taken up by pain, and by ruthless restraint.

"You wanted to leave to get away from me," Wei Wuxian says, finally.

Lan Wangji does not answer. He wishes he had his sword. He would use it now to end this.

Wei Wuxian begins to back away again, and Lan Wangji’s body moves without his permission. He grips the skirt of Wei Wuxian’s robes in his fist and drags himself closer, pressing his cheek to Wei Wuxian's knee.

Shameful. Wanton. The small part of himself that is still aware berates the action. But he cannot let go. He cannot move away. The only part of him that is not howling with pain is the side of his face pressed to coarse fabric.

"Lan Zhan, you…," Wei Wuxian is trying to gently pry Lan Wangji's fingers from his hem. "You wanted to leave, remember? You don't want...you don't."

"Want," Lan Wangji croaks, pressing closer. "Wanted to spare you."

"Ah, Lan Zhan...I...I'm still not sure it's that specific curse, it could...there could be other..."

"It is," Lan Wangji says, half-crawling up Wei Wuxian's leg. He wants to stop himself. It is impossible.

"Lan Zhan...you...you shouldn't—"

"Stop me," Lan Wangji pleads, nuzzling against Wei Wuxian's thigh, "Wei Ying, I can't...please. Stop me."

There is a long near-silence filled with harsh breaths, in which Lan Wangji is almost certain he imagines the light touch of fingers brushing his mussed hair back from his forehead. Then Wei Wuxian speaks.

"No," he says. "You'll die, if I do. Lan Zhan. I won't let that happen."

He touches Lan Wangji's face. Lan Wangji whimpers into him.

He knows this will break the fragile repairs they have made to their friendship. He will likely never see him again, at least not on good terms. The thought makes him feel ill. He should protest. Refuse. Flee. He can do exactly none of these things. He reaches for Wei Wuxian's wrist, to hold his hand to his face, but Wei Wuxian flinches away.

"You can't...Lan Zhan. I'm going to help you," he says, "but you have to...you can't...you can't touch me."

Lan Wangji feels another tight clench of shame. He nods against his leg. He understands: he knows any small part of this is too much to ask, let alone bearing his unwelcome, curse-fevered grasping.

"Okay," says Wei Wuxian. He slides his fingers beneath Lan Wangji’s chin again, tipping his face up.

He looks so uncertain. So beautiful in the dim light. Lan Wangji wants to weep with it.

"Lan Zhan, I know it doesn't count for much like this, but you have to tell me. You have to tell me what you need."

Lan Wangji turns his head, pressing his face between Wei Wuxian's thigh and stomach, trying to reach into him, to feel more of him, to stop hurting just enough to think. It does not work.

"You," he breathes, into the scent of earth, and stringent soap, and Wei Wuxian.

A harsh, uneven breath ghosts across his hair, and Wei Wuxian's hands grip his shoulders. He thinks he is about to be pushed away again, but instead Wei Wuxian pulls him up, pulls him close, folds him into his embrace.

Lan Wangji sobs into his shoulder, trying at once to get closer and to hold himself apart, instinct demanding, even now, that he try to conceal his obvious, disgraceful hardness. His muscles quake under the strain of doing both and neither, and Wei Wuxian smooths one hand down his back, pressing him close, pressing them flush. Lan Wangji chokes back a shocked sound.

"Shh," Wei Wuxian soothes. "It's alright."

It is not alright. It is the end of the thing Lan Wangji holds most dear.

But he does not have it in him to argue. He is shifting against him, his overheated body begging for touch, indeed for ravishment. He is mindless with it. The pain is not subsiding but slipping sideways into something more, something different, something necessary.

He is on his knees on hard stone, breathlessly held in the arms of his beloved. He has dreamt this: sweetly, hazily, with and without hope. But never like this. Never sick with remorse, with need, dying and demanding and defiling. His deepest desire twisted into a nightmare.

He whimpers again, his lips finding the soft coolness of Wei Wuxian's throat. Wei Wuxian jerks away again, and Lan Wangji fists his hands tighter at his sides, trying, trying not to overstep again.

"I—sorry," he gasps out. He will never be able to apologize enough. But he will try.

"Don't apologize," says Wei Wuxian. "I—"

He cuts himself off. Lan Wangji does not have enough sense to wonder why. In the same moment, one of his thighs gives under the strain, and he falls against him heavily. They tip over, to the floor, and he reaches out on instinct to brace them both. When he is again conscious of himself, Wei Wuxian is lying on top of him, breathing hard, both of Lan Wangji's wrists pinned to the floor in one hand. Lan Wangji arches against him inadvertently, and turns his face into his own bicep.

"Sorry, I...so sorry," he pants, his hips flexing, searching for friction. "I have...no control...”

"I know," Wei Wuxian says, "I know, I shouldn't have..." he swallows hard. "I'm going to keep you like this. Can I?"

Lan Wangji nods frantically, his eyes shut tight. He does not care. Anything that he can do to make this any less invasive for Wei Wuxian, he will do.

Wei Wuxian pulls away then, his hold still firm on Lan Wangji's wrists. Lan Wangji squeezes his eyes shut and tries to stop moving, to stop searching for touch, to stop making such a disgusting spectacle of himself, but to no avail. What feels like centuries later, he hears the telltale sounds of talisman activation. He is too far gone in his pain to look up, to see what they are. He simply lies there, pinned and writhing, his breath catching in his throat. The sounds it makes are small, pitiful, desperate.

Just like him.

Eventually, Wei Wuxian leans back over him, a considering look in his eye. His hand hovers at Lan Wangjis belt.

"I—should I..."

"Yes," pleads Lan Wangji.

He needs Wei Wuxian's skin on his skin. He does not know how discerning the curse is about what happens now, but it feels as if he will die without it. Wei Wuxian takes what looks like a fortifying breath and unties the belt. Lan Wangji, unable to help, instead hinders the process with his ceaseless movement. But Wei Wuxian manages it with deft hands, and immediately unties each layer of robes in quick succession until Lan Wangji’s chest and stomach are bare.

The cool air of the cave does not soothe his burning. It burns like ice instead. Lan Wangji shivers, an ugly whine escaping him.

"What," Wei Wuxian asks, pausing, "what is it?"

Lan Wangji shakes his head. He will bear it. He will not make demands.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says, "you need to talk to me, I...I don't want to make this even worse, or, or draw it out longer."

Something small and dark crumples in Lan Wangji's chest. He does not want that either. He will need to speak. To ask.

"Hurts," he says, rough and thick.

"Where?"

"...Not...not touching me."

Wei Wuxian makes a distressed noise and lays both his palms flat over Lan Wangji's ribs. Lan Wangji groans, pressing up into them.

"Please," he whispers, helpless. "Please."

"Oh, Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian murmurs, something sad like regret. He leans closer and slides one hand down. Lan Wangji shudders under him. "I'm just going to..."

Lan Wangji nods again, holding his breath to stop the whines from escaping the back of his throat.

Wei Wuxian unties Lan Wangji's trousers and slips his hand inside. Clever fingers wrap hesitantly around him, and he bucks up into them with an obscene moan. It is minor relief from the most consuming pain he has ever felt, and it is simultaneously the most intense pleasure he has ever experienced. All of these sensations, coexisting in his fallible human body, feel likely to rip him apart.

"Wei Ying," he moans again, when Wei Wuxian moves his hand.

He gasps for air, his body twisting into it, his whole being searching for Wei Wuxian. He makes another piteous sound, the torment of it all overwhelming. Wei Wuxian leans down against him then, his own robes open, pressing them skin to skin.

Lan Wangji sobs. It is something. It is something. The pain abates somewhat, and he sighs, turning toward him, his mouth brushing Wei Wuxian's hair. He has the wherewithal now to fight the urge to kiss his head properly, his face, anything he can reach. He holds himself still beneath him instead. And Wei Wuxian touches him, and touches him. The incomprehensible pleasure builds, and builds, until Lan Wangji cannot breathe. But it does not break.

Something almost like soft lips brushes his throat.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says into his ear, "this, is this...will this be enough?"

The pleasure is just another kind of pain, now. Lan Wangji shakes his head as sweat rolls off of him, as he tries and fails to get enough air to speak.

Wei Wuxian clears his throat. "What, then?"

Lan Wangji's body knows what it needs. But he does not want to tell.

"Come on, Lan Zhan, after all this? Don't get shy on me now."

He misses the joking tone he is aiming for, but the pure, unmistakable Wei Wuxian-ness of the tease sends a surge of genuine desire through Lan Wangji. He wraps his legs around Wei Wuxian's hips and pulls him down. Wei Wuxian breathes in sharply.

"You just...you want...but only..."

"Please," says Lan Wangji, barely voiced. "In—" he cannot say it. "Please."

"Ah," Wei Wuxian whispers, into his skin. "If—are you sure?"

Lan Wangji whines. He wishes he were not so very sure. He wishes he were not asking Wei Wuxian to do something so intimate, so extreme. He wishes Wei Wuxian had let him die before it ever came to this.

"Alright Lan Zhan, just hold—hold on," he says, and is gone.

Lan Wangji clamps his mouth shut on a scream as the agony slams back into him, worse even than before.

Not soon enough, Wei Wuxian returns to divest him of his boots, socks and trousers. Lan Wangji fights him without meaning to, trying to keep his knees curled up to his chest, trying to minimize the hurt. Wei Wuxian is briskly patient, handling him with aching care he does not deserve.

And then he is upon him, chest and stomach, hips and thighs, smooth and hard and exquisite. Lan Wangji almost forgets the pain in the rush of gratitude, of solace. Their robes trail off them both, gathering dust as they move together in halting fits and starts.

"Don't let me hurt you, Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian grits out, a strong hand lifting one of Lan Wangji's thighs by the back of the knee.

It is nonsense. He could not hurt Lan Wangji any more than this. And Lan Wangji could not stop him now if he did.

But the kindness. Even in this. Tears prick at Lan Wangji's eyes. He will miss him. He will miss all of Wei Wuxian with all of himself. He will never stop missing him. He will never move past this regret as long as he lives. How could he? Every breath he draws will be by the grace of Wei Wuxian.

Suddenly there is slick pressure against him, against his most private of places, and he gasps, loud and wretched. Wei Wuxian exhales, uneven and deep, and pushes in, in, in. Slowly. So slowly. Lan Wangji bites down hard on his lip to keep from begging for it. His arms are pinned, as are his hips, Wei Wuxian holding him steady, holding him still. Lan Wangji loses all sense. There is only the weight of Wei Wuxian, the full, stinging press of him, the searing pain, the devastating euphoria of being this close, and yet so very far in every way that counts.

Ages pass before Wei Wuxian is fully seated inside him. By then Lan Wangji's breaths are wet and shallow; scraping, desolate things. He does not know any longer what hurts and what feels good. It is all one and the same. He only knows he needs more, in some primal, wordless way.

He asks with the arch of his back, the squeeze of his thighs. He tries, somehow, to keep quiet, but fails more often than not.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says tightly, "try to relax, I'm going to move. Tell me if it...if it's right."

Lan Wangji manages a loose nod, though he barely understands.

And Wei Wuxian moves. He rolls his hips against him, shifting inside of him, and Lan Wangji groans. Each deep, short thrust pushes air from his lungs, and he lacks the strength to catch it again. It is beyond pleasure. It is ecstatic. To have Wei Wuxian around him, inside him, panting above him. A deep, villainous part of him wants it never to end. The rest of him howls for release.

He is dripping now, steadily, onto his own stomach. He can feel it pooling on his belly, unpleasantly cool. He whimpers between desperate, panting breaths, beyond words.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says, breath shivering across Lan Wangji's collarbone, "I can't...can't keep this up, you feel too—" his breath catches, and he pauses. "I'm going to finish. You need to come."

Dimly, distantly, the idea that Wei Wuxian should derive pleasure from this, no matter how perfunctory, gives Lan Wangji a perverse sort of satisfaction. It snuffs out like a candle at the nebulous thought that perhaps in another world, they could have had this for real.

In this world, the fact remains that this has gone on far too long. But Lan Wangji can do nothing about it. He meets Wei Wuxian's thrusts, leans into the pleasure, tries to gain the momentum to go over the edge. He should be able to. It should be easy. He has been so hard for so long, has been given more now than in his absolute wildest and wettest of dreams, and yet he hovers, scant inches away.

Wei Wuxian loses patience, his head dropping to Lan Wangji's shoulder. He grunts softly and fists Lan Wangji's wet cock, quick and merciless. Lan Wangji cries out, shuddering violently with the extended, expansive stimulation, worked both inside and out, helplessly, utterly unmade by Wei Wuxian's touch.

And still he does not crest. He is sobbing steadily now, ugly and jagged, and Wei Wuxian kisses his shoulder, his throat, his cheek.

"Were we wrong?" He asks, breathless. "Lan Zhan please, tell—show me, I...I can't...you...I can't lose you. Lan Zhan?"

Exhausted, Lan Wangji turns his tearstained face toward him, blindly seeking. Perhaps they were all wrong. Perhaps he will die now, like this. And perhaps it is selfish of him, but having heard those words, he finds his regret to be less than it should be. Everything, everything hurts. But Wei Wuxian will miss him, too. Of course he will. They are zhiji. This, miraculously, will not erase that. It is more than he deserves. Wei Wuxian has always been more than he deserves.

Lan Wangji heaves, and writhes, and cries.

Wei Wuxian kisses him. Soft, gloriously cool lips on his.

An odd, fleeting, hollow feeling.

The dam breaks. The pain goes suddenly quiet. Roaring to fullness in its absence is the killing swell of such a long-delayed climax. It is possible that he calls Wei Wuxian's name. It is impossible to know.

The world, again, goes dark.

-----

Lan Wangji wakes to gray light and distant birdsong. A sharp edge is digging into his shoulder. He shifts, then goes still at the deep ache in his entire body.

He remembers.

"Hanguang-jun should drink this," says a brisk voice to his right.

Wen Qing sits there, watching him. His heart skips a beat and he looks down. But he is fully clothed once more.

Her smile is wry as she holds a cup out to him. Laboriously, he sits up to take it. It is bitter, but familiar. A restorative. He thanks her formally.

She shakes her head. "No need.” She turns to go.

"Wen-guniang," Lan Wangji says. She pauses. "How long has it been gone?"

She turns to stare at him. He knows she knows what he means.

"How? When?"

She looks away. "You'll have to ask him."

The pang of loss he felt upon waking with Wei Wuxian gone speaks for him. "Will he let me?"

 He lies on the slab of rock that serves as Wei Wuxian's bed for too long. It is difficult to tell the passage of time in the Burial Mounds, but it seems slightly brighter than it had...before. He reasons that it could well be the next morning. He wonders if Wei Wuxian slept beside him, then tosses the thought away as gross indulgence. He wonders instead, as he has many times since his last visit, if Wei Wuxian sleeps at all.

First, his excuse to tarry is meditation. He works at it, simultaneously restoring his drained core and healing himself, until the discomfort fades from his every movement to just a specific few.

Once that is done, he has no reason to be idle. But the voice in his head, Wei Wuxian's blisteringly cold one that had called him his proper name all those months ago, keeps him in place. He hears it saying all manner of things in response to seeing him now.

"What more could you possibly want of me?" Wei Wuxian sneers in his mind. And he would be right to do so.

But Lan Wangji does not intend to ask anything of him ever again.

And there is the other thing. The fact that his robes should be uncomfortable, filthy, but they have been cleaned, dried, and arranged back onto his body properly. Comfortably. Almost as if—

He dares not imagine. But at the very least it does not speak of utter contempt.

So he rises. He follows the path Wen Qing told him of. And he does something foolish. He hopes.

After no short while of walking, he comes to a slightly darker, more silent corner of deadened forest. He rounds a bend and sees Wei Wuxian crouched a little ways off, and then hears high, lilting notes as if through water. The energies are strange here, and Wei Wuxian is speaking to with them in their own language.

Lan Wangji approaches until he sees Wei Wuxian go still. He says nothing. Wei Wuxian drops his flute from his lips.

"Are you well?" He asks without rising or turning.

"I am."

Wei Wuxian nods. "Your people are waiting for you."

It is a dismissal. Lan Wangji recognizes this. But he will impose just a little bit longer.

"Your core," he says. Wei Wuxian stands abruptly, still facing away, gripping Chenqing. "Can it be replaced?"

Wei Wuxian whirls to face him, anger and fear warring with the questions on his face.

Lan Wangji has other questions, too. But they do not matter. He is intelligent enough to piece together the cold, empty space where Wei Wuxian's core should be, the tired guilt on Wen Qing's face, and...

"Your scar," he says, dropping his gaze to the scorched earth.

He should not know of it. But he does, now, and he also owes a greater debt than he can ever repay. Wei Wuxian does not respond. How dearly Lan Wangji wants to see his expression. But he will not infringe on any more of his privacy.

The wind howls. He waits.

"You won't tell anybody," Wei Wuxian says uncertainly.

Lan Wangji stiffens. "I will not."

"Nobody told you?"

"Nobody.”

Wei Wuxian pauses, momentarily satisfied.

"You're not going to ask how? Or when?"

Lan Wangji would like to. He would like to know everything of Wei Wuxian, even his sorrow, his pain. But he is not entitled to those things. There is only one point that matters.

"Can it be replaced? Can the procedure be reversed?"

Wei Wuxian sighs. Lan Wangji can tell he does not wish to speak of this.

"So single-minded, Lan Zhan," he scolds, then shakes his head. "The chance of success would be small; the chance of finding a donor, much smaller."

But this is all Lan Wangji hoped to hear. It is enough. He goes to his knees, arms circled in front of his chest.

"Allow me," he says.

"Lan Zhan!" Wei Wuxian darts forward, trying to pull Lan Wangji up from the ground. Eventually he gives up and goes to his knees in front of him, pushing at his arms. "Lan Zhan, stop this," he says, panicked. "Don't be stupid, stop—Lan Zhan, you can't be serious."

"Please allow me," Lan Wangji repeats, eyes downcast.

"Stop this!" Wei Wuxian shouts. "It can't be done, and I wouldn't take it from you anyway!"

Lan Wangji flinches bodily. He had not considered...but yes. Everything in him is sullied. He bends at the waist, bowing further.

"Apologies for the offense," he says, then snaps his mouth shut. His voice is too obviously strained.

"Lan Zhan?" Wei Wuxian says, still alarmed.

Lan Wangji needs to leave. He has already overstayed. But he...he has not tried hard enough.

"This debt is too great to repay in one lifetime," he says. "Please inform this one of what he may do to begin."

Wei Wuxian sags, dragging one of Lan Wangji's wrists with him. "Lan Zhan, there is no debt between us."

Lan Wangji only just stops himself from glancing up. He does not understand.

"I owe you my life and more," he says. "You took great pains to save me, even as the situation proved me unworthy of it. I owe—"

"You owe me nothing," Wei Wuxian insists, shaking Lan Wangji's arm. "There were no great pains. Nobody is unworthy. Well...you aren't."

Lan Wangji opens his mouth to protest, but Wei Wuxian speaks over him.

"People have...desires, Lan Zhan. There's nothing unworthy about it."

"But you—"

"Stop," he says. He sounds so, so tired. "If you hadn't been...dying. If we—" He stops. "Just keep my secret," he says, and lets go of his wrist. "And live well."

Lan Wangji closes his eyes. The thought of going back to his home, his life, after this, had not yet occurred to him. It sinks him from his knees to the ground. How can he do this? How can he leave him this way?

"Wei Ying," he pleads. "I must...I must do something. I cannot...I..."

"Why, Lan Zhan?" Wei Wuxian asks, not unkindly. "You have responsibilities. People to protect, just like me. Live well, and count things even between us. Why not?"

Lan Wangji’s chest caves in. He does not make the sound clawing up his throat.

"You...truly, you must know why," he says. "After... you must know. I would not leave you in need. I could not."

"Ah, Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says sadly. He shuffles forward. Lan Wangji startles at the feel of fingertips on his cheek. "You're too good. But all I need is," he huffs, "political asylum for me and 40 friends? It's not your burden."

Suddenly yet slowly, like the first burst of sunrise, an idea reveals itself on the horizon of Lan Wangji’s mind. It is unorthodox. And likely unwelcome. But it is all he has.

"My uncle made a suggestion," he says. "When my affliction became known. It is true that he did not know what it would mean, but I would hold him to it. If it is not...hateful, to you."

"I don't know what you mean," Wei Wuxian says warily.

Lan Wangji steels himself. "You are perceived as the head of a sect. A proper alliance could protect your people, and Gusu Lan is in need of hands for rebuilding. The person who cast this curse upon me has given the perfect excuse, and made themselves scapegoat. If you would...I would not ask anything of you, if you agreed. It would be a marriage in name only, as you wish it."

Wei Wuxian's silence turns to spluttering. "M—Lan Zh—marriage?? What—how—"

"If the idea is odious, I will not mention it again. But as I said. My uncle suggested it. And under the circumstances, he cannot refuse."

"Your—he—Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, look at me. Look at me, please."

Lan Wangji looks at him. His eyes are wide. Disbelieving. Concerned.

"Your uncle would qi deviate if you even hinted at such a thing," he says. "Gusu Lan is in a precarious enough position, you don't need...I have nothing to offer in return." He pats his lower stomach, empty of spiritual energy, emphatically. “Nothing. Don't be ridiculous."

"It is not ridiculous," Lan Wangji argues, certain now that he is right. "You can offer more protection for us, and we can offer legitimacy. The person who cast this curse can be seen to have forced our hands. Has—has forced our hands."

He stops himself. He should not push this. Wei Wuxian is looking at him as if he does not know him.

"You don't want to marry me, Lan Zhan."

This gives Lan Wangji pause. It is a confusing objection, to say the least. He stares, trying to comprehend. He clears his throat. Takes a breath.

"If you are under the impression..." he stops. Drops his eyes once more. "...that the...impetus of the curse. Is the whole of the way I—”

"Demonic cultivation," Wei Wuxian interrupts. "It would be unhealthy. For you. And your elders! They wouldn't let me, not if I were...attached to your sect. To you.”

A fair concern, and one Lan Wangji has been turning over in his own mind as well. "Is this your only objection?"

Wei Wuxian casts about. "Ah..."

Lan Wangji takes one last plunge. "The elders can be reasoned with, compromises can be made. I am not concerned for my health: being near you could never be harmful to me." He hears himself, then, and amends, "Though you need not. Be near me. That is not a condition."

"You would defend this?" Wei Wuxian asks, bemused.

"Defend what?"

"My cultivation path. You..."

Lan Wangji resists a sigh. "I understand the reason, now. And I believe...if you did not object. We could work toward making it safe, without stripping you of what your hard work has created."

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says. He reaches out, then stops.

Lan Wangji stares at his hand, hovering between them. His heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his eyes, in his tongue.

"Wei Ying."

"You would let me, though?"

His tone is gently mocking. His head is cocked to the side, the edge of a smile playing across his lips. It knocks the breath from Lan Wangji's chest.

"Let you?" He asks, dazed.

"Be near you."

Lan Wangji's heart stops. It is a moment before he can respond.

"I would. Always."

Wei Wuxian takes his hand, and sighs. "You don't owe me this," he says again.

"I do," Lan Wangji counters, off-kilter. "I owe you. And I want to. I would want to, even if—"

He loosens his tight grip on Wei Wuxian's hand. He is saying too much, taking too much, being too much. He settles himself. Finds the words that matter.

"It would be a thing happily given, with no strings attached, should you wish it."

Wei Wuxian laughs strangely. "Lan Zhan, you really..." He shakes his head. "I'd marry you in an instant, you know," says.

Lan Wangji's neck hurts from the speed with which he looks up at him. Hope, warm and liquid, blooms through his limbs.

"But I can't make this decision on my own," Wei Wuxian goes on. "It's not just my life. We have to talk it over with everyone."

"Yes," Lan Wangji says, surprised, and eager now that he sees the possibility of success. Of doing something of use.

"Alright," says Wei Wuxian, a smile hidden in the corner of his mouth. "I can't promise...but it...it could work."

"It will," Lan Wangji says, certain that the strength of his conviction alone will carry them through if need be.

He feels strange and dreamlike, confused but heartened by the turn in this conversation. That Wei Wuxian can stand the sight of him, let alone wish to ally with him personally, seems too wonderful to be true. Another Wei Wuxian hallmark.

"But Lan Zhan, no more talk of strings," Wei Wuxian says.

Lan Wangji sobers and nods. It is unseemly. Of course their understanding must be a tacit one, now.

But his hand is suddenly in both of Wei Wuxian's.

"You need to stop feeling guilty," Wei Wuxian says, looking down at it. "If I were your husband...if I were. We could try all that again, but without the impending doom. We could try it again any way we like, any time—all the time—and we'd—"

"Wei Ying," Lan Wangji interrupts, strangled. His heart is in his throat. He cannot comprehend what he is hearing. His ears, his face, are on fire.

Wei Wuxian smiles down at their hands, one part shy, one part mischief. "I think we could get really good at it, if we had the chance, don't you?"

Lan Wangji stares at him. "You..."

"Mn," says Wei Wuxian, meeting his eyes.

He shines so bright, even without any core to speak of. He takes Lan Wangji's breath away.

"I take it back," Wei Wuxian says, his voice suddenly urgent. "I like strings. Mine is that if this happens, I want to be your real husband. In name, in practice, in bed, and in your heart. Because you would be, in mine."

Lan Wangji's voice sticks in his throat. He feels...he feels unreal. He does not know what to do, to say. Perhaps they never broke the curse at all and he has simply gone mad. But Wei Wuxian's fingers stroking his palm, the root-knotted dirt beneath his shins, are real. He sways, unbalanced.

Wei Wuxian reaches out. Catches him. Folds him into his arms for a second time. Lan Wangji's breath shudders out of him.

He is on his knees, breathlessly held in the arms of his beloved. He has dreamt this many ways. But never has it been so real, so full of hope. He wraps his arms around Wei Wuxian in turn, buries his face in his shoulder.

Wei Wuxian huffs. "Jiang Cheng is going to be so angry."

Lan Wangji comes back down to earth. It is true he had not thought of this. He makes to pull away. "How should—"

Wei Wuxian clutches him tighter. "I don't care," he says, "I don't care, we can manage him." He pauses, then speaks more softly. "Maybe...I could see shijie's wedding after all. Or—no. It's too soon, I—"

"Yes," says Lan Wangji. "You will. We will go together."

Wei Wuxian takes a deep breath, and lets it out into Lan Wangji's hair.

"Together," he says.

It takes several serious, and at times uncomfortable, discussions, but in the end, Gusu Lan’s Second Jade is indeed thoroughly removed from the marriage pool of the great sects. The curse caster is found and punished. And everybody else lives happily ever after.

The end.

-----

(Thank you for coming on this wildly self-indulgent journey, I hope you enjoyed it. If you’d like to read some actually nicely-polished, fleshed-out fics by me—including another sex-cursed LWJ—check out my AO3.)

[moonsugar-and-spice]

I am gently begging u. Write Lu Da as the dad and give him a temporary child. I would read the shit out of that.

This fic is dedicated to you, dear Anon. I hope you like it!

Or, The Morally Grey Pirate's Guide to Being a Dad.

Summary: Lu Da—thief, mercenary pirate, and privateer to the Fire Nation—was good at a lot of things. But on the list of men fit to play father figure, he surely made the bottom.

On one unsuspecting night, the universe laughs as he finds himself in possession of a young boy, reluctantly accepting payment to stow him away for protection and sail him quietly overseas. He tells himself the kid is only eight, how much trouble can he be?

Unless the universe, in its infinite humor, were to go and hand him a mirror...

In which case the answer would be, a lot.

Chapter One: The Province of Fools and the Dead

(Read on AO3)

+++

It was a common school of thought among the soft and well-heeled that rogues and thieves kept mostly to slums. 

Any outlaw worth his wanted posters knew that such thieves would be fools.  For one, the poor kept up their guards, held tight to their treasures, and desperate people could be a dangerous lot. 

The wealthy, on the other hand, strutted and flaunted and assumed they’d be safe, so long as they stayed in the good parts of town.

But Lu Da knew there were no good parts.  Only smart parts and stupid parts, and he’d had been at this long enough to know which one to play.

The pirate—privateer, he corrected—stopped across from The Blushing Concubine, a raucous chorus already leaking out from inside, and withdrew the jade pendant from his pocket.  Just far enough for the late afternoon sunlight to gild and gleam, admiring the stone’s polished shine.

He’d pinched the pendant off a gentleman on his way from the palace to the city’s underbelly.  A clumsy collision on a bustling street that had led to a prompt apology, a hand on the shoulder distracting from a hand in the cloak.  Lu Da might not be of money, but he’d stolen enough over the years from those who were to copy their manners and their mannerisms.  A flash of a grin and a pleasant good evening, and he was the proud new owner of a statement piece, and the other guy was on his way and none the wiser.

A delicious aftershock of thrill ran through him, spurred on by the earlier brush with danger.  It was risky, picking pockets here by anything but night—Broody Brow would be far from tickled were he caught—but it was the risk that gave him a buzz, kept him sharp.

Immoral, chided Ta Ming’s voice in his head.  But Lu Da only smiled, stuffing the trinket back into his pocket.  That guy had been the sort who could afford to buy another pendant, and besides, he rather liked the cool weight of it in his pocket.  It sang of finesse, added swagger to his step.  Not that he needed it.

Crossing the street, he hopped over a pothole, reached the tavern’s door, and stepped inside.  

With the whoosh of the backswing, he was plunged into the companionable sea of dark wood and bodies and smoke.  The Blushing Concubine was a place where everyone knew everyone, for better or worse.  A place that cultivated a sense of comradery, made you feel like you mattered to someone in the world.  When you were given a nickname, that was a great day, for most.  Your golden ticket, your welcome to us card.

“Dirty Hands!” surged the refrain, faces lighting up along a spectrum from enthusiasm to gutting-you-with-my-eyes.

Of course they had opted to recycle the nickname Lu Da had come with that first night, some spitting the moniker like bad kimchi, others thrilled to share drinks with the subject of such infamy.  He doubted most of them knew much more than the surface of how he’d gotten it, but the way they repeated it, like an accolade, like its beveled edges might catch the sunlight and glint, forced a greasy slick of shame through his gut.

Yet, as ever, Lu Da grinned and spread his arms, shrugging off the weight of it like a waterlogged cloak.  They didn’t know how he hated it, and they couldn’t; that was too dangerous a risk to entertain, even for him.  And in any case, he hadn't come here to wallow or brood.  Tonight, he was hellbent on a good time.

He zigzagged toward a table filled with a mixed bag of ruffians, the kind who promised good company.  One of them, a meaty guy named Jimshu, tossed him a nod and pushed a chair out for him.

“Where’s that stick-up-the-ass soldier ward of yours this evening?” he asked as Lu Da clapped him on the back, sliding in beside him.  “Fire Lord Ozai seems to be letting you off the leash these days.”

“Come on, Jimi, everyone knows that leash was for the privateer’s protection…” crowed Fen, an impish twinkle in his wide-set eyes, “as much as anyone else’s.”

The crowd of men barked a laugh.

Lu Da’s mouth twitched up crookedly.  “Ta Ming’s idea of fun is a night in, reciting her national oath, so.”  He gave a half-hearted shrug.

“Oof, turned you down again, huh?  Whatd’ya say we get you something cold for that burn.”

He snarked a laugh as Jimshu waved over a passing serving girl.  A copper tumbler was set before the pirate with a thud, liquor sloshing over the rim.

The flood of light and subsequent slam brought more faces to the table, and before long the tavern was a maelstrom of drunken voices competing with each other, punctuated by a scuffle, a brawl 

Lu Da had finished his first drink and was halfway through his second, absently surveying the dimly-lit room, when his gaze tripped on a woman in a corner booth.  

Had she been there when he walked in?  

No, he was sure she hadn’t.  He would have noticed.

It wasn’t that women didn’t haunt the local taverns; the ratio was hardly even, but plenty of ladies who could hold their own came out to mingle.  But even in The Blushing Concubine, whose belly filled each night with a motley crew, this woman struck him as out of place.  

It was hard to put his finger on in the low light, but the pirate was almost certain she radiated… Mom energy.  And not the fun kind, to be clear, but very much the standard, vanilla kind.  Which hardly seemed the type to patronize a joint like this.

Lu Da knew well how to play a part, how to disappear into a role, had trained to read subtle tells that might slip under the radar of others.  And despite the grit she wore like an ill-fitting armor, there was something else that defied it, underneath.  In the stiffness of her back, not quite resting against the seat, in the tight-knit press of her knees, the occasional turn of her hand around the cup.  The woman was nervous.

And she seemed to be watching him.  

Barring the bold and forward few, most of her kind were quick to look away when he caught them.  But every time Lu Da’s gaze would stray and snag on hers, there was a moment, just a beat too long, when her eyes would hold fast before sliding askance or down to her drink.

The first time, he’d chocked it up to the usual variety of intrigue or contempt.  

By the third and fourth, his gut started whispering that something else was afoot, and years of thieving and assassining and beating the game of survival had taught him to listen when it spoke.

Lu Da’s eyes narrowed.

Why are you here?

A boisterous billow of voices snapped him back just as Jimshu’s elbow found his side.

“You’re gonna take them to town,” he said with a wicked snicker.

“Huh?”

Chairs scraped as their occupants repositioned at the table and he realized he had missed an entire conversation.

“Whatd’ya mean, ‘huh.’  Where ya been?  We’re firing up a game of Fame and Fortune, and a few of these cranks had the balls to bring some mighty fine swags, too.  C’mon,” Jimi guffawed, “I wanna watch you clean ’em out.”

Fame and Fortune was a game of reading your opponent, and above all, being a good liar.  Cards were dealt evenly, and the first player would make a claim about their hand.  The opponent across from them would decide whether to claim they had a better hand or accuse the other of lying.  If the accused was lying, the first player lost the hand, and the winner pocketed their opponent’s valuables, whatever they’d chosen to gamble.

The game lasted until only two players were left standing.  The champion of the final hand walked away with the entire evening’s loot, and the losers left grumbling and their pockets a little lighter.

Lu Da had wagered the stolen jade pendant, tossing it onto the table in front of him.

He held onto it.

And then he claimed the rest of the divested fortunes.

The tavern exploded with roars of protests and laughter, the sorest among them calling for the pirate’s debarring from any future matches.  Lu Da was jostled in the eddy of testosterone, Jimshu’s arm around his neck and Fen’s good-natured shove to his head.

Later, as he cinched shut his near-to-bursting bag and readied to head out, his eyes slid again to the corner and the solitary booth.

The woman was gone.

+++ +++ +++

The spoils rattled in Lu Da’s bag, a pleasant weight, as he made his way back toward the harbor.  Twilight was slowly staining the sky a canvas of lilac, edged with pink and orange.

As he strolled, Lu Da began going down the list he kept in his head of things he could use the winnings for.  Perhaps more specifically of late, debts that needed settling.  One name in particular had been scratching at the back of his mind for a while now, and ever more insistently since the letter a few weeks back.

Shiro.  Most people in his line of work knew him simply as Drudge.

Drudge was a fairly jovial guy, as far as criminal bigwigs went.  He was charismatic, congenial, even generous if you stayed on his good side, with a reputation for the loud and long jamborees he was fond of throwing.

And he was absolutely insane.

Frequent misuse and miscombining of too many drugs, the rumors had it, leaving him with a host of deep-seated mental issues.  There was often no telling what he might do, or why, or when, and no matter what he said or did, he was never kidding.  

As far as his generosity, and ensuing patience, that too slid on a continuum as it suited him.  You never knew where or how far that scale might slide at any given moment, when he might skip from one extreme to the other.

Lu Da had gone out of his way to avoid him for the most part, until he’d found himself backed into a situation in which Shiro was the only way out.  So far, he’d managed to toe the better side of Drudge’s mood swings.  But no one liked to mess with crazy, or worse, be indebted to.  And the letter he had received on the man’s behalf had made it clear that said patience was wearing dangerously thin.

Lu Da had replied that time was the object, that he simply hadn’t had the opportunity.  A grain of truth, as his fortuitous encounter and subsequent employment under then-Fire Prince Ozai had swiftly consumed his idle time, and the now-Fire Lord had kept him especially busy in the year since his coronation.  A detour to Sao Tong in the Earth Kingdom wasn’t exactly convenient, most of the time.  But he’d be lying to say a part of him hadn’t been putting it off, and for far too long.

A goatdog barked.  Lu Da glanced over his shoulder.  The furry dolt was watching him from the post it was tied to, its owner assumedly having dipped into an adjacent bathhouse.  As he was turning back around, another form caught in his periphery and sent a little jolt through his limbs.

The woman from the tavern.  

She was a short distance behind, just enough that to anyone else she was merely headed the same way, paying him no heed.  But now there was no doubt in his mind.

Lu Da retrained his eyes on the road ahead and pretended not to notice.  

Sorry, sweetheart, you’re not my type.

But no hint of irony touched the lines of his face.  He didn’t think it was that at all.  What he did know was that he was being followed by what ranked among the most unexpected of shadows he’d had to date.  The “harmless mom” shtick, that was new.  Possibly a ruse meant to lower his guard, and full marks for creativity there.  But the burning question gnawing at his guts was why.

The mutt barked with greater zeal, its sharp sound ricocheting off buildings as a dragon moose pulling a cart down the road clomped toward them, dust curling up in its wake.

Risking another backward glance, Lu Da spotted the woman drawing to a stop beside the goatdog.  Her cagey eyes flitted, one hand extended as though to pet the animal, who gave her an eager sniff.  The other alighted furtively upon the post where the rope was tied just as the dragon moose and coach rumbled past, cutting her off from view.

Several things happened then at once.  The yapping became a full-blown bray as a streak of grey-brown trailing a length of rope barreled into the street, in front of the coach.  The dragon moose shrieked and reared up, the goatdog snapping at its enormous hooves.  Its driver was swiftly losing control of the reins, and nearby guards and onlookers were rushing to his aid, but all too late.  The coach teetered dangerously, and then toppled onto its side with a thunderous crash.

A fog of dust filled the street, the ruckus commanding all eyes in the vicinity, and Lu Da had only an instant to realize the woman was nowhere in sight before a forceful tug on his cloak dragged him backward, toward the nearest alleyway.

He went from being pulled to shoving the assailant into the shadows, and his blade was drawn before he’d even pinned them to the wall.

“No, wait, please,” came the harried whisper, feminine breath catching at the cold kiss of steel.  

Lu Da blinked, his blade’s bite easing a fraction beneath the woman’s chin as her raised hands trembled.  

“I mean no harm, but I don’t have much time, and I need your help.”

He kept his guard up, his thoughts a kaleidoscope, shifting and writing over each other in turns.

“My help?”

“I know who you are—”

“And who are you?” he demanded.  “Why the stealth and secrecy?  Could’ve introduced yourself in the tavern like any normal person.”

“I would have, but no one can see me speaking to you.”  Her timorous voice lowered further, her eyes cutting sideward.  “I’m being watched.  If the guards find out, they’ll suspect something, and they can’t know I know.”

“Know what?  Explain.” 

“My husband—”  She flinched as a man ran past the alley, shouting orders.  “They told me he was going on business for a while, but I know better.  I know they’ve taken him, because Tensai never left to go anywhere without telling me.  I’ve let them think I believe their lies, but it’s only a matter of time before they come for me, too.”

“And why would they do that?”

“Because my husband’s papers are a forgery.  He’s not Fire Nation.  He’s an earthbender.”  She paused, her gaze deepening against his, as if he shared in the same secret about his lineage.  “We got by on the ruse for so long we got complacent, didn’t think they’d ever discover it, but now they’ll surely execute him, if they haven’t already, and then they’ll do the same to me.”

“Heart-wrenching story,” he interrupted, compelling her to slow her down, “but any chance you’re getting to the point?”

“My son.”  She swallowed thickly.  “He’s only eight, his father and I are all he has.  If he loses us, he’ll be left on the streets, or worse.”

Lu Da blew out a breath and turned his head, glimpsing a slice of the commotion from outside.  He was increasingly certain he didn’t like where this was headed.

“And… dare I ask where you think I come into this?”

“You’re the Fire Lord’s privateer.  You come and go often, you’d have the ability to get my son out of here without notice.  My husband has family in the Earth Kingdom, in Taichun, where Hiteo would be safe and could start a new life.”

A beat passed as she held her breath and Lu Da studied her face in the shadows.

“What’s your name?”

 She wavered, and then answered, “Umi.”

“Well, Umi, if you know who I am, then you realize I could report you for this after leaving here, directly to the Fire Lord.”

Her body tightened palpably with the hitch in her breath, her mousy eyes widening.

“But, for entertainment’s sake, let’s say I didn’t.  This stays our little secret.  You must have also heard what they say about me.  You would hand over your child not only to the likes of a pirate, but one with such a reputation.”

Her throat dipped.

“I’ve heard what they say, yes, what they call you, and I can use my imagination as to why.”  She paused, deliberating, and then added, “I also don’t think it’s something you like to be called.”

His face hardened.  

“Exactly how long have you been watching me?”

“You’re a man who gets things done,” she barreled on, skirting the mistake.  “The way I see it, better the dirty hands of a pirate, who might still give him a chance, than the unforgiving clutches of fate.  And of course, I’ll pay you.”

Sheepishly, Umi withdrew a sack of coin and held it up.  Even before he took it, Lu Da could tell that it was laughably light and small for what she was asking him to do, the likes of which could get him tangled in a web of trouble.  And from the look on her face, she knew it.  

One thick brow lifted as he met her eyes again, a vague mixture of amusement and sympathy.

“Look, lady.  I’m real sorry for your troubles, I am.  But even if I wanted to, I’m currently occupied with business for Fire Lord Ozai.”

At the same time, the pirate was reminded of his affair in need of righting.  Sao Tong happened to lie just south of Taichun.  It wouldn’t be convenient—it never was—but feasibly, he could take a detour to knock out this personal matter, then drop off the kid on the way to his next Ozai-ordained assignment.  Assuming his employer would be indulgent with the time.  But even so, this was hardly a short passage she was asking him to make for next to no compensation, and a kid was the last thing he wanted to be saddled with for that length of time.

She seemed to read as much on his face.  

“Please, Lu Da, sir…”

Sir.  The corner of his mouth pinched against the upward twitch.

“I’m sorry.  My sympathies, truly.  But I can’t.  Trust me, you really want to find someone else to help you.”

And with a nod of finality, he pushed away from the wall and put his back to her, starting toward the main road.

“I– I know the money’s not enough,” she fumbled out, walking briskly after him.  “I know you’re not a philanthropist.  My husband’s family, they could pay you more… if you would just…”

The plea guttered as it became clear he wasn’t swayed, was not slowing down.

The hastening scuff of footsteps, and suddenly Lu Da was caught mid-stride by a hand clamped daringly around his bicep.  

The pirate did stop then, did turn to her, and a spark of fear skittered behind her eyes.  She appeared to shrink, as though reminded at once of who he was, suddenly aware of his bulk, his bearing, the hard mound of muscle beneath her palm.  

Any average person with a lick of good sense would have let go, taken several steps back, given him a wide berth in the first place.  But she didn’t.  A woman with nothing to lose.

Her voice was hoarse with desperation, the sheen of strangled tears in her eyes.  

“Please.  I’ll do anything.”  She swallowed again, the slender fingers clasping tighter around his arm, and he could hear the tremor in her breath.  “Anything you want.”

The insinuation hung in the air between them.  

Lu Da held her gaze before releasing a sigh through his nose, taking her hand gently and removing it from his arm.  

“Go home,” he said, softer than he expected, and let her hand fall back to her side as he started away again.

“Think of your own mother,” she choked out behind him.  “Your father.  The things they must have done to protect you.”

A huff of a laugh glanced off the alley walls as he spun on his heel, walking backward to face her.  

“You obviously never met my parents.  Go be a better one to your son, we’re done here.”

Her hand pawed at her bosom, and just before he got to the exit, the woman reached toward him and hissed, “Wait!”

Against his better judgment, he stalled as she fished a locket from out of her dress, the polished gold studded with modest red jewels.  

“Maybe you’ll accept this.”

She clicked open the delicate latch as he stepped closer.  Inside, he could just make out an inscription, starting on one half and finishing on the other: I crossed the world for you… now you are my world, with four names engraved below.

Maybe he didn’t have the most formal education, but Lu Da was pretty sure Wife plus Husband plus Son equaled three.  

He was wondering what might have become of the fourth when she said, “It’s all I have to offer. But it’s yours, if you’ll help me.  I’m begging you.”

A memory flashed, flickers of another life.  A young boy, homeless and alone, starving on the Earth Kingdom streets.  If it hadn’t been for Po Jiang, the willingness of a stranger to put his neck on the line for a worthless kid, one who’d robbed him to boot, there was no telling what might have become of him.  But he did know that life as he knew it would have turned out very different, and likely much shorter.

Still, in his line of business, a functioning conscience was the province of fools and the dead, the two of which were not far removed.

Lu Da’s eyes rolled closed on an exhale.  His mind flooded with feral blasphemy.  

“Alright.”

“Oh,” she breathed thickly, her chin trembling.  “Thank you.  Thank you so much.”

The woman extended the locket, waiting for his open palm.  Instead, he shook his head and closed her hand back around it, his own dwarfing hers.

“Keep it.”  

The welling tears spilled over then.  “Bless you.”  Slipping it back into her dress, she held out the meager bag of coin.  “Take this, at least.”

That much he could accept, and he did.  Lu Da secured it away in his bag with the rest of the night’s plunder, waiting a few minutes between the woman’s and his furtive exits.

Doing this was going to give him all the good karma he’d need for the rest of his life.  Well, if he died within the next two weeks.  He had far too many demons for that.  But maybe this would expiate at least one of them.

+++ +++ +++

The well-kept gate whispered shut behind him.  Lu Da took the footpath in large strides, washed to dark violet in the dusk, and rapped briskly on the door of the modest house.  He could smell noodles cooking before it even opened.  

A lock scraped, a latch clicked, and then Ta Ming stood in its frame, still in her red soldier’s uniform, sans mantel, holding a pair of chopsticks.  The warm backlight rendered her almost a silhouette, setting the edges of her russet hair on fire.  

She blinked rapidly.  “Oh.”

“Hi.”  He shifted, ran a tattooed hand through his mohawk.  “Got a minute?”

“Um,” she dithered, “well I was just in the middle of making dinner.  Did you need something?”

Lu Da held both hands up, feigning a step back.  “Just a friend, but if that’s—”

“Oh, no, sorry, it’s just that you look a little…”

“Flummoxed?  Bamboozled?”

“…Perturbed,” she finished, arching a brow, and then stepped back, holding the door open.  “Come in.”

He toed the door shut behind him and dropped his bag as Ta Ming gave a quick toss of the stir-fry, turning back to him.  

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

“No, Ta Ming, everything is not all right,” he said, flinging his cloak off onto a chest.  “Figures you weren’t there tonight, some of the weirdest shit happens when you’re not there.”

She groaned quietly and turned back to cooking.  “Not sure I even want to know.”

“Well, you’re about to.  I might have agreed to take custody of a kid.”

Ta Ming spun back around so fast she almost took out the wok of noodles.  

“What?  Wait a minute, whose kid?  Not…” she fumbled, chopsticks gesturing, “yours?”

“No, not mine, and just temporarily.  But still.”

He went on to tell her about the woman in the alley and her husband and her plea for help.  It could be a gamble, of course, letting a loyal servant of the Fire Nation in on the whole ordeal.  But Lu Da felt confident enough in knowing the soldier now, in the friendship that had sprouted in the oddest of places, to know that while Ta Ming may be a terrible liar outright, she could do so well enough by omission, if it ever came to that.  And he didn’t think she would willingly out him over it.  Not to mention, her own mixed heritage, regardless of how she felt about it.

“Any chance I could convince you to take him, find the kid a way to the Earth Kingdom?” he asked at the end.

Ta Ming gave the noodles one last toss, tapping the chopsticks on the edge of the wok, and gave him the look.  “You know I can’t do that.  Besides, a woman entrusted her son to you, it would be wrong to hand him off.”

“Maybe someone at the brothel,” he pressed on.  “Jhu Lin or Ayame, or anyone who might know a client going that direction?”

A long, withering stare was her final answer, and Lu Da had already known it to be a lost cause.

“Dammit, this sucks,” he exhaled, dropping himself onto one of the two pillows on either side of her table.  “Sucks greasy hog monkey balls.”

Two bamboo bowls were set on the table, a third larger bowl heaped with steaming, fragrant stir-fry in the center as Ta Ming came to kneel across from him, long legs folded underneath her.

For a long moment, he waited for to say something, and when she didn’t, he baited with, “Aren’t you gonna tell me how I’m terrible and treasonous and shoulda just made short work of it, ratted them all out?”

She took another moment to reflect, but finally answered, “You agreed to help a desperate mother save her child.  Circumstances aside, I’m proud of you.  That’s a worthy thing to do.  And who knows,” she added, beginning to fill his bowl, and then her own, “it might not be so bad.  You might learn something from each other.”

Lu Da rolled his eyes.  “This isn’t one of those three-hanky Ember Island stage dramas, Ta Ming.  It’s real life.”  He groaned and plucked up a mouthful, leaning against the table to massage above one brow as he chewed.  “What am I supposed to do with an eight-year-old boy for the next couple weeks?”

“Why are you asking me?” she asked, taking a bite.  “You were an eight-year-old boy once.”

“And I’ve blocked the experience from my memory.”

Ta Ming reached across the table to place a hand on his arm.  “You’ll be fine,” she insisted.  Then, sitting back, gestured to his scarcely touched food.  “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Wish I had time, but I gotta get back,” he said, forcing himself to his feet and shouldering his effects, “set up a place for the runt to stay on the trip.”

“Well, here.”  The soldier rose after him and topped the bowl off, covering it with a linen cloth.  “Take it to go then.”

Their eyes met as she placed the bowl into his hands.  

“Thanks.”  A warm feeling expanded through his chest, like he’d just eaten a handful of fire flakes too quickly.  “Not sure I’ve ever told you, Pointy Boots, but you’re pretty damn okay in my book.”

Ta Ming smiled.  “Take care, Pirate King.”

Light spilled onto the walkway as she stood in the door, and he gestured with the bowl in his hand.

“I’ll bring it back next time I’m around.  You sure you wanna keep giving me reasons to drop by?”

She scoffed softly.  “You, waiting to be given a reason?  Anyhow, that happens to be my only extra bowl, so at least once more.”

He grinned, opening the gate, and her lips pinched as if to stifle some wayward pleasure.  “I look forward to hearing the stories when you return.”

+++ +++ +++

Darkness was complete when he returned to his ship.  

The crew was a buzz of questions and opinions and arguments about their imminent young stowaway, but Rizo mostly dug for details on the alley encounter, waggling an eyebrow.

“Did she swoon and throw herself into your big strong arms, beg you to take her right there?  ‘Oh, my swashbuckling hero, you may be bad, but you're so g—’”

The last word evanesced to a wheeze as Lu Da's fist found his stomach.  He kept certain details vague; toss a tiger shark a morsel and it only went gunning for more.

“Rizo, consider laying off the sleazy romance scrolls for a while,” said Marik.

Marikkituq was his full given name, though anyone who ever called him that never did so twice.  His strong brow line had a habit of buckling into a scowl whenever he was thinking.  If he could have somehow masked his Water Tribe lineage, the Thinking Face would rat him out every time.  

He stood there now, arms crossed, brow buckled.  Marik abstained from joining the futile arguments, and when Lu Da finally wielded his Captain's voice to break up the squall, Marik suggested the boy take up residence in one of their rooms.  On further suggestion that Lu Da be the appointed one, the captain laughed at first.

When he realized Marik was serious, he frowned.

“To keep a curious mind from sneaking out to rove the ship at all hours,” Marik maintained.  “Besides, you’re the one here being paid to babysit, and the kid’s young, they get scared, and yours is the roomiest of our quarters.”

“Of the lot of us, Marik, I’d say you’re best suited as his roommate,” Lu Da argued.  “You’re the only one here, far as we know, who’s an actual father with some semblance of experience.”

“Yeah.  ‘Cause a baby daddy showing up in his daughter’s life a few times a year is the glowing paragon,” he soured.

Marik loved to sell himself short, a symptom of how it chafed him in quiet.  But the truth was, and Lu Da had seen it, the guy was stupid head over heels for that little girl.

It had thrown them all for a loop, most of all Marik, who had been too lost in the sauce that night six years ago to remember basic biology.  One very off-brand, drunken romp and ten months later, while in the same port, he’d bumped into the girl again, a little extra baggage in tow.  

There’d been no use denying the paternity, the dusky skin, the slant of the nose, but to his credit, Marik didn’t try.

The first year, whenever they’d make port in Kiyocheok, he would disappear just long enough to drop off coin with an awkward hello-goodbye.  Which was more than could be said for many in his shoes.  But gradually, his visits had grown lengthier, the drag in his step a little lighter, and now there lived an unspoken understanding that, barring emergencies, their brother-in-arms would be considered off duty for a few hours.

Sure, there was no love lost in his liaison with the mother, but it turned out they were compatible enough as friends and more or less made it work.

And that was how fatherhood had come to fit Lu Da’s second-in-command like a worn-in pair of boots.

And why the captain now couldn’t much argue the veracity of his advice on the matter at hand.

Tromping across the deck and up the stairs, Lu Da grumbled his way to his quarters, partitioning off a section along the farthest wall with a folding screen he kept in the corner.  Threw together a makeshift bed—a few crates pushed together and piled with blankets—and an hour later, he was lurking in the shadows of the lonelier harbor limits.

It wasn’t long before a silhouette materialized.  Even though the likelihood of it being someone else was slim, Lu Da still held in a breath until Umi’s cloaked face caught in a slant of moonlight.

The hushed exchange was tearful, but brief.  The boy—Hiteo, whispered his mother—sniffled and nodded but didn’t say a word.  Not as his mother said goodbye, nor on the winding walk back.  Not a word when they embarked the ship and met some of the crew, nor when Lu Da showed him to his cabin, or even when he saw him into bed and snuffed out the light with an awkward goodnight.  Lu Da half wondered whether the boy might actually be mute.

Maybe this would turn out to be a piece of mooncake after all.

+++

(Chapter Two)

[xcertaindarkthingsx]

make you mine

pairing: jealous!mando x fem!reader

summary: you’ve been traveling with the Mandalorian for a while now as a healer and caretaker for the Child.  one day, the Mandalorian needs your specific skills to help him catch a bounty, and needless the say he is NOT happy about it.  

warnings: two idiots that don’t know they like each other, some fluff and yearning, a smidge of possessiveness/jealousy, canon-typical violence, swearing in basic and mando’a, brief mentions of unwanted touching, mentions of taking care of injuries/stitching and blood, SMUT 18+ (minors BEGONE), porn w/ plot i guess, thigh riding, finger sucking, grinding, a lil’ dirty talk (if i miss any just please let me know!)

word count: 7.6k (i’m soRRY)

a/n: WHEW OK so i originally wrote this for #dincember but because i suck at deadlines and take forever to write it just turned into something else. reader is a lil insecure but mando makes it all better (self-projection, anyone?) ummm, this is my first time writing for din AND my first time writing smut but i hope you guys like it! comments/likes/reblogs/feedback are completely welcome and much appreciated! i apologize if this is a mess kladjflkd but shoutout to @a-dorin and @princessxkenobi for being wonderful beta readers and helping me when i got stuck.  i am planning on making this a two parter, so if you want to be added to my tag list let me know! if you prefer to read on ao3 you can do so here . mando’a translations at the end!

gif credit: @bestintheparsec

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Soft coos filled the air inside the Razor Crest as you desperately tried to rock the Child back to sleep.  You were almost certain he was starting to get hungry, but you were out of snacks and Mando had told you not to leave the ship under any circumstances.

You had been traveling with the Mandalorian for a while now, after being picked up on Arvala-7. You were a healer—a pretty damn good one, if you had anything to say about it—and had patched him up after a bounty hunt gone wrong.  

The Mandalorian thought your services would be helpful if things ever got a little dicey again, so he asked you along for the ride (the reality was you had nagged and scolded him so much about how cauterizing was not the answer for every wound, that he eventually caved just to get you to stop). There wasn’t really anything tying you to Arvala-7, so you agreed.

Plus, the Child had taken a real liking to you, and how could you say no to that precious face?  

The Mandalorian was an odd man—well, no.  Not odd.  More like intriguing, and you were drawn to it.  It had been quiet and awkward the first few months.  He was a rigid man of few words, never speaking more than necessary (unless he thought he was alone with the kid; the way he spoke with him made your heart melt).  But after countless late nights together of taking care of the Child and constantly tending to his injuries, you were surprised to find there was a sense of gentleness under all that beskar.

The Mandalorian had been just as surprised as you when he found himself warming up to your presence.  It was all the little moments that had snuck up on him, the stolen glances and lingering touches, and now his heartbeat seemed to quicken every time you were together.

Little did he know, yours did too.  

At the sound of the hatch door opening, you looked up.  You watched as the Mandalorian walked up the platform, admiring his strut.  How someone could look so good just walking, you had no idea, but it was maddening.  

“No bounty?” you called out, turning the kid in your arms so he would be facing out towards his dad.  It was unusual that Mando hadn’t found the target yet, but you were just thankful he was in one piece for now.  He shook his head.

“Not yet.  I ran into some… complications,” he huffed and even though his voice was laced with frustration, it put you at ease.  Being on the ship alone for nearly the whole day, sometimes you just missed hearing that husky baritone filtering through his modulator.  

Not to mention you thought it was sexy as hell.  

You quirked an eyebrow at him.  “Complications?”  

He heaved a deep sigh, lifting a hand for the Child to grab, which he took happily.  “Hey, kid,” he whispered, and you smiled as the Child babbled back.  Mando turned his helmet towards you and continued.  “Yes, but I found a contact who should be able to give more information.  I came back for you and the kid first.  I know you guys must be hungry.”  

You nodded at the same time the little green bean gave a resounding coo, earning a soft chuckle from the both of you.  “I’ll get the pram ready.”

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

After a quick stop in the marketplace for supplies, Mando had led you two into what seemed to be the only bar in town.  It was only late afternoon, leaving it nearly empty, save for a few older patrons lazily sipping on glasses of ale.  You ignored the way the Weequay behind the bar seemed to look you up and down.     

Mando set you and the kid up with two bowls of soup at a table nearby while he talked business with his contact, who happened to be the bartender.  Sipping your soup, you tried not to eavesdrop as the two began to fall into what you would call a heated discussion.  On Mando’s end.  Apparently, this was a particularly “difficult” target.  

“Lucky for you, he’s got an eye for pretty girls,” the bartender drawled, jutting his chin at you.  “She’ll do fine.”

Your head snapped up from your task of feeding the child, spoon mid-air.  “Excuse me?”

“No.  Absolutely not,” resounded Mando’s gruff voice from under the helmet.    

“Listen, Mando.  This guy is high-profile, practically untouchable, bodyguards with him at all times. And I’m not talkin’ your run of the mill pair of idiots that can’t shoot for a damn, I’m talkin’ highly trained mercenaries.”  The Weequay sighed.  “I don’t doubt your skills as a Mandalorian, but you’re just one man.  You need to get him alone, and she is your only way of doing that,” he insisted.  

“I said, no,” Mando gritted out.  You were non-negotiable.  

The bartender just shrugged.  “Then consider this a loss, cause you’re not getting anywhere near him.”

Your heart hammered in your chest listening to the two of them argue. Embarrassment flooded your cheeks, remembering the way the bartender eyed you when you walked in.  All you wanted to do at this point was bury yourself in the confines of your room in the Razor Crest.

Mando seemed final in his decision, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he didn’t want you involved or if he thought you simply lacked the skills to do so.  He could probably tell you weren’t really the seducing type, and truthfully the thought of trying to do was mortifying.    

But Mando needed this, right?  You thought of all the things he’s done for you, how he’s protected and provided for you.  This was the least you could do for him.  You could deal with one night of potential discomfort so he could get his bounty.  It was a lot of credits.  

“I’ll do it.”

Mando snapped his head around at you so fast, it was a miracle he hadn’t hurt himself.  “For the last time, I said you are no—”

“I’m doing it,” you said a little more forcefully, cutting him off. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was staring daggers into you from underneath the helmet, but it was going to take more than a dirty look to get you to change your mind.  

“Excellent!” the bartender’s cheery voice cut through the tension in the room.  “Come on back, I’ve got an old dress an ex-girlfriend left behind that you could probably use.”

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

The dress in question was a slinky black number that had you freezing your ass off in the cold of the desert night.  

The dress was too… everything.  Too short, too revealing, too tight; but the only other thing you had to wear were some oversized t-shirts and utility pants, which aren’t exactly sexy, so you were shit out of luck.  

Mando nearly choked when you came out of your room, thankful for the helmet for hiding his widened eyes and agape mouth. You looked absolutely ravishing, the black fabric clinging to all the right places on your figure.  His eyes roved over the valley of your chest, the curve of your hips, the length of your legs, and his hands balled into fists, just aching to hold you.  It’s as if your skin was begging to be touched.  

You cleared your throat, feeling incredibly exposed and wondering what in the blazes Mando was looking at because you were certain you looked absolutely ridiculous.  The noise shook him out of whatever daze he was in and he quickly shifted his gaze.  

“Not a word,” you warned, wobbling down the platform.  As bad as the dress was, the heels it came with were somehow worse.  “I feel ridiculous.”

“You shouldn’t,” he answered a little too quickly. “You look…” words were lost on him as he tried to find the right one.  One that wouldn’t make it obvious that he was losing his kriffing mind in front of you.  “Good,” he finally decided on, and mentally kicked himself for it.  Good?

You gave him an exasperated look.  “I know you’re just being nice.”

He opened his mouth to argue but was interrupted by an ill-timed fit of babbling from the kid.  You had bent down as best you could to give him a little pat on the head and he could feel a lump forming in his throat.  

Mando couldn’t express how much he didn’t want you to do this.  And well, he tried.  The whole way back to the ship, in fact.  But for some reason you were completely hell-bent on doing this for him, and he didn’t know how to explain that you and your safety meant more to him than a few thousand credits.  

The reality was, Mando wanted you.  He never thought he’d be so fond for someone besides the Child, but you were the exception.  And even though he wanted to make you his, he knew it would be selfish of him to pursue you, to claim you, when he couldn’t give you everything you deserved; his Creed prevented him from doing so.  

But Mando was a greedy man, so he took what he could get.  He drank up all the kindness you so freely gave him, like a parched soul wandering in the desert, and cherished every little moment the two of you shared. They probably meant nothing to you, but they were everything to him.  And he wanted more.

Not only was he a greedy man, but a stingy one as well.  The thought of anyone other than him seeing you in that dress was enough to send his thoughts into a jealous frenzy.  

“You don’t have to do this,” he tried to reason again.  

You placed a gentle hand on the soft spot between his pauldron and neck and offered a small smile.  “Don’t worry, Mando.  Everything will be fine.”        

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Everything was, in fact, not fine.  

The night had started well enough.  After all of Mando’s failed attempts at dissuading you again, he had finally resigned to silently stewing in his disapproval rather than voicing it.  

You entered the bar while he stayed behind and watched closely from the outside.  He had given you a comms device, that, with the push of a button, would let him know you were alone with the bounty and it was time for him to step in.  

“Just press it, and I will be right there,” he assured, his gloved fingers pressing the device firmly into your bare palm. Something about the protective tone of his voice stirred something in you.  You nodded before looking away, trying to ignore your racing heart.  

The bar was rowdy that night, patrons hooting and howling from the booze.  The smell of stale spice and death sticks wafted in the air, making you wrinkle your nose.  Your newfound bartender friend had waved you over, pointing out the target with a nod of his head.  

Your eyes fell on a Pantoran man across the bar with a drink in his hand, dozens of black suits surrounding him.  His associates—a Rodian and another Pantoran—seemed to all be talking business.  The bartender wasn’t kidding about this guy’s security.

How the hell am I supposed to get this guy’s attention?  You desperately racked your head for subtle ideas but came to a halt when his eyes met yours.  Kriff, he had caught you staring.  So much for subtle.  Trying not to panic, you flashed your best coy smile before turning back towards the bar.

Somehow, that was enough to give him the courage to approach you.  

Cocky bastard, you thought as he swaggered on up to you, leaning in close, leering.  With his chiseled features and striking yellow markings, you would’ve called him handsome— if you didn’t already know what a sleazebag he was.  An air of arrogance surrounded him, the type that made him think he could get whatever he wanted with a flash of those pearly whites. Typical douche.  You wanted to smack him for being so close.  

Instead, you flashed another winning smile. Placing a hand on his shoulder, you leaned in close and with a breathy whisper of, ‘Let’s get out of here’ he was tossing credits to the bartender and signaling to his guards that he was leaving with you.  

The Weequay had shot you a knowing look as he watched you leave; a warning.  You assured him that everything was fine with a slight nod of your head.      

The asshole had his arm snaked around you, hand on your ass, as you made your way to the motel just across the street.  You fought back the urge to throttle him, instead fawning about how, ‘I can’t wait to be alone with you, darling.’    

Your hands began to clam up as he retrieved the keys from the clerk, and you tried to convince yourself that everything would be fine once you clicked the button on your comm from the inside of the room.

Wrong.  

Immediately after the Pantoran locked the door, the unease in your stomach began to grow.  Bile rose in your throat at his grinning face, the way he fidgeted and licked his lips as he pressed you into the wall.  A hand landed on your bare thigh, trailing dangerously high, where you shuddered in disgust at the feeling.  

“We’re gonna have so much fun,” he whispered, and that was your cue to press the comms device you were desperately clutching in your small purse.  Your mistake was failing to mask the faint beeping noise it emitted.  Your companion stiffened at the sound, pressing you further into the wall.  

“What the hell did you just do?” he growled, using the other hand to rip your arm from your purse.  He stared at the comms device with contempt, before turning his attention back to me.  “You bi—”

He never got to finish, because the next thing you knew your Mandalorian was crashing through the door, blaster in hand.

The scene Mando had walked in on nearly made him sick.  That osi’kovid’s hands all over you, and worst of all, the look of pure fear on your face after being made.  He’d planned to put a quick end to the whole ordeal, but the bounty had plans of his own.

Mando rushed him, shoving him into the wall and away from you.  As expected, the Pantoran went flying before crumpling onto the floor.  What Mando hadn’t been expecting was for him to be armed. He didn’t peg him as the type to get his hands dirty.  

The Mandalorian was about to release the fibercord whip from his vambrace when the bounty rose from the floor with a sneer, a small combat knife in hand as he lunged at Mando, before wrestling him to the floor and sending his blaster skittering.  

You watched in frozen horror as the two fought for the upper hand. At one point, the bounty had tried to charge at you, slashing wildly, but Mando was already there blocking his blows. The knife caught on the cowl above his chest, slicing the skin underneath with a sickening noise.  That seemed to kick your brain into overdrive, and you dived for the fallen blaster on the ground.  

You took a steadying breath before you aimed and shot once, twice, at the bounty’s leg.  He cried out from his place above Mando before clutching his leg and finally falling over.

Mando rose and immediately released the fibercord, imprisoning the bounty.  He held his hand out for his blaster, and you watched with wide eyes as he smacked the butt of it into the Pantoran’s face once, twice, three times.  The third time ended with an appalling crack, his head lolling forward, and leaving him unconscious.  

You stared as Mando stood in front of the bounty, seething.  You could have sworn his hands were shaking.      

“Stars, Mando, your neck,” you murmured, breathless.  The room was dim, but you could see the dark stain of blood that was beginning to drench his cowl.  Your hands went to inspect the wound, but he quickly brushed you off.  

“We need to go,” he grunted, gathering the rope and heading towards the back entrance of the room.  The two of you hadn’t exactly been quiet and the bounty’s guards were bound to notice their boss had been gone for too long.  When you had opened your mouth to argue, to insist that you needed to check his injuries, he was already out the door.

Adrenaline still coursed through your veins as you walked back towards the ship.  You pulled your arms tight across your body in an attempt to quell your trembling hands; guilt, bubbling up in your stomach as you replayed the events of the night in your head.  

You had been the one to volunteer yourself for the mission.

You were the one who had repeatedly insisted that everything would be fine.  

And now, your Mandalorian was bleeding profusely from a nasty wound on his neck.  

“Mando,” you pleaded, trying to keep up with him in your ridiculous heels.  Instead of acknowledging you, your words fell to deaf ears.  He was stomping his way back to the ship, the unconscious bounty in tow.  

Worry bloomed in your chest.  The wound had looked bad back at the motel, but it was as if he couldn’t even feel it.  You could hear his ragged breathing from behind; whether it was from the fight, the long walk, or the wound, you weren’t sure.  

“Mando,” you tried again, this time raising your voice as you approached the hatch of the ship.  

Nothing.

He let out another grunt as he hauled the bounty onto the ship, towards the carbon-freezing machine.  You pursed your lips, jaw clenching in his direction. You did not appreciate being ignored, especially after just half-saving his ass just moments before.

Granted, you were the one that had put him in that position, but that was besides the point.

His back was to you and you stepped closer, ready to unleash a piece of your damn mind, when you stopped.  You took in his brooding stance and clenched fists.  The tremble in his hands.  Anger seemed to roll off the Mandalorian in waves, making you falter.  

What the hell was his problem?

“Mando, can you kriffing listen to me?  I need to treat you, you have no idea if he nicked an important artery or something.  I don’t know what you’re so worked up about, but you’ve been bleeding for a few minutes now and I just need to look—” annoyance rose in you as he continued to prep the carbon machine.  “Maker, can you even hear me?”

The Mandalorian couldn’t hear you, not clearly anyways.  Blood was still rushing in his ears, his vision still tinged red.  But with another call of his name, you were finally able to get through and he suddenly whipped around.  

“He touched you,” he gritted out, seething and shaking. “That skanah had his hands all over you and I swear if I didn’t need him alive for the bounty, he’d already be dead.”  He punctuated the last word with the slam of a button on the machine.    

You took a step back, eyes wide and brows furrowed. Something warm tightened in your chest and belly.  Wh-why did he care so much?  A lump had lodged itself into your throat.  “Mando, I—I’m fine.  Alright? I’m okay,” you tried to assure.  “So, can you please calm down and let me just—"

But the Mandalorian already had his back turned again.  You threw your hands up in the air, groaning in frustration as he continued to work.  Another minute passed and with a faint whoosh, the bounty was finally set in carbonite.  

A shiver ran through your body as the cool night air blew its way into the Razor Crest, raising goosebumps on your exposed skin.  Seeing you tremble in the cold seemed to break Mando out of whatever angry stupor he was in.    

In all honesty, he hadn’t meant to ignore you, but something in him snapped back at the motel.  The image of that skanah touching you had made his blood boil, and his sole goal was to get him back to the ship and be done with it.  

“You’re… cold,” he stated, the words coming out slow and soft, like pulling them out of a dream.  You must have been freezing in that dress.    

Your head snapped up at him.  “I—what?”

“Let me get you a blanket or—” He hesitated when he saw you pinch the bridge of your nose, eyes screwed shut.  

You couldn’t believe this idiot.  

“Mando, seriously?”  Your heart and your brain were having a hard time deciding whether you should be flattered about him caring so much or pissed off because he didn’t seem to give a damn about himself.  

You chose a mix of the two.

“Mando,” you sighed, looking up at him.  “I promise you I’m fine, thank you.  Really.”  You gave him your most genuine, caring look to show you were thankful for his concern, and then quickly replaced it with a hard one.  “But if you don’t get up into that cockpit right now and let me treat you, I’m going to use that damn pulse rifle on you.”

And just like that, you had managed to dissolve the lingering traces of anger in his mind.  His lips twitched under the helmet.  “That supposed to scare me?”

You glared.  “Don’t push it.” You could have sworn he was laughing under there.

The Mandalorian would have laughed if the wound on his neck hadn’t began to ache.  Instead, he begrudgingly nodded, throwing his hands up in mock surrender before disappearing into the cockpit.  

He began to input the coordinates back to Nevarro into the navicomputer, warmth unfurling in his chest as he listened to you check on the Child.  A tiredness had begun to settle in his muscles from the fight earlier, and he grimaced as he reached for a lever on the control panel.  The pain on his neck was getting worse, and if he was being honest it burned like all hell, but he was not going to admit that to you.

The door behind him slid open and you stepped in frazzled, medkit in hand.  Even with your hair in disarray and scrapes littering your arms and legs, he thought you looked breathtaking.  

“Uh, so bad news,” you began, gesturing at the medkit.  “They didn’t have any at the market earlier, so we’re out of bacta shots and spray.  I’m gonna have to stitch it closed depending on how deep it is.”  You shot him an apologetic look.

He nodded, putting in the last of the coordinates before removing his chest plate to give you easier access, and turning his chair to face you.  You closed the space between the two of you, quickly going to work.  Careful hands began to peel away at the fabric stuck to the wound, a hiss of pain at the tip of his tongue as you ripped off the last of it.

“Sorry,” you whispered, inspecting the fabric before discarding it.  “You’re definitely gonna need a new cape.”

He shrugged.  “At least now you’ve got a new blanket.”  You always had a habit of curling up into all his old stuff.  

With a smile, you returned your focus to the task at hand, mentally sighing in relief as you began to clean the wound.  It could have been worse, but it was still very deep.  An inch to the left and just a smidge higher, and you would have had quite the problem on your hands.  

“Idiot,” you muttered.

“What was that?”

“Lucky,” you corrected, biting back a smirk.  “You got lucky.  Any higher and this would be a lot messier.”  You tossed the last of the gauze out and prepared the needle and thread.

Mando took in your awkward stance as you tried to bend down and begin stitching.  Standing was fine for when you were cleaning, but for something this intricate it wasn’t the best position.  You cursed and tried again, trying to get the angle right, but it was no use.  The thought left his mouth before he even had a chance to filter it.  

“You can sit on me if that’s easier.”

Heat blazed on your cheeks at his words, nearly dropping the damn needle.  “Oh—um—” Coherent thoughts didn’t seem to be forming in your head at the moment.

Panic flooded the Mandalorian’s brain as he took in your shocked expression and realized his mistake.  “I—well, not like that—what I meant was—” he spluttered, trying to find the right words, thankful that his helmet hid his mortified expression.          

“No, no it’s okay I—I know what you meant,” you managed to choke out after picking your jaw up off the floor.  It would have been comical—the certain and capable bounty hunter struggling to regain his composure—but his words had flooded your mind with some less than innocent thoughts and images, ones that left you heated and flustered.  You swallowed hard in an attempt to relieve your suddenly very dry throat.  “I can, if you’re okay with it?”

He slowly nodded, mentally kicking himself for being so daft.  He held his breath as you stepped closer, bracing a hand low on his chest as you perched yourself on his lap.  You cursed, trying to your best to maneuver yourself onto him without being inappropriate.

Finally, you were situated, hovering precariously over his thigh.  You breathed deep, willing your mind and body to calm down. Being in such close proximity to the Mandalorian was… dizzying, but you had a job to do.  And so, you went to work.  

A few minutes in, Mando could feel the tension rolling off your body, the tremble of your thighs as you tried to hold yourself above him.  “You can sit if you need to.”

The thought had crossed your mind, but truthfully you were afraid of how your body would react if you did. Eventually you gave in, shivering at the cold kiss of beskar on the insides of your thighs as you straddled his leg.  A knot was forming in your belly, low and warm.  

Maker, help me, you thought.

The change in position had slid your dress higher and Mando’s eyes began to wander again, taking in the exposed skin where your dress had hiked itself up, the material bunching around your hips.  His hands felt that pull again, that ache to touch you; to dig his fingers into the soft, plump flesh.  

Osik, he cursed, trying to control himself.  In his mind he conjured up the image of a blaster, mentally taking it apart and putting it back together as a pitiful attempt at a distraction.

You had fallen into a steady rhythm of stitching and knotting, your hands absentmindedly working.  The Mandalorian had fallen into a dull haze in the wake of your delicate touches, despite the sting and pull of the needle.  But when your hands brushed the edge of his helmet, he snapped to attention, reflexes kicking in.

A strong hand had immediately encircled your wrist, forcefully locking it in place.  Your breath seized at the realization of your colossal fuck-up.  How could you be so stupid?

“Shit, shit, I—I’m sorry,” you stammered out.  “Mando, I—I promise I wasn’t going to take it off, I just needed to adjust it to get the needle under.”  Your heart thundered against your chest, and you swear you could hear it in the empty silence of the cockpit.  The iron-clad grip he had on your wrist was starting to hurt, biting into your skin.  

Mando saw the flash of fear in your eyes, the way you had flinched at his touch and loosened the grip on your hand.  Regret began to bubble up inside him.  He opened his mouth to apologize, it had just been his instincts, but you beat him to it.  Your next words caught him off guard.  

“Do you trust me?”

He swallowed hard. Of course he did.  There was no question about it.  You were the one constant in his life besides the kid; the one he found he could rely on time and time again for anything. You had never betrayed him, in Creed or otherwise.  He took a steadying breath before answering.  “Yes.”

You tried to ignore the burst of warmth in your chest at his admission and what it implied. Instead, you nodded, slowly allowing yourself to move again and continue your care.  “Lean back,” you whispered and he obliged, fully baring his neck to you. It was a vulnerable position, but the cautious movements of your hands crushed any anxiety that threatened to well up in him.

And maybe it was that cautious, careful touch that had begun to wear down his walls; the tenderness you so freely gave that softened his heart and opened him up.  He wanted to make up the last minute to you, to show that he really did trust you.  Maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop the next thing that tumbled out of his mouth.

“Din.”

You paused mid-stitch, confusion flickering on your face.  “What’d you say?”

His heart felt like it was going to fly out of his ribcage.  “My name.  It’s Din.”

Confusion slowly morphed to shock at his revelation.  He had just shared his name with you; something incredibly personal and dear to him. Knowing it felt… intimate.  How many people actually knew his real name? You couldn’t stop that slow smile that had begun to spread on your face.  

“Din,” you repeated, hushed as if someone else would hear.  His heart skipped at the sound of his name on your lips; the soft way your voice curled around the short syllable.  Your eyes peered into his through the visor of his helmet, a question behind them. “Just ‘Din’?”

“Din Djarin,” he corrected.  

You repeated it again, delight clear on your face.  “I like it.”

I do too, he thought.  Especially when you say it.  “You can use it whenever, as long as we’re alone or it’s just the kid.”

“Of course,” you nodded, then added a soft, “Thank you.”  For trusting me.

The two of you had settled back into a comfortable silence, his hands resting comfortably on your hips, and Din couldn’t fathom why you kept biting back a smile.  You were the first to break it.  

“I’m sorry, for all this.”

“It’s fine, it’s not that painful.”  

You shook your head.  “No, I mean—” you gestured at his neck and then to you. “He was aiming for me.”

He scoffed.  “You’re out of your mind if you think I’d let anything happen to you.” You could hear the anger beginning to simmer beneath his words again.  “No, I… I would protect you every single time.  Besides, that osi’yaim got what he deserved in the end.”  

Your eyes flicked to his visor again and you tried to ignore the way the knot in your belly tightened at his promise to you and the shiver his low voice sent down your spine.  Instead, you tried to change the subject.  “Osi’yaim?”

“A useless, despicable person.  A waste of space.”

A soft laugh escaped you lips.  “You need to teach more Mando’a.  Something besides the bad words.”

Din’s heart clenched at your request. Something about you asking to learn his language stirred something deep in him.  “Of course,” he managed to reply, but it came out more strangled than he had meant it to.    

You continued with your task, getting lost in the repeated movements of your fingers.

Watching you work had always fascinated Din.  You granted each injury the same amount of attention, whether it was as small as a papercut or as big as the gash he had now.  It was endearing.  The meticulous way you ensured every stitch, every bandage, was perfect and in place. The adept movements of your fingers, steady with every touch.  The way you bit your lip and furrowed your brow as you concentrated.  

He was captivated by it, and you, every time.

His gaze was concealed by his helmet most of the time, but tonight you could feel the weight of his eyes on you.  Your cheeks began to burn at the thought of him staring at you so closely and you thanked the maker that he couldn’t see the crimson hue painting your face.  

“Are you warm?” he asked, the low rumble of his voice startling you.  

“What?”

“You’ve been shivering since you started, but… you’re all flushed,” he explained.

Your eyes widened at his words, heart stopping.  “Wait—how can you see my—”

“Heat sensors.” Din couldn’t help but notice the way the heat on your face spread even more, down the soft slopes of your neck and chest.

Of course, heat sensors.  You were absolutely mortified, a nervous laugh erupting from your chest.  May as well be honest.  

“No, not warm, more like embarrassed,” you tried to explain, unable to meet his eyes.  

Din tilted his head, trying to understand.  “Why?”

You scoffed.  “’Cause I just realized I’ve been sticking my ugly mug in your face for the past 20 minutes.”      

Din was dumbfounded.  Ugly? The mere thought of you seeing yourself in that way made his heart ache.  How could you think such a thing when he saw you as the most radiant thing in this galaxy?  That, every time he saw you, he had to remind himself to breathe?

He had no idea what the in blazes he was doing, but he knew that he couldn’t let you go on thinking such things about yourself.  Din reached out and tilted your chin up towards him, making you meet his eyes.  

“Cyar’ika, you are the furthest thing from ugly that someone could be.  I—you are absolutely stunning.  Do you—do you know what seeing you in that dress tonight did to me?” he confessed, letting out a breathy laugh.  The front of his pants tightened in reminder.  “I’ll teach you something new in Mando’a right now.”  He paused, letting his fingers brush over your chin. “Mesh’la.”

It felt like you were on fire at that point, burning under his gaze, but somehow you found your voice underneath all the flames.  “What does it mean?” you breathed, unable to mask the tremble in your voice.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “You’re beautiful.”    

Your body betrayed you, melting into a puddle with just a taste of his touch and the boldness of his words.  It was a devastating effect, and there was no denying the dampness that had pooled between your legs now.  You managed to stutter out a, ‘thank you’ before trying to finish the last knot of his stitches.

“All done,” you whispered.    

Din watched as you admired your handiwork and noticed that you made no move to remove yourself from him.  Instead, your hands were softly dragging across the planes of his exposed chest, leaving a trail of fire wherever they went.  It was such a foreign feeling, flesh against flesh on such a shielded part of his body.  He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him there, let alone so gently.  

A strangled sound caught in his throat as you brushed over a particularly sensitive spot, just above the other side of his collarbone.  It was almost too much, the shot of electricity that singed his nerves, but it felt good.

His body involuntarily bucked at the sensation and his hands gripped your hips roughly, pressing you flush against him.  

You gasped at the sensation, of your clothed core dragging against the beskar plate on his thigh, your knee brushing against the bulge that had tented his pants.  Your hands scrabbled to find something, anything, to anchor yourself from the blinding pleasure that fizzled through you.

“Maker,” Din murmured, letting out a shuddering breath.  “Osik, cyar’ika, I’m didn’t mean to touch you like that but—”

“But what if I want you to?” your own voice sounding foreign to your ears.  You did not miss the way his breath hitched, caught in the modulator of his helmet.  

Din’s mind was reeling. “You—you want me to?” he swallowed thickly around the ball of shock that was caught in his throat.  

And you’re nodding, eyes dark and body and mind clouded with need, leading his hands up your torso and chest; but Din, he needs to hear you say it.  “Use your words, cyar’ika.  I need to hear you.”

“Yes, Din.  Please,” and that’s enough to dissolve any shred of self-control he thought he had.  The sound of you saying his name like that, a plea for him and only him, was maddening.  

His hands were on you in an instant; hands that you had seen nearly beat a man to death just for touching you, but on you they were soft, gentle.  Desperate, but tender.  Rough, but passionate and loving.  The contrast was making your head spin.  

“Din,” you whimpered. “You have to be careful, your cut—”

“I don’t care,” he rasped.  “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to touch you?  Make you mine?”  He pulled you closer against him, hands grasping at anything he could reach.  He wanted to erase any trace of the bounty from your presence.

You tried to answer, but you were a mess, filling the cockpit with soft moans and mewls as you bucked your hips on his thigh.  

“I want to watch you make yourself feel good, can you do that?  Just like this?”  You frantically bobbed your head.  “Good,” he answered, stroking your cheek.  “You deserve it after tonight, sweet girl.”

The sound of ‘sweet girl’ sent wet heat straight to your core.  If anything, you thought he was the one that deserved to be taken care of right now.  But you were not about to argue with the Mandalorian who insisted on you using him to get yourself off.    

Your hands pawed at his chest again, struggling to find some kind of purchase to anchor yourself. They finally settled for his biceps, nails digging deep.  He watched as you grinded down on his thigh, eyes screwed shut.  His hands fingered the strap of your dress and you nodded, giving him permission to slide it down.  

Din took in the sight of your bare chest, your nipples pebbling in the cold air of the cockpit. He ached to take them into his mouth, hear you whimper and moan against his tongue, but he settled for brushing his gloved fingers over them and watching you arch.  

You ground down harder, desperate you get the friction you needed.  Din’s hands slipped from your breasts down back to your hips, stilling them.  A high whine escaped your throat and it was almost pitiful.  

“Up,” he instructed, confusion marring your face as you lifted yourself off his leg.  He gripped the thigh plate and dropped it to the ground, promptly setting you back onto his thigh.  “Wanna feel you,” he growled, and you could only moan in response.  

Soon enough, your arousal had seeped through your panties and onto the fabric of his pants.  The heady smell hit his nose and his mouth watered, desperate to know what you tasted like, to know what sounds you would make if he buried his face between your thighs.  

You guided his hands back up your chest, up to your neck.  His fingers cupped your face again, thumb brushing the bottom of your lip. You held his hand in place, biting the leather tip of his glove and slowly slid it off, letting it drop between you.

The feeling of his bare thumb resting on your lips sent another wave of arousal through you.  “Wanna feel you,” you breathed, grinning before taking his thumb into your mouth and sucking hard.  Din’s eyes rolled back and he groaned; the sight of your hollowed-out cheeks and the sensation of your tongue on the pad of his thumb nearly sent him over the edge.  

One hand trailed to the base of your neck, tangling itself softly in your hair.  He took in the way your eyes were screwed shut, the furrow in your brows as you chased your high.  You had taken your bottom lip between your teeth, biting hard and almost splitting it from the pressure.  It was almost the same concentrated expression you wore as you tended to his injuries, though it was clear you were concentrated on something far more rewarding now.  

“Mesh’la,” he commanded.  “Look at me.”

You wretched your eyes open, fixing your gaze on him.  

Din watched, enraptured, as you continued to pleasure yourself.  You were a sight before him; pupils blown, mouth agape, chest heaving as you tried to ease the ache in your belly.  He was lost in the way your eyes sparkled, perfectly matching the dark galaxy you were set against just outside the viewport.  

Your moans filled the cockpit, desperate sounds and pleads of Din’s name as he sent delicious licks of pleasure throughout your body.  You held on for dear life, panting as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

He feels the tension simmering from your shuddering figure, like a coil just waiting to spring.

“Are you close, mesh’la?” he whispered, his words and the rasp of his voice sending you higher and higher.  “Are you going to come for me?”

And you’re a wreck, whimpering and pleading, yes, Din, yes; and all Din can think is he can die happy knowing how you moan his name.  He shifts you, pulls you right onto the straining bulge in his pants and you both gasp, the sensation pulling you even closer to your orgasm.  A bare hand snakes between where the two of you are pressed against each other and he presses right onto your clit.  

A sob tears from your throat and stars burst behind your eyes as you’re pushed off the edge; and you’re falling, waves of ecstasy washing over you and burning straight to your toes. Din holds you close as your body continues to shudder, a steady hand on your back coaxing you down from your high. He lets out a groan when he feels evidence of your orgasm seep through to his clothed cock.    

Fog clouds the bottom of his helmet as you softly pant, the pleasure lulling to a dull thrum in your veins. He’s admiring your sleepy eyes, the flushed cheeks of your afterglow.  You give off a shy smile, peering into his visor.  “Beautiful,” he murmurs right next to your ear.  “Just like I said.” 

“Thank you,” you hum, pressing a searing kiss onto his bare neck and sliding a hand over the hardness trapped beneath you.  

Din hisses at your touch and you laugh, trying to ease the ache between his own legs.  “Mesh’la,” he warns, grunting at the loss of contact as you lift yourself off him and slide between his knees, kneeling.  

“Yes?” you respond, sliding your hands up and down his thighs, and pausing at the button of his pants.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, but you quickly cut him off.

“But I want to, Din,” you assured.  You rest your head on his knee, peering up at him with wide, innocent eyes, awaiting his permission.  “Wanna return the favor, wanna taste you,” and you grin at the strangled sound that leaves his throat.  He couldn’t deny you even if he wanted to.  

Finally, he nods, spreading his legs wider to accommodate you.  Your smile grows and your nimble fingers make quick work of the buttons on his pants.  You’re just about to free him from the confines of his boxers when an alarm signal sounds from the ship, startling the both of you.  

“Come in, Mando,” Greef Karga’s voice crackled through the small room.  “We’ve got a problem.  I repeat, we’ve got an emergency, please come in.”

Din groans and you throw an exasperated look towards the comms on the control panel.  “Just ignore him, it can’t be that—” and you’re cut off by another sound.

The unmistakable sound of a baby crying.  

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, pressing your forehead into Din’s knee.  You loved that little green bean to death, but damn him for his horrific timing.  Din softly slid his hand over yours and you looked up.  

“It’s alright, cyar’ika,” he hummed.  “Go check on him,” and you slowly nodded, shooting him an apologetic look before rising from your spot on the floor.

Din watched in mild amusement as you wobbled to the door, before turning his chair towards the control panel and sighing.  His own arousal was almost overwhelming, but he did his best to shove it to the back of his mind.  

Whatever Greef needed, it had better be good, he grumbled in his head.  

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

mando’a translations:

osi’kovid – shithead

skanah – very hated person, fucker

osik – shit

osi’yaim – cowardly, useless person

cyar’ika – darling, beloved

mesh’la – beautiful

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

thank you for reading! let me know what ya think!

[apocalypticgargoyle]

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐔𝐌 𝐈𝐈𝐈 ↟ 𝐓𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞

↠  summary: After receiving a few letters from your previous accomplice, your withstanding in Techno's home is questioned.

↠ fantasy au, slow-burn romance

↠  pairing: c!Techno x fm!reader

↠  tw: angst, mentions of blood, slight manipulation, fighting, language, knives, language, a lil fluff

↠  wc: ~2700

↠  previous chapter ↟ make a request ↟ create the next moodboard

this post contains an image of a letter. if you find it difficult to read, here is the transcript.

The wind howled against the cabin, snow beating against the shutters to make the structure trembled as if it was battling the cold like you were. The heavy blanket around your shoulders served as an anchor from your intruding thoughts as you attempted to self-soothe. The fire blazing in front of you was your only consoling friend as you debated whether or not Techno would make it back during the storm.

In your gross self-pity, you wondered if he even would want to come back. You had been living like a parasite in his domain for weeks, relying on him as your wounds slowly mended. How many times had he stayed up to cool your fevers, or told you to sit down when you had been on your ankle for too long? When would it be too much for him? When would he want you gone?

You had never had another person before. Sure, Dream was your friend and partner, but the two of you lived independently of each other. Techno had gained your respect and trust within a short amount of time and you hated to admit that you liked having him around.

But was it the same for him?

You pulled your knees to your chest, hugging the fabric tighter around you as you dug your nose into its velvety coloring. It smelled like Techno, a mix of pine and sage. It quelled your neediness for his presence. You debated whether or not your worry was because of your obsession with his impression of you, or the fact that he was the first person that had let you rely on them.

The blizzard grew stronger with each passing second, and you were a hairline fracture away from throwing on a jacket and searching the snowbanks for him. Your mind darted to if packing your belongings and getting out of his hair would be the option. Clearing out before he had to tell you to leave seemed almost like the better idea; the possibility of gaining back your independence secretly made you melancholy.

With that, the image of Dream came to you. In the summers when the two of you were hunkered down against a rotting log looking for one of the King’s enemies, you could practically smell the sunlight on his skin. His freckles would darken, and his blond hair would shine as if it were a ray in and of itself. If you let yourself, you could feel his green eyes on you, watching as you would dip your knife in a tranquilizing agent if your target were to be delivered alive. He would always wander into your root cellar, running his fingers along the hanging rosemary and strands of lavender.

He would always pitch the idea of poisoning the King and running away to grow mushrooms in the forest together. For most of your time as accomplices, it seemed like the perfect life but as his brain became infatuated with the poison of power and majesty, it seemed a distant fantasy only to be left for the wind.

The door opened abruptly, Techno stomping out his boots as he kicked the entranceway shut. He shook the snow from his clothing, and you pushed yourself to stand. He grabbed one of the candles, using it to light a few of the others beside the door and blowing into his cold hands for more warmth.

You approached him, leaning on the doorframe as he pulled off his cloak. “You made it back,” you chirped, hoping to mask the utter relief washing through your body. His ruby eyes flashed to you, a softness in them that warmed your heart.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, reaching one of his hands out to you to angle the cut on your face towards him. He inspected that cut at least three times a day and if you would let yourself indulge on the thought, it might have just been an excuse to touch you.

His fingers were cold against your jaw, but you had to restrain your urge to lean into his gentle touch as his eyes grazed over the cut. “Better,” you answered with a light sigh. He looked as if he were holding back something from you, something that was plaguing his conscience.

He pulled away from you reluctantly, digging into the bag he had tossed on the table. His knuckles were red from the cold, the stack of letters in his hands appearing almost pure white. There were specks of blood sprinkled on the edge of the stack. “We found another mercenary searching for you,” he let out a soft chuckle. “I know what to look for now,” he mumbled; a small ode to you. The pair of you stared at the envelopes in his hand. “These are for you,” he added, holding them out for you. There was a seal on the last one, the design mimicking the symbol on your shoulder as it wrapped around the letter ‘D.’

You swallowed, hesitantly taking them from him. He watched you carefully as you examined them, your hands shaking from the anticipation of what was in them and why there were so many. “Did you read them?” You asked; the pads over your finger tracing over the broken seal of the top one.

He shook his head. “Only enough to find out they were for you,” he assured. You trusted that fact. “I’ll leave you alone with them. I need to clean up anyway,” he illustrated, eyes scanning you as you stared down at them. He seemed to have a hesitancy to him as if he were reluctantly giving them to you, wanting to know what it meant for your future.

You nodded slowly, unable to find more words as you threaded the dark green ribbon binding them together through your fingers. Your stomach churned, knotting together as if you were awaiting punishment.

As you sank into one of the chairs, Techno left your side wearily, looking over his shoulder at you before closing the door behind him. You opened the letter he had already seen after counting at least eight letters in the stack. Your mind got fuzzy after eight. The seal was dusted with soft gold. You had always found random flowers to give the appearance of wealth and prestige to your letters when you were sending them back and forth to each other. You figured that it was real gold this time since the color didn’t stain your skin while you brushed over it.

Your heart hammered in your ears, thumb drawing against the blood that had seeped through as you read his words, his voice whispering in your ear with each curl of his handwriting.

The next letter sounded similar, detailing what had become of some of your old teams and idols. He had removed the mad King’s advisors, flushing them with his own. Each word you read weighed heavy on your heart until you figured you couldn’t take any more of the venom in his ink. The sickening nature of him begging for your return made your nerves flip. He was an old friend of yours, brought up through the orphanages as your twin practically, but that didn’t mean you trusted the man that he had grown into being. The boy you had once known was now in shreds, held together by the façade he was hiding behind.

You stood, throwing the letters into the fire and standing back, breathing rigid into your chest. Your ankle began to ache, but you couldn’t seem to bring yourself to look away. With Dream’s threats, you knew you had to leave.

“He calls you ‘hemlock,’” Techno mumbled, his voice coming out in a questioning tone, hesitant of overstepping the unspoken boundaries the two of you had set for each other. He played with his fingers, back pressed against the wall behind him as he avoided stepping into your space. He gave you an emotionless look as if refusing to show his true feelings on the situation. You weren’t sure what he thought of you after diving into that letter. “Almost like you’re some kind of…” he paused, chewing on his lip as his eyes fell to the hardwood floor and then back to your gaze. “Malice,” he finished.

Your mouth grew dry, feeling small and vulnerable in front of him. You inhale deeply, attempting to steady your nerves. “It’s always been some kind of joke for him,” you responded. You weren’t sure if you were defending Dream or fishing for Techno’s assurance.

He nodded. “It’s not very funny, is it?” You shook your head quickly, suddenly finding it difficult not to cry. It had been too long of a day for you. Techno watched you, surveying eyes waiting for you to ground yourself.

He took a few steps, sitting down and motioning you toward him. You silently took a seat at his feet, eyes trained on the fire in front of you as his scent surrounded you. You crossed your legs, taking a deep breath once again. His hands moved into your hair, softly running his fingers along the crown of your head as he separated your short locks. His touch was gentle and calming, brushing against your ear as he braided.

You closed your eyes, letting him relax you and bring you back from your frizzled edges. He was quiet while he worked, your mind silencing to only focus on his fingers. You could swear that you had never felt more at ease than you did then. “Thank you,” you whispered, voice barely audible, worry that if you spoke louder he would hear the extent of your distress.

His hands moved to your shoulders, finished with his words as his fingers rolled against the knots forming. You settled your cheek against his hand. “I’m not going to ask for an explanation,” he began, his thumb pressing between your shoulder blades in a sensitive spot. You focused back on the flames, eyelids feeling heavy. “But I need to know if you’re okay.”

You mulled over his words as he loosened the tension weighing on your mind. “I’m okay.”

⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫ ⸫

The next morning, you were setting your plates on the counter, listening to Techno chop wood outside. The front door clicked open in a rush, a man stepping inside and throwing off his hood. His brown eyes bore into you with a wave of lingering anger you recognized in the eyes of someone when you had been on the other end of their blade. He was increasingly tall, like Techno, but his features were more child-like and innocent, apart from his eyes.

He went after you, lunging for your body as you swiveled out of his path, grabbing onto the knife beside you. Your fingers gripped onto the back of his collar, pinning him to the table with a loud thud. The blade was resting against his throat as the two of you panted, him from being caught off guard and you from being dormant for so long.

He gritted his teeth as you pressed the blade tighter to his neck. “Who are you?” You bit. His Adam’s apple bobbled against the metal as he swallowed, catching his breath.

“I see you two have met,” Techno called, a tired look in his eyes as he spotted the man beneath you.

The brunet chuckled, the sound coming out more like a frustrating example of fear than a true laugh. “I like your new guard dog, Tech,” he mumbled, spitting at you. You pursed your lips, striking the blade against his cheek to draw a bit of blood and making him wince.

Techno rested his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms. The man’s hand reached to brush the collar of your shirt to the side, his eyes focusing on the branded symbol on your shoulder. His breath was warm against your chest as his expression changed. You continued to glare at him. “It really is her, isn’t it?” He muttered, betrayal evident in his tone. You searched his face as his eyes met yours.

“This is Wilbur,” Techno stated, moving towards the two of you. You pulled away from him, letting him up as Techno stood beside you. Wilbur’s hand reached up to brush away the line of blood trickling from his fresh wound.

Wilbur straightened up, digging into his pocket to pull out a wadded-up piece of paper. He unfolded it slapping it on the table where he had just been laid out by you. Bold letters spelled out the terms of your arrest and the price on your head. There was a crude drawing of what you used to look like staring back at you as you took half a step behind Techno’s arm.

Wilbur stiffened and it hit you. He wasn’t actually after you rather than worried for Techno’s safety. Concern was painted across his face at just how close the two of you were standing as he gestured to the Wanted poster. “I’m not sure what she’s told you, but I know I’m right,” he pleaded. It struck you that the two had previously discussed trading you into the authorities. You weren’t surprised, mainly because before you knew Techno, you would have done the same. “Think of the money. You could actually retire. Give up babysitting-“

Techno cut him off. “No,” he answered flatly, shocking you. “We’ve already talked about this.” You stepped back, leaning against the counter to relieve the weight on your ankle. Techno peered over his shoulder briefly, as if feeling you step away from him.

Wilbur shook his head in disbelief. “They’re going to continue to look for her. It’s not safe.”

Techno shrugged, indifferent towards the look Wilbur was giving him. It made you sick to think of the divide you were causing. “We’ll get her name changed then.”

You raised your eyebrows as Techno chuckled, moving to finish your job as Wilbur looked between the two of you. “Yeah, and how are you going to accomplish that?”

Without a beat, Techno replied, “I guess I’ll marry her.”

Your breath hitched, facing flushing a deep red, but before you could reply, someone else barged in; a blond panting slightly as he doubled over to catch his breath. The two men looked upon the boy, waiting for him to stop wheezing. “Tommy, go home. It’s not safe here,” Wilbur commented. His gaze shifted to you. “Techno’s harboring a murderer.”

So, this was Techno’s famous Tommy; a boy barely older than sixteen and tall enough that he could knock your head off your shoulders with a flex of his elbow.

“Wilbur, we can’t give her up. Who knows what will happen,” he groaned, standing up and putting his arms above his head. You wondered just how far he had run to get to Techno’s. “You weren’t there when we found her.” He looked to the side, giving you a half-wave as he attempted to steady his breathing. If they weren’t discussing such intricate matters, you would have giggled at him.

Instead, you cleared your throat. “I’m leaving soon anyway. There’s no need-“

Techno interrupted you. “No. No one’s going anywhere, okay?” He sighed. “Obviously, we can handle ourselves. If not, at least let her get back on her feet before you excommunicate her from my house, Wilbur,” he adjudicated, his tone quipping as if to suggest that Wilbur’s opinion on the matter wasn’t holding water. “Tommy’s right anyway. You don’t know what it was like.”

Wilbur chewed the inside of his cheek, glaring at you. You felt hot and uncomfortable under his gaze as if he were hexing you secretly. He sighed, grabbing onto Tommy’s arm as he brushed past you, knocking into your sore side. “One wrong move and I’ll kill you,” he stated. You could tell he wasn’t normally such an antagonist, and you respected his devotion to Techno.

You nodded. “I’ll let you.”

Tag List: (to be added, please follow this link :))

@udontneedtokno @cyanflowers @more-like-reyna @deepestofwaters @sparkletash @aroyaldarknessbr @camerondiaz48104 @madsbbg @victory-is-here @valkyrieidunn @cdizzlevalntyne @simpforblockguys @ribbitsworld @victoria-a567 @miiilliiee @thegirlwhowritesawksh-t @roryann04 @book-of-anarchy @lightdreamy @hiccupofttea @wreny24 @deepestofwaters @exenestea

[thesleepy1]

My King Shall Have Everything

A/N: A fuck load of people seemed to like my last Merthur fic. I even got a request for a sequel from @antobcq who wanted a 5+1 fic where Arthur couldn’t get anything done without Merlin on his lap. I haven’t done one of these fics in ages but I’m down with this prompt. I also love the headcanon where Merlin is a better court member and adviser than Arthur and completely leaves Arthur in the dust during diplomatic meetings. Unbeta’d as always, we die like Arthur.

Extra note, this turned out much longer than I expected it to. This might be my longest fic yet. I didn’t mean for it to be like this but I spent too much time on it to just leave it alone. And much to my surprise, it’s a linear storyline as well. I hope you all enjoy it and feel free to give me some feedback. Do you prefer the linear storylines or short snippets of scenes? Also, kind of sorry for the slight angst. My bad. It got worse towards the end, I was getting really tired and wasn’t completely sure how to end it. It’s not on the highest note is all I’ll say.

Pairings: Merlin x Arthur, slight Gwen x Morgana

Summary: Five times Arthur couldn’t get anything done without Merlin on his lap and one time where Merlin couldn’t get anything done without Arthur on his lap.

Word count: 10,485

Warnings: Lap sitting, fluff, physical touch, sexual content, grinding, angst, wounds, violence, character death, more warnings to be added, more tags to be added, proceed with caution, breeding kink, impregnation kink, mentions of dub/con, possessive behavior, obsessive behavior, eugenics, blood, gore, hurt/comfort, angst/comfort, whump, injuries, begging, character death, mentions of public executions, long fic, foul language, asphyxiation, strangulation, choking,

Arthur was good at many things, but being on time was not one of them. Especially, when at the end of the hall he had to attend a council meeting with some of the most stuck up people he had ever met, and that was saying something considering he had to spend the last winter with his extended family. His advisers had been up his ass all week about the new rising kingdom beyond the continent. A kingdom so far away, he had just heard of it several months prior. It was like the kingdom had appeared overnight, suddenly a new ink blotch taking over the lower side of the map.

Personally, he didn’t believe it was real in the first place, having a squadron of knights and hired mercenaries sail over to investigate this so-called Kingdom of Le Lubrique. Much to his disbelief, they didn’t come back empty handed and instead returned with a message. A greeting, as his advisers and Merlin had called it.

To Arthur, it was merely stiff aristocrats getting together in too large a room to talk about dull nonsense. Something he had enough of in his own kingdom. Every other month he was already forced to put on a brave face and converse with the other ruling kings and queens of the continent; he didn’t need another to add on to the mix. He already loathed the balls he was required to host.

“You’re late,” Merlin hissed at him as he entered through a side door so as to not alert the others of his presence.

“That’s kind of the point of me coming here long after the time I was supposed to, Merlin,” Arthur rolled his eyes, sneaking behind the other advisers present to his seat. Merlin begrudgingly followed right on his tail.

“This is serious Arthur, you should have been here ten minutes ago!” Merlin nagged a tad too loudly.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the great king of Camelot himself. I’m delighted to see you have graced us with the honor of your belated attendance,” said an adviser from the guest kingdom with a tone that made Arthur want to stab him, wars be damned.

“I hope you could excuse my tardiness just this once,” Arthur began, trying to come up with a plausible excuse. He looked over to Merlin for help, but the warlock looked clueless as usual. “It...was just that I was caught up with...making sure my...uh...husband’s family were making themselves at home. The in-laws are visiting, you see. You know how hard it can be to keep them happy.”

Merlin looked like he wanted to hang Arthur with his own entrails at the king’s quick thinking. Camelot’s advisers seemed to be considering throwing themselves from the window. And the guest advisers seemed content with Arthur’s answer; though not pleased.

“Oh, believe me,” one of them began, a tall woman with high cheekbones and piercing brown eyes, “I know exactly how tiring in-laws can be.” She let out a high pitched laugh like the sound of dying blue jays; the sound made Arthur want to join his advisers as they inched towards the open windows.

“Well, yes, hahaha, they can be quite a hassle. Especially people that are related to my husband here,” Arthur clapped his hands, smiling at Merlin as he took his seat at the head of the table, “Shall we properly begin then?”

Arthur truly and wholeheartedly regretted agreeing to the whole thing. It was hour after hour of mindless words with little to no meaning. They just went on and on about things that meant little to nothing. He tried to tune out their voices but the tall woman’s laugh was like the crack of a whip, bringing him back to reality each time someone made a vaguely funny comment.

“Are you alright, Arthur?” Merlin said in a hushed tone next to his side. Concern had brought his dark eyebrows together. Arthur was tempted to take his fingers and smooth out Merlin’s worry, but perhaps that was too intimate an act for a meeting. Then again, when did Arthur care about what other people thought of him and his husband.

“I’m fine, Merlin,” Arthur sighed, “Just so bored with all of this.”

“How could you be bored? Have you been listening to half of what they’ve been saying? For a kingdom so small they have so much potential. Their farmlands double ours, as well as their ores, and their medicine is even on par to Gaius’s.” Merlin continued on with such a light in his eyes that Arthur was distracted like a moth to a glowing flame.

“Arthur, have you been listening to what I’ve been saying?”

The king shook his head softly, slightly ashamed for not paying attention to his husband. “I’m sorry. I’m just so distracted. I need something to ground me if I’m going to survive another dreadful hour of this,” he groaned, thinking over if the fall from the window would kill him or lethally wound him. Either way, he’d be away from this horror with Merlin at his bedside playing nurse. At the private thought, an idea crossed his mind that had him delighted.

“You know what would help me?” Arthur began, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“What?” Merlin gave him a suspicious look, having seen the grin on the king many times before.

“It’ll really help if you were on my lap.” Merlin gave him an incredulous glare, ready to smack him across the back of the head for such a suggestion during such a crucial conference. “Please, Merlin? You really do help me focus.”

The warlock seemed to be thinking over Arthur’s request, a frown twisting his face. He looked like he was going to say no, but the pleading look on Arthur’s face made him change his mind. “Just this once. I don’t want to make a habit of this, Arthur,” Merlin warned in a hurried voice.

“Just this once,” Arthur lied through his teeth.

The second king of Camelot sat himself on the first, his side pressed against Arthur’s chest. Arthur wound his arm around Merlin and held him tightly. The action seemed to have garnered the attention of the visitors who looked at the pair strangely. And for some odd reason, the visiting ladies of the guest kingdom seemed to be glaring intently at Merlin.

“We are ever so sorry to be boring you, your majesty, but there is still much to discuss,” a visiting high lord coughed, glaring at the pair. “I apologize that our talk of declining population, racial biases against commoners and sorcerers, and ever so low birth rates have made you tired, but considering it may be the undoing of Le Lubrique, I deem it vital,” he practically snarled.

Arthur’s grip on Merlin tightened, his other hand palming Merlin’s thighs. The warlock couldn’t hide the grin that was stretched across his beautiful face at the touch. The king absolutely loved that grin. Arthur glared right back at those who dared question his behavior, for him showing his love for his king. He sounded in a stern voice that left no room for argument, “No apologies needed. Please, continue.”

“Don’t let us disturb you,” Merlin added with a more snarky tone, commanding the same amount of respect. “You have our full attention.”

-----

“Must I attend? You’ll be there, is that not enough?” Arthur whined as Merlin buttoned up his shirt.

“We are hosting a party in the Kingdom of Le Lubrique’s honor. Their queen has traveled all the way here to properly meet us,” Merlin pressed a kiss to Arthur’s cheek for the effort. “Must I continue?”

“Only if you wish, my dear,” Arthur pointed to his other cheek, waiting for the same treatment as the other.

Merlin rolled his eyes, pressing another kiss to Arthur. “I’m serious, Arthur, this could mean an all out war or the strongest of ally ship. I mean, have you read the reports of what their kingdom is like? It sounds, and excuse for my word choice but there really is no other way to describe it; magical. I would love to visit the country myself. If we make a good impression they might invite us for a stay,” he continued, tying a red handkerchief with Camelot’s crest around his own neck.

“And that’s why the second king of Camelot would be in attendance.”

Merlin left Arthur in their room after that, knowing that Arthur would follow him. “Are you really going to make me sit there and listen to them go on and on about their plan to repopulate their country, or over tax their people for the food that’s in abundance? Come on, Merlin, we could have our council handle it.” Arthur stepped in front of Merlin to block his way. “Why don’t we head back to our room and make this a more entertaining night?” he wiggled his eyebrows to make sure Merlin got his point.

Merlin heard him loud and clear and rightfully ignored Arthur’s attempt to get into his pants. He sidestepped the man to continue on his path, turning a corner to the ballroom. “Do you hear yourself? What kind of impression would that give Le Lubrique if you just suddenly disappeared?!” Arthur turned to run back to their room just to prove Merlin’s point, but the warlock quickly magicked him back to his side. “You’re coming with me whether you like it or not.”

And that was how Arthur ended up sitting on his throne, bored out of his mind and unwilling to be civil or sociable when he could have spent the entire evening snuggled inside Merlin. He could have been in bed by now, having Merlin moaning his name underneath him, but instead Arthur watched as the guest and court mingled and danced. The instrumentalists bobbed their heads in tune to their upbeat song.

Despite refusing to speak to anyone besides Morgana, and Merlin, and occasionally Gwen when she could spare a moment from dancing; he had learned quite a bit about their guests. The fact that although they had a vast amount of farmlands, they had little people to work in them. Which came as a shock to Arthur because he had learned earlier on that Le Lubrique consisted of mostly sorcerers.

Le Lubrique’s queen was the tall woman with a voice that made Arthur’s ears bleed. Her lady in waiting seemed to be a distant relative from their shared trait of high cheekbones, drowning brown eyes, and dark hair. The two were glued at the hip, her lady in waiting obsessively trailing behind her like a newborn duckling wherever they went. They were both strong magic users if Merlin’s gushing was anything to go by. And also very beautiful with fancy perfume that complimented each other so nicely that they smelt like heaven, from Merlin’s words of course, not his. If Arthur didn’t know any better, he would think Merlin fancied them; the queen and her lady in waiting.

Even when the queen was dancing with a number of council members, the servant would be right next to her. It was quite amusing to watch them struggle to sway in time with the music. Arthur had already made bets with Gwen on the number of times party guests would refuse dances with the pair because they refused to separate. So far Arthur was winning.

That was until the queen smugly asked Merlin for a dance. Her lady in waiting immediately stepped away like someone had called for her assistance, leaving the queen alone with Merlin. Much to Arthur’s disappointment, Merlin happily accepted the dance. He took the queen’s hand and off they went, twirling around as if they were the only ones in the room. His hands on her shoulder and waist, her hands virtually tearing his clothes from his chest.

The way the queen of Le Lubrique looked at Merlin made a sick feeling build up from the pit of Arthur’s stomach. She was undressing him with her eyes, the brown in her gaze turning an almost pitch black from lust. The woman said something that made Merlin taken aback, something about dragons and druids, but it was hard to hear from the chatter of the room. For all Arthur knew, it could have very well been a spell.

Merlin recovered quickly with a grin and laugh that had Arthur’s heart skipping a beat. Then the two of them had the audacity to continue dancing as if nothing had happened, the queen still shamelessly pulling at Merlin’s fine clothes that only Arthur was allowed to rip away.

Arthur didn’t know why Merlin didn’t stop the queen when she pulled his handkerchief from his neck. The king was almost killed for even playing with Merlin’s handkerchief and now this woman was doing the same without losing an arm and a leg? Completely unfair. That was proof in itself, she had casted a spell on Merlin.

“Merlin,” Arthur called out to his husband sternly only to be ignored once more. “Merlin,” Arthur stepped away from his throne, making his way towards his husband and the queen.

“I think you should go to bed before things get ugly,” Morgana gently warned Gwen, gesturing towards Arthur’s outburst. “It could either go well or we’ll die of secondhand embarrassment.”

“Thank you for your concern, my love,” Gwen replied with a smirk, “But I want to see how this unfolds.”

Morgana laughed at that, glancing between Arthur and Merlin. “Suit yourself.”

The two high ladies watched as Arthur pulled Merlin away from the queen of Le Lubrique, dragging him away from the woman as she stared on in horror. To Gwen's and Morgana’s surprise, the queen tried to pull Merlin back into her arms. Merlin seemed to be in a daze throughout the whole skirmish. His eyes glazed over, even from afar.

“Should we step in?” Gwen asked with concern, ready to intervene.

“Arthur can handle it, probably.”

The queen called her lady in waiting to help her. Three heads tugged at poor Merlin like he was flax rope at a kingdom fair. The lady in waiting tried to block Arthur from getting a good grip on Merlin while the queen tried to take more of Merlin’s clothes off. A crowd was forming and Morgana distinctively noticed coins being passed around in bets.

“Are you sure, my love?”

“Oh, It's just getting good,” Morgana grinned like a Cheshire cat. “How much are you willing to bet, my beloved?”

Finally, as the crowd began cheering, Arthur twisted out of the lady in waiting’s grip and grabbed hold of Merlin’s waist. The king lifted the warlock up in a bridal carry and turned on his heel for his throne, the crowd parting in heckles and laughs. Arthur blatantly ignored them, sitting down on his throne with Merlin in his lap. Unfortunately, he was unable to retrieve Merlin’s handkerchief, a matter he will surely not hear the end of for quite some time. But between a measly piece of fabric and Merlin’s life, Arthur would choose Merlin time and time again, his own life be damned.

Taking a moment to throw a sneer at Gwen and Morgana who were snickering, Arthur tried to shake Merlin out of the haze. “Are you alright, Merlin?” He stroked Merlin’s arms gently, trying to bring him back to the present. His blue gray eyes were a stormy glaze, seemingly out of it. It made an ugly feeling swirl around in Arthur’s head, the fact that some queen had touched his Merlin in such a way made Arthur sick.

Merlin shuddered in Arthur’s hold, looking down at himself and then at the ballroom floor where others had returned to dancing. Confusion crossed his face, “Of course, I’m alright,” he furrowed his eyebrows, “How did I get here?” Merlin rubbed at his temple, trying to soothe the ache that had formed there.

“Arthur carried you like the jealous brute he is,” Morgana explained, passing Gwen a handful of coins.

“Jealous brute?” Merlin questioned, looking at the trio for a real explanation.

Arthur was about to defend himself when a member of Le Lubrique’s court approached them. “Haha, I couldn’t help but notice the spectacle that you put on there, sire,” the man addressed Merlin.

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow.”

The man laughed again, mirth in his eyes. “I guess you wouldn’t,” he said vaguely, “The queen does have a way with words.”

“What do you mean by that?” Arthur butted in, holding Merlin a tad too tight. Merlin squirmed in Arthur’s lap but Arthur seemed to hardly notice.

“Well, you are a warlock, aren’t you, sire?” the man addressed Merlin once more. Merlin nodded despite himself. “A warlock as well as a dragonlord under the queen’s attention is bound to feel the efforts of her magic. And her special attention for that matter, hahaha.”

“Sorry,” Merlin began, more confused than before. “What do you mean by that expactly?”

“Our queen is a lovely dragon tamer. Her family is the last of their kind. Although taming a dragon is much easier when you have someone who can speak to the creatures,” the man laughed as if telling a joke only he knew the punchline to and walked away as if nothing had happened.

Least to say, the rest of the night Arthur didn’t let Merlin out of his sight. He had no idea what a dragon tamer was and Merlin seemed as lost as he was, but he wasn’t taking any chances. No one was going to “tame” his lover. Whatever that meant. Morgana and Gwen could laugh and call him jealous all they want, Arthur only had Merlin’s best interest at heart.

“I doubt having me be a lap warmer is in my best interest.”

-----

It had been weeks and Arthur naively thought they were done interacting with the kingdom of Le Lubrique. He had hoped to be finished with the rising kingdom, to leave them alone as long as they left him be.

He was rarely fortunate these days. Never even.

Apparently, Merlin was not deterred by almost being kidnapped by the queen and her lady in waiting. Merlin even said he enjoyed their company and their attention to his every breathing word. Arthur loved the man, but sometimes he could be quite an idiot.

Merlin, without Arthur’s knowledge, had invited a member of Le Lubrique’s court to stay at the castle. Who else to volunteer to come to Camelot but the queen’s lady in waiting. She was only supposed to be in the kingdom for a couple of weeks, but unfortunately that wasn’t the case. That couple of weeks turned into a couple of months and eventually the woman practically lived there. She had made herself at home on day one, much to Arthur’s dismay. He couldn’t really kick her out without making a bad impression towards her kingdom, despite what her queen had already done.

He was a king. Much to his reluctance, he had to act like it. And that meant acting like you liked people that you hated to the core.

“And these are our forests,” Arthur gestured to the thick wall of trees that signified the beginning of the woods. “I typically take neighboring kings hunting here. If you’re interested, we can go if you’d like.”

Sylvy, the lady in waiting, sat on her horse with her head held high. For someone with a position like her’s, she acted like she was queen herself. Arthur had spent the whole day trying to show her around for the utmost time. She was never satisfied with what he showed her, as if she were looking for a break in the walls of the kingdom.

Every morning she demanded to be taken around on a tour and every afternoon she was left with a deep frown on her face. Nothing made her happy it seemed, and Arthur had truly tried to make her feel at the very least, welcomed. It was just so difficult to do so with the knowledge of what she had done to Merlin. Had enchanted him, put him in a daze of some sort.

If Camelot still had the ban on magic, she would’ve been dead the moment she laid a hand on Merlin. On the crown’s orders, she would have been hung or burned, some form of public execution. Her dark hair would go up in flames as the fire burned higher and higher, her head would hang low as the bucket was kicked out underneath her. Arthur was still considering having her prisoned for what she did and simply explained to her queen that there had been a freak accident. If he were a lesser man, a lesser king, he would’ve done so and let it be a warning.

“I despise hunting as a sport, it’s just mindlessly cruel,” she snarled, her lips curling as a show of disdain. She held the reins to her horse like a vice, afraid that she’d be ripped from the saddle and forced to participate in such barbaric practices. At least, that was what Arthur thought was swimming through her mind.

“Yes, yes, but some like the adrenaline rush of a good hunt,” Arthur explained without real passion, merely a form of continuing the dry conversation. Sylvy had woken him up so early that morning he barely had a chance to give Merlin a goodbye kiss. “Some have to do it to survive.”

“There are other ways to live,” Sylvy began, urging her horse to turn by towards the main part of the kingdom, seeing as they were on the outskirts. “Le Lubrique for one replies solely on farmlands. We have no need for meat or the slaughtering of innocent animals. Everyone can live without such a horrible act; people and sorcerers alike. Meat is simply murder.”

Arthur half heartedly nodded, trailing behind her while trying not to fall off his horse. “I can’t argue with you there.” He didn’t want to argue with about anything her to be truthful, he had had enough of that already.

They traveled at a moderate trot in silence before she spoke up again. “Why haven't you invited me to a council meeting? I’ve been here for ages. Surely you have these sorts of things at least once a month.” She tried to act nonchalantly, but Arthur could see right through her. “I mean, there must be all sorts of things to discuss. An heir to the throne for one, seeing as neither you nor king Merlin can bear children.”

“We just haven’t had any council meetings, nothing interesting to report that couldn’t be done with a quill and parchment is all,” Arthur lied with a fake smile she could not see. “And an heir doesn’t need to be of blood. They just need to be taught how to properly command a kingdom like a fair and just ruler. To know what’s best for a kingdom, who to trust and who to leave behind in the woods.”

A look of abhorrence lingered on Sylvy’s face at Arthur’s words, bothered that he would even say such a thing. But Arthur was right, it didn’t matter if his heir was not his child as long as they were just and fair to all that passed them. Arthur could only imagine what Le Lubrique was like if all their subjects thought the same way Sylvy did. It must be all out war for them if a bastard appeared in court one day; though in reality royal bastards were a dime a dozen.

Sylvy went quiet for a moment, calculating her words while mulling over what Arthur had said. “With a kingdom as large as yours, surely there’s action all around? Suitable women all around. Something worthwhile must have happened during my stay,” her voice took on a tone that Arthur didn’t like, a light flush painting her cheeks like some teenage girl with a crush, “What about king Merlin?”

“What about my husband?”

“What has he been up to?” Sylvy asked indifferently, trying to hide her curiosity from Arthur. If only she would try to hide that damn blush. Merlin was physically attractive, Arthur knew this as an undeniable fact, but to be so unabashed while in front of the man’s husband? What was he? The first king of Camelot reduced to chop liver. Unbelievable!

“Well, he’s the second king of Camelot. A king’s job is never done. There is always more work than one man can handle. I should know, I used to be the one doing all the work.”

They reached town just as Sylvy took on an accusatory tone, “Then what are you doing here?”

Arthur resisted the urge to strangle her in front of so many people. His fists clenched around his reins so hard his knuckles turned ivory. “I’m showing you around, just as you had requested,” Arthur gritted through his teeth, trying so very hard not to glare at her.

“And here I was, hoping to attend a meeting with the second king.”

“Really now?” Arthur could feel the mare under him shuffle on her hooves at his fury. “You know what? There might be one later today.” What he had planned was so unbelievably petty and a tad childish, but at this point, he didn’t give a damn. Sylvy was getting on his last nerve. “I’ll have a servant call you when it’s time. For now, why don’t you explore our lovely town by yourself? Walk around without a king hovering over you and all. That way, I could get back to doing my job.”

Sylvy brightened up in spite of Arthur’s words. A smile was forming on her face, her high cheekbones pushed up even farther. Her brown eyes crinkled at the notion that she’ll be able to see Merlin. “I can’t wait,” she said, unsaddling and handing the reins to her horse to Arthur. “I must get ready,” she said to herself loud enough for Arthur to hear.

“Take all the time you need.”

Arthur would regret those words later that night when he sat among his advisers. Sylvy, their honored guest was over half an hour late and the others were beginning to feel on edge. Many of them were not planned for a meeting so soon after the one they had earlier that week. It was an unprompted get together for the lady in waiting’s sake, Arthur had explained to them.

On days like these Arthur was glad he was king and that there’d be grave consequences if he were murdered by one of his advisers. They would be in the right to do so, kill him that is; but he was hoping to live long enough to raise a couple of children with Merlin.

“Why are we doing this, Arthur?” Merlin asked, hiding a yawn with his hand. While Arthur was riding around the kingdom with Le Lubrique’s queen’s lady in waiting, Merlin was left to run the kingdom by himself. The haunted task of commanding and keeping an eye on so many people was taking its toll on the sorcerer. Merlin hadn’t properly slept in days, too busy keeping the kingdom in one piece.

“Sylvy wanted to be present for a council meeting. As a member of Le Lubrique’s court, we have to answer to her call until her stay is up.” Merlin gave him a look that called Arthur out on his poorly constructed plan. “And I may or may not want her to know that you’re taken.”

Merlin rolled his eyes along with most of the present court. They should all be used to Arthur’s antics at this point. What were they expecting? An honest to god meeting to discuss important topics with their visitor from foreign lands? Never. A fake meeting just so Arthur could flaunt the fact that Merlin loved him and not some conceited queen and her lady in waiting? That was more like it.

“Sometimes I can’t believe I asked you to marry me,” Merlin yawned again, giving Arthur a tired look in more ways than one.

“Feels just like a dream, doesn’t it?”

“More like a nightmare.”

“You love me,” Arthur opened up his arms so Merlin could take his place on the king’s lap. Merlin shook his head at the gesture, so incredibly done with Arthur. “Come on, Merlin. You know you like it here.” He teasingly patted his lap. “You can rest until our guest arrives.”

“Fine,” Merlin said begrudgingly after a moment of hesitation, his mind clouded by the want for sleep. “But you better wake me up when she comes.”

“Of course,” Arthur assured, inviting Merlin over once more. This time Merlin made himself home on Arthur’s lap, his head going to rest on Arthur’s chest. He curled in Arthur’s lap like second nature, having done this so many times over the years. Arthur wrapped his arms around the younger man, making sure he was supported and comfortable. Merlin fit perfectly nonetheless. Within moments, a soft snoring sound could be heard from the man on Arthur’s lap, content in where he sat. The second king finally got the rest he deserved. “I wouldn’t wake you for the world,” Arthur whispered, rubbing soothing circles on Merlin’s arm and leg.

Another half an hour passed achingly slowly without the esteemed lady in waiting’s presence. Arthur was about to call off the whole thing and make his way to his bedchamber when at last, the doors to the room opened to reveal Sylvy. She was no longer dressed in her usual servant attire with its cream apron and blue gray dress. Instead she had ransacked the queen’s wardrobe, wearing something befitting a ball.

The dress was elegant and detailed with silk and satin; a deep shade of bourbon that brought out her brown eyes. Her hand was even done up in cascading dark curls that perfectly fell from the knot atop her head. A glittering wine hair piece sat nestled against her hair, matching perfectly with the studs in her ears. She was beautiful even without the time spent enhancing what was already there, but now she stood ready to rule a kingdom.

Sylvy took her seat across from where Merlin would have sat. “Where is king Merlin?” she asked, not noticing that the man in question was currently sleeping on Arthur’s lap.

“I’m sorry for how unprepared we were, but I can relate to your troubles of not having enough hands to run a kingdom. My husband had taken the task of ruling all alone while I tended to your needs.” Arthur pressed a kiss to Merlin’s hair when he stirred in his sleep, continuing on his over sweetened words. “He’s beyond exhausted, but still wanted to take part in our meeting. Please understand that he really did try his best to stay awake.”

The emotions that crossed Sylvy’s face came in a blur; she was unreadable. But one thing was for sure, Arthur had won this small battle. He had shoved Merlin’s unquestionable favor for him in the lady in waiting’s face. Merlin was his and his alone. For good measure Arthur pressed a deep kiss onto Merlin’s lips, the sorcerer smiling in his sleep.

His advisers on the other hand felt cheated. If the death glares shot his way were anything to go by. Though there was one from Sylvy as well. A lot of people wanted him dead at the moment. But he was perfectly happy. They could string him up after the meeting for all he cared, the unintelligible look on Sylvy’s face was worth it. She was utterly speechless.

“I’m ever so sorry we were late to start, but would you like to commence this meeting?” Arthur asked like a gentleman with a cocky grin, making sure to stare right at Le Lubrique’s envoy.

-----

When Sylvy left Arthur rejoiced. She was finally out of his hair. Things could go back to normal and he could go back to spending his free time with Merlin instead of on horseback through a bare orchard. No matter how many times Arthur explained to Sylvy that their crops were not aided by magic like Le Lubrique’s, Sylvy insisted on seeing their “mortal” development.

Everything was put back into its rightful place. He couldn’t wait to put everything about Le Lubrique behind him and move on.

He was back on the throne with Merlin, leading the kingdom just as they were before the whole ordeal with Le Lubrique. Their advisers especially liked the fact that Arthur was back with Merlin; it meant less work for them. The moment that Sylvy left their grounds, Camelot’s advisers piled parchment after novel after demands on his table.

Those selfish bastards.

The so-called requests were so thick that Merlin didn’t even make a sarcastic comment comparing it to Arthur’s ass, and, or his thick skull; the warlock simply went to work. If Arthur himself wasn’t already terrified of the workload, he would have shocked himself to the grave at Merlin’s willingness to submit to their advisers. The two kings of Camelot knew when they met their match.

What felt like weeks passed where Arthur and Merlin did nothing but what their advisers ordered. They were slaves to their own court. The two didn’t leave their room for anything, not food, not training, not even a breath of fresh air. Their knights would occasionally knock on their door to make sure they were both still alive, but once the knights of the round table had been turned down a couple dozen times, they stopped caring. Merlin and Arthur shut off the world. They were practically locked in there, all because of their own doing.

Well, mostly Merlin’s doing. He was the one who invited the envoy over and wanted to make peace with the new kingdom. Arthur had nothing to do with that prolonged visit from the devil, he was only paying the price. His hands ached like it had been shorn off at the wrists, his back screaming for him to rest. He didn’t remember the last time he touched his bed, the neatly tucked in linens calling him to slumber. But he couldn’t, neither of them could until their work was done. Their kingdom depended on it and their kingdom came first, Arthur and Merlin’s comfort second. They both knew what they had signed up for when they decided to wed.

“A-Arthur,” Merlin groaned late one night, the sun mere minutes from the horizon.

Arthur immediately looked up from his book, putting his full attention on Merlin who was on the other side of the room. Neither of them had talked in days besides the few grunts they exchanged while passing over important text. The fact that Merlin was straining his voice now meant something serious was going on.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur coughed, his throat parched and dry as a desert.

“I-I-” Merlin began, rubbing harshly at his hurt eyes, “I think that’s the last one.” The sorcerer signed one more parchment with a flick of his wrist, setting it aside to dry along with the rest.

And the thing was, Merlin was right. There was no more work to go through, to tirelessly read; everything was finally done. “I’m so tired I don’t think I can see straight, b-but that was it!”

“What?”

“We’re finished, you clophole," Merlin smiled, taking Arthur’s breath away.

Arthur leapt out of his seat, pure joy masking the aches and pains as he rushed over to Merlin’s side. The king pulled the sorcerer from his chair, lifting the man into the air, Arthur kissed Merlin like it was their wedding day. Deep and full of all the longing he had for the man, grasping at him as if he could protect Merlin from the world.

He only pulled back for air, inhaling lungfuls before pressing his lips back against Merlin’s. Arthur missed his husband so damn much despite having worked across the room for each other. He hadn’t touched the other man in ages, it was heaven to feel his heartbeat beneath his pained fingers. To kiss down Merlin’s pale neck and mark him until the whole castle knew exactly what they had been up to. To pull at Merlin’s clothes, ripping his tunic right off of his chest, the buttons flying across the room.

“Arthur,” Merlin moaned, gently pushing Arthur back so he could speak. “I liked that shirt.”

Arthur thumbed at Merlin’s trousers, holding his hips tight enough to leave marks that Merlin would feel for days to come. “I’ll get you a new one.”

“But my mother made me that one,” Merlin complained, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s neck. His strong hand went to cup Arthur’s cheek, making the king look at him. Forcing the king to calm down and evaluate things. “We have to get something to eat too, dear,” Merlin told Arthur in a loving tone. “We’re both too exhausted for this.”

“I’m never too tired for you,” Arthur bit back, leaning into Merlin’s hand. He may have been putting his weight on Merlin’s desk so as to not fall over, but Merlin didn’t need to know that. Arthur could most definitely ravage Merlin while on the brink of death.

Merlin pulled Arthur close to kiss him softly, “If we go to bed now, then we can spend all of next day together,” Merlin tried to bargain, eyes teary from lack of any sort of sleep. “You’re going to hurt yourself, you ass,” he chuckled with a small smile that made his eyes crinkle with mirth.

“I don’t want to,” Arthur whined, “I’ve worked for weeks on end. Now I want my reward for behaving.” Arthur sat back on Merlin’s desk, pulling the man on top of him. The desk groaned under their combined weight, but Arthur hardly cared when he had Merlin on his lap and straddling his thighs. “You’re all I want.” He embraced Merlin, the warlock half naked and moaning as Arthur kissed along his arm. His mouth sucked at Merlin’s skin, teeth leaving markings on pale skin claiming Merlin as his. Arthur worshiped Merlin until his stormy eyes were hazy with unabated lust.

“Just you….”

Arthur slumped forward, out like a dying candle before he even knew it. Merlin had to stifle a laugh, though he doubted anything would wake Arthur then. The king was out cold, snoring like there was no tomorrow. Too bad Merlin had to carry his fat ass over to their bed. The warlock was beginning to rethink their plans for tomorrow. Sometimes he wished Arthur wasn’t such a stubborn ass and listened to him. It would save them both the trouble, Merlin was right most of the time after all.

“Get some rest, you oaf,” Merlin said to the asleep man, tucking him into their bed. Arthur’s blonde hair was like a halo against their stark white pillow, the dark bags underneath his eyes a contrast with the paleness of his skin. His old tunic was a dull red from overuse, the buttons holding onto the fabric for dear life. Merlin stripped Arthur of his boats and stuffy tunic leaving both men in their trousers. A much better way to sleep if anyone asked.

“Good night, Arthur,” Merlin whispered into Arthur’s ear, snuggling up against the king. He threw the blankets over himself and laid on Arthur’s chest. The pull of sleep had Merlin out just as quickly, the moment he allowed his breath to even out, there was nothing that would stop him from getting the well earned sleep that he so needed.

“Rest well, Merlin,” Arthur answered in a murmur, pulling Merlin in close. “Sweet dreams, you idiot.”

-----

“Arthur, calm down and try to see reason!” Merlin all but yelled at the king without his crown. The man in question was in his knight gear, armor and chainmail strapped tightly to his body for protection. His sword hung to his side, within reach at all times. Arthur could feel something ominous looming on the horizon, it was Merlin who was still seeing the world with rose colored glasses.

“I tried to see reason. I tried to play nice. And this is what I get in return,” Arthur gestured to the pile of charred wood on the round table. Wood that was once the homes of innocent farmers who played no part in the altercations of royals. People that Arthur was supposed to protect, their livelihoods and homes included. “We were nothing but good to them and this is what happened. Dozens of houses burned to nothing overnight!”

“We have to act now, Merlin.”

“Going in there with your swords raised in offence isn’t going to do anything but start an all out war,” Merlin insisted, urging Arthur to reel himself in, to not lash out at the closest thing. If it were anyone else Merlin would have already smacked them over the head for raising their voice at him. Unfortunately, Merlin was sleeping with the man and didn’t want to be smothered in his sleep. “That’s what Le Lubrique wants; a reason to fight. We can’t give them that.”

“Then what exactly do you expect us to do, Merlin?” Gwen piped in across the table from Merlin. Morgana stood to her side, eyes darting between all the speakers in a frenzy. “They attacked first. It’s only right that we return what they have given us.” Gwen picked up a piece of wood, charcoal rubbing off on her hands as she turned it over. “Arthur is right, we just can’t sit idle.”

Merlin stared at Gwen, hoping that she would be on his side on this. She solemnly shook her head, denying her friend’s offer. Gwen wanted to go on the offence just as much as Arthur, her friends were harmed when Le Lubrique’s soldiers set fire to a section of the kingdom. They burned down acres of farmland, dozens of homes with children and elderly. Luckily, nobody was killed in the process but many were harmed. Gwen wanted vengeance for them. She was a loyal ruler, loyal to her people.

“And we won’t,” Merlin bargained, “We won’t let them gain any more than they already have. No one here knows exactly what they want from us, but we do know that they’re willing to play dirty to get it,” he went on, talking with his hands to release some of the tension. “Let me be a spy and-”

“Absolutely not.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“No,” Arthur said firmly, daring Merlin to argue. “You stay right here with me. I will not have you risking your life for measly information.”

“It's not measly information, Arthur. It could be the difference between thousands dead and a simple treaty. We don’t know what Le Lubrique wants, but if we do, we could try to bargain with them. No blood needs to be shed,” Merlin tried, laying a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, forcing the man to look at him. “The queen wants me. She made that very clear. She won’t hurt me if she thinks I’m on her side.”

Arthur stared at Merlin, watching the sorcerer for any sign of hesitation. When he saw nothing of the sort Arthur sat down in his chair with a huff. Merlin really wanted to do this. Spy work is equal to a as rushing in with their flag flying and swords shining; both could end with Merlin buried six feet under. Even the implication had Arthur feeling like hell.

“How am I supposed to get anything done with you gone?” Arthur questioned genuinely, much to the snickers of the knights and ladies. “I can’t function without you,” this was whispered softly to Merlin, just for Merlin.

The anger and stress dissipated from Merlin’s eyes, his shoulders slacked in resignation. Realization slowly but surely dawned on the sorcerer. Arthur was simply afraid. The first king of Camelot was worried, on the brink of tears from it if anyone looked close enough. Merlin rolled his eyes, even after all these years Arthur was still undoubtedly the same.

Without a care for the other people in the room, Merlin sat down on Arthur’s lap, hands on the other’s chest to stabilize himself. Merlin leaned in close and pressed a kiss to Arthur’s lips, cradling his jaw like it was something breakable. “Everything will be alright, Arthur. I can protect myself just fine,” Merlin reassured in a careful voice, stroking Arthur’s cheek. “You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“I always feel empty without you, Merlin." Arthur pulled Merlin in for another kiss, this one deeper than the last. The two only pulled away for air and even then they went back for more. They couldn’t have enough of the other, constantly needing to feel the other person. A give and take only the other could provide. “What am I supposed to do if you don’t return?” Arthur asked quietly, resting his forehead on Merlin’s. “How am I supposed to live?”

“I promise to you, you’ll never have to find out. You’re stuck with me," Merlin smirked, running his fingers through Arthur’s hair. "Till death do us part, darling.”

Arthur wished he could believe Merlin’s promise. He swore on his mother’s grave that if Merlin fulfilled his promise that he’ll listen to everything Merlin has to say. He’ll never question Merlin again, never talk back to the warlock, shove his stubbornness down and never speak of it again. Arthur would have done anything for Merlin, only the man asked.

Not a month later Arthur received news in the form of a messenger. Le Lubrique had declared war on any who dared try to take the last living dragonlord from them. Merlin was theirs, they stated, the dragonlord belonged to dragon tamers. The two are vital for the continuation of dragons in the old religion. One to gain their trust, the other to keep the creatures in chains where they belong. Any and all who tried to take away their dragonlord would be faced with lethal consequences.

At that Arthur sent the messenger to be put into the stocks. Lethal consequences. Arthur will show them just how deadly he could be. Le Lubrique will pay, a month without Merlin was torture but if they dared to lay a hand on Merlin they would all burn. Gwen was absolutely right, Arthur required vengeance, he wanted them all to feel just what angering Camelot will do, what angering him will do.

And after making such a claim over Merlin’s life, Arthur will show them no mercy. Le Lubrique had declared war on Camelot and Arthur would answer tenfold.

------

It took around two weeks for Arthur to prepare for battle against a kingdom full of sorcerers. Another week was spent traveling with his soldiers over land and sea. Through it all he couldn’t help but be eaten alive by the nagging feeling that he was too late. That he would arrive only to find ash; bones if he was lucky. Day and night he was slowly being killed by the fact that he could very well be walking into his husband’s grave.

“He’s going to be okay,” Morgana reassured him one day as he leaned against the railing of their ship. They were perhaps an hour if not less from shore and Arthur hadn’t slept a wink. He could feel exhaustion mixing with the worry brewing in his mind, ready to overflow at a single inconvenience. His sword was once again at his side, the memory making everything so much worse. “Merlin will be teasing you for worrying so much if he were here.”

“But he isn’t, is he, Morgana?” Arthur said more harshly than he intended. “He could already be dead for all we know.” And it would be all Arthur’s fault, though he kept that notion to himself. By the look on Morgana’s face, she must have been thinking the same thing.

“It's not your fault, Arthur. Merlin chose to go on his own free will.”

“But I was the one who allowed it,” Arthur bit back, standing straight on his feet. “I sent him to his death.”

“You don’t know that,” Morgana crossed her arms. She should be used to Arthur’s self destructive behavior but even this was getting too much for her. “If what that messenger said was true, Merlin’s probably being pampered to death.”

That seemed to be the wrong thing to have said because Arthur’s despair did not lighten. It seemed to have gotten worse. “What if he likes it better with Le Lubrique’s court? I’m no warlock, I can’t compete with their magic!”

“Arthur, you’re overthinking this,” Morgana was done with Arthur’s antics. She was ready to gag him and throw him in the ship’s makeshift prison cell until they had properly docked. “Merlin will run right into your arms the moment he sees you. I’m willing to bet on it, just you wait and see. Merlin loves-”

At Morgana’s silence, Arthur looked over to the direction of her gaze. Their ship was making speed but Arthur suddenly wished they had stopped right where they were and sink. The sight took Arthur’s breath away, making his blood go cold. Le Lubrique was burning and it looked like it had been burning for a very long time. There was no shoreside to speak of, just endless flickering flames. Where the castle should have been standing tall like a beacon was nothing but flames, ruble, and ash.

“Merlin!” Arthur yelled even though his voice would not carry that far. “Merlin!” he called again, his heart sinking to his stomach. He wanted to drown at sea. He never wanted to reach the shore, to be lost in the ocean and never have to face what he already knew was there. The absence of what he knew should’ve been. “Merlin!” he shouted even though it was futile.

“Arthur, please!” Morgana struggled to pull him back from the side, afraid he’ll jump and swim the rest of the way himself. Or worse. “Just an hour, please. That’s all you have to wait for. You- you don’t know for sure.” Even Morgana was not so sure of her words, the picture in front of them was hard to paint as lies.

“I sent him to his death….” Arthur whimpered, “I killed him. I killed my husband.” The king sank to his knees, kneeling next to Morgana. The woman could barely hide the tears in her eyes at the sight. Everything she wanted to say, every reassurance died on her tongue. Whatever she said could very well be a lie and nothing more.

“We will make them pay, Arthur. We will make them pay for what they’ve done,” Morgana decided instead, pulling Arthur to his feet. “They won’t get away with this,” she stated sternly, much like their father when he had set his mind to something.

Less than an hour passed where the tension was so thick, one could slice through it with an unsharpened sword. All on board prepared for battle, despite the fact that the fires never stopped burning. Regardless of the fact that they might be too late to be of much good. The fighting had already begun long before they docked, a civil war where the same flag was flying on opposite sides.

“Go search for what is left, we’ll handle everything else,” Gwen informed Arthur when they stepped foot on the raging battlefield. She was dressed in chainmail armor just like everyone else, Camelot’s colors making her blend in with the searing fires. Her helmet was covering most of her face, giving her the appearance of a frightening soldier ready to take lives at a moment's notice. If Arthur was in a better mood, he would have been sorry for the folks who would come face to face with Gwen, the quick footed soldier instead of Gwen, the gentle, kind hearted high lady. At the moment he was on the verge of breaking and was ever so glad that Gwen was as cut throat as she was.

“Thank you,” Arthur told her from the bottom of his heart, “We should have listened to you from the start.”

“You followed your husband’s request, I can’t fault you for that.” She pulled Arthur in for a hug before sending him off. “Go find our king.”

Gwen didn’t have to tell Arthur twice, he was off before she finished speaking. The only thing is his mind was finding and holding Merlin. Nothing else mattered. Not the war thriving around him, swords clashing, arrows flying, Camelot’s red against the duality of Le Lubrique’s purples; nothing. The sorcerer was all that was worth living for and Arthur had a guess as to where Merlin would be.

The castle with Le Lubrique’s flag flapping against the blistering wind was as good as any place to start. Arthur climbed the hill that the palace stood on with lead in his stomach. It felt like every step he took he was merely walking into a trap. The castle should not still be in one piece, the battles around the structure should have made it no more than debris. However, it still stood on weak support.

Going against the nagging voice in the back of his head Arthur called out for his husband, “Merlin!” He walked closer to what would have been the courtyard. Around the perimeter were burning shrubbery that must have been a sight to behold at one point in time. Now there were nothing more than flares and the source of black smoke. The cobblestone center was stained with a drying red that Arthur did not want to face the source of. “Merlin!” Arthur sounded out in the courtyard.

“Arthur,” a hoarse voice groaned weakly. Arthur ran in the direction it came from, his sense of self preservation be damned. Merlin’s life could be on the line.

“Merlin, stay with me. Keep talking!”

“I-I’m over here,” Merlin hissed out helpfully, not informing Arthur where, “here” exactly was. Why did Arthur have to marry such a buffoon? Sure, no one could compare to Merlin, but at the very least he could have courted a smarter man.

“I’m coming, just stay where you are,” Arthur said hastily, rushing through the crumbling courtyard. “Don’t you dare die on me, I’ll kill you myself if you do!” he threatened, searching every nook and cranny for the warlock.

“That’s my line, you ass,” Merlin moaned in complaint, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Come up with your own catchphrases.”

Sometimes Arthur couldn’t believe his choice in a partner. Merlin was really making banter with him while possibly on the brink of death. He was definitely going to kill Merlin for this. “Make me, you bastard,” Arthur cursed, rounding a sharp corner that fell apart as he passed it. His breath was taken away for the second time that day when he saw Merlin on the ground.

They were in what must have been a parlor, the stained glass windows shattered on the ground as a number of the fine furniture burned to cinder. Arthur could imagine the room as something beautiful if he were to be invited over for tea. Now he just saw it as a smoking mess, something that he was glad was going up in flames. Though, without him or Merlin in it would be nice.

“There you are!” Arthur exclaimed, rushing over and kneeling on the floor next to Merlin’s frame. The sorcerer was half naked with sharp nail marks littered across his pale skin. Merlin’s neck was a raring red as if a hand had been wrapped around his throat which didn’t let up until he passed out from the lack of air. His form was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and tears, his rib cage stuck out in unpleasant angles. It looked like he hadn’t been fed in days. The sight made Arthur furious, but Le Lubrique’s court could wait. Arthur had to get Merlin to safety first.

“Took you long enough, you oaf,” Merlin hissed through his teeth, his lips chapped from dehydration. The corner of his mouth was bleeding as if he had been back handed across the face. Arthur reached out a hand to touch it, to make sure Merlin was real and not just some illusion made by a sick sorcerer. “Stop that, it already hurts to talk,” Merlin coughed, his eyes hazy.

“What happened?” Arthur couldn’t help but ask, shrugging off his cape to throw over Merlin’s bare chest. It didn’t offer much coverage but it was protection against the flying embers. As a bonus it covered the markings that made Arthur’s skin crawl.

“I arrived under the guise of an envoy, just as we had planned. Everything seemed to be going fine, but they found out I was a spy early on. It was like they could read my mind, and I don’t doubt that they have the knowledge just for the spell,” Merlin explained, pulling Arthur’s cape close, the soft fabric offering a sense of shelter. “But they didn’t seem to care that I was there under ulterior motives. They were only glad to have me, mind and body,” Merlin shivered at the thought. “Le Lubrique’s queen wanted me to father her children.”

Merlin paused to let the thought sink in. He watched Arthur for his reaction. Arthur’s face twisted in a disgusted sneer, baring his teeth at the implication. The king clenched his fists until his nails dug deep enough into his palm to drag blood. Arthur wanted to feel the pain, something to ground him farther so he didn’t march off to kill someone who might already be dead.

“Le Lubrique wanted dragons as slaves, no king would be dumb enough to go to war with a kingdom with dragons on their side; no matter its size,” Merlin went on, his eyes glowing yellow at the notion. “They needed me as a stud.”

Arthur was repulsed at the notion that Le Lubrique would even conceive of such a thing. He must have looked ready to vomit because Merlin quickly added, “Le Lubrique’s queen even tried to make herself appealing to me when I denied her advances.” Arthur could only imagine what the woman did. Sylvy’s antics immediately came to mind. “She magicked her hair blonde and made her eyes your shade of blue.”

Arthur couldn’t help but darkly chuckle at that. Of all the ways to make Merlin fall for someone, blonde hair and blue eyes weren’t it. “Did she really think looking like me would get you to bed her?”

“No,” Merlin began again with a pained yelp that he tried to hide. “What she said was what made me comply.”

“What did she say?” Arthur growled, his earlier fury seeping back into his bloodstream. “What did that harlot say?”

“She threatened your life, Arthur. Your honor, your dignity, and reign as king. Everything,” Merlin got teary eyed at the memory. “The way she took her pleasure from me was painful, but it was nothing compared to the thought of what she said she would have done to you.”

Arthur was shaking with rage, his whole body trembled with the urge to tear Le Lubrique’s queen apart, limb by limb by his own bare hands. His hand hovered over his sword subconsciously. He wanted to kill her, needed to destroy her for what she’s done. For the fear she incited into Merlin. Arthur was bloodthirsty; he hoped that Gwen was just as demanding of blood.

“I wanted to kill her.” Merlin’s quivering voice brought Arthur back to the present. “Let me kill her, Arthur,” Merlin begged his husband, his lip beginning to bleed.

“Of course,” Arthur wiped Merlin’s tears away with his thumb, his hand caressing Merlin’s cheek gently. “Anything you want, I’ll give it to you in a heartbeat.”

“Now, Arthur. I want to kill her now.” Merlin tried to sit up but the cry of pain had him falling right back to where he was. “She deserves to suffer.” His eyes lit up in a gold light, trying to magic his way upright but failed and fell down once more. The warlock’s body was in a worse state than he appeared, he shook in a cold sweat like an infection induced fever.

When Merlin began coughing fistfuls of blood at the strain Arthur was forced to act quickly. The king straddled Merlin’s legs, sitting down on his lap to keep Merlin on the ground. “Shhh, I’m here, Merlin. I’m safe, I’m alive,” Arthur barricaded Merlin with his arms. “I’ll bring you her head, I swear.”

“Let me do it, Arthur. I can kill her myself,” Merlin barked, another fit of coughs had him squeezing his eyes shut.

“I’ll bring her to you, alive. You can do anything you want with her court,” Arthur tried a different approach, tears forming in his eyes at the sight of Merlin in this state. “You can make her pay for what she’s done, make her feel the same pain. But please, Merlin,” Arthur begged, stroking Merlin’s face as tears fell on the man’s face. “Stay with me. Keep talking.”

Merlin opened his eyes at Arthur’s request, pain painting them a disorientating blue. “It hurts, Arthur. She did so, so many horrible things,” Merlin admitted in the burning parlor room. He reached out angry scarred arms to wrap around Arthur, pulling the king flush against his chest. “Everything aches, it feels like I’m being burned alive.” Merlin had Arthur in a death grip, there was barely enough room for either of them to breathe. It felt like home.

“They will pay, this I swear,” Arthur made an oath, kissing Merlin to make it true. “By the end of this day their bodies will be put on display for all to see.” He kissed down Merlin’s neck, burying Le Lubrique’s queen’s markings with his own. “Do you want her kingdom as well, Merlin? Say the word and it's yours.”

“I want you. I want her gone. I want her kingdom. I want it all,” Merlin’s mind was spinning with searing fever, screaming pain, and the constant pleasure of Arthur licking at his throat. He squeezed Arthur’s neck with his shaking arms. “Give me everything.”

In a burning parlor of a dying country with a queen and court that abandoned it, the first king of Camelot made a vow to the second king; an apology and a promise. Everything the licking fire was eating, everything destroyed by its own queen; the country, and the sea that surrounded it. The never ending farmlands, the people that survived, and the bones that would be buried by ash of its own making. The entire kingdom; dead, dying, or thriving. All of it would be Merlin’s.

All of it is Merlin’s.

“My king shall have everything.”

[winterwitch-trash]

Chapter 3: “Saviour.”

Author's Note: It's been 3 years since the last update, but I didn't want to give up on this story. I just had a lot going on, so I wasn't really in the best headspace. But I'm back now, so I will start working on this story again. Author's Note #2: To make up for the long hiatus, I'm going to post 3 more chapters (which are ready!) Hopefully, you guys will like it. Comments & reblogs are always appreciated! _________________________________________

Seraphina – or Hellfrost, as she was more commonly known amongst the ranks of HYDRA was a young girl, plucked from the streets of New York – the perfect candidate for the project they were setting up. After the Winter Soldier, they needed yet another soldier who would carry out orders without doubting them. But first, she would need intensive training. Something that she excelled in, even though it was not easy at first. They had to instill fear in her (much like they had done with Barnes) and persuade her that her work would be helping their cause. However, she was still defying them, holding on to the remnants of her humanity. HYDRA did not like that. Not in the slightest. Every time she fought back against their experiments, they took to brutal punishments. “Once I get out of here, I will kill you all…” She thought to herself, shooting a hateful glare towards one of her captors, who simply smirked in response, causing her to cower instantly. Despite her tough outlook, she feared her handler. Scared of what he could do to her if she so much as looked at him the wrong way. The HYDRA soldier began advancing towards her, wetting his lips, a finger tracing her jaw, deciding to see if he could pin her where he wanted her…. “Pl-please don’t do this…” She begged, refusing to let the tears fall. Her desperate plea fell on deaf ears, with him responding tauntingly that he would do as he pleased, and to prove a point, he moved his hand a bit lower relishing in the anguish he was causing her. Just then, a deafening sound echoed in the large chamber as the heavy door slid open. Seraphina was frozen in place as a sliver of black and gold metal pulled the man off of her. Bucky, after having made sure that the mercenary was knocked out cold, turned his attention to the girl, who was still frozen in her spot, wrapping her arms around her stomach in a feeble attempt to gain some warmth. Dressed in only a thin dress, the whole ordeal had taken quite the toll on her; bones were protruding in some places, a sign that she was malnourished, and some purple bruises and cuts that were yet to heal. Witnessing her state, Barnes felt red hot anger for those people subjecting innocent people to the same horrors… “…I am not going to hurt you.” He said softly, raising his hands in surrender, fearing that the young woman would bolt any second. But she didn’t; instead, her brown eyes remained fixed on him. “You’re—You’re him. Captain America.” She stammered trying to control the violent shivering that wrecked through her frail body—the malnourishment and the inhumane conditions she was kept under didn’t help any though. Bucky was still unsure of her reaction but seeing the pain that she was trying to hide, made his blood boil with sheer hatred towards the very people that ruined his life decades ago. “Call me James.” He smiled softly extending his vibranium arm for her, which she took after studying him briefly. He was… different than them. “I’m going to get you out here, alright?” He then added, hoping this would ease her mind just a little. However, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Where are you taking me?” She asked cautiously. Perhaps he was taking her to another HYDRA facility. But no. He said he was going to help her…. “Like I said… I am going to take you someplace safe, where you can get yourself checked out. I promise you...” He responded. Seraphina finally allowed her guard down around him… Maybe he was not so bad? Who knew? “Thank you….” The words came out so quiet, that even Bucky had trouble catching them.

[mango-writes-with-ink]

Here’s a sample of writing I did- female reader in a maid dress! This was a personal piece of my oc but Yknow what, fuck it ! The reader is a florist survivor!

Pronouns: she/her

The florist in a maid dress

“Mike-!!! Please let me bet again! I KNOW I can throw all of this back onto you-!!”

A distressed yell came from behind the door a chuckling acrobat stood in front of.

“I think you have a gambling problem y/n,” he retorted laughing loudly, gaining the attention of a couple of the other residences wandering around.

“Besides, this is your fault anyway!” Mike crossed his arms childishly, an impish grin situated on his face.

“I don’t have a gambling problem!! And I really don’t want to wear this, it’s- it’s so short,” with emphasis on the ‘short’, little shuffles could be heard from inside “and I look dumb. I really hate you for this.”

All she got in reply was another loud laugh.

And the sound of two more people approaching.

Grabbing the doorknob, y/n pulled it towards herself in case they tried to open the door. Though there was a lock. Despite not knowing who the two new-comers were yet, she knew at least one of the three in front of her door would find a way to pick the lock.

“Heyyyyyyy Mike!”

Oh god. It’s Luca. The you inventor donning the prisoner garb. It was surprising to see him out of his room outside of matches.

“Oh, hello LUCA and NAIB!” Mike practically yelled through the door, making sure she knew who was out there. She could hear the teasing smile in his voice.

“Why’d you yell our names..?” The Mercenary questioned gruffly, shuffling was heard and she presumed Naib was stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets.

Mentally begging for Mike not to say anything, y/n grubbed the doorknob tighter, if that was possible. Hoping that somehow a magical telepathic connection would form. However when he spoke, all she wished was that her rooms door swung the opposite way so it could hit him in the face and shut him up.

“Because I know y/n would hate it if she knew you were out here.” The acrobats mischievous look retuned as he continued, “especially if I told you -“

“SHUT UP. NO. MIKE I SWEAR TO GOD-“

Just as she finally spoke up, she wasn’t quick enough to stop Mike as he had already talked over her.

“-if I told you that the ever-so-cocky Florist lost two- no, three bets with me despite proclaiming to everyone she’d win.” Mike leaned towards the two in front of him.

“She lost. And she’s being a sore loser and won’t wear what we agreed on.”

Mike then straightened up, a pout on his face as he looked at Julia’s closed door. “It’s not fair, I won fair and square.”

Naib and Luca shared a questioning glance, amusement also dancing in the latter’s eyes.

“Okay - ONE, I AM wearing what we agreed on thank you very much. And TWO,” at the proclamation of ‘two’, y/n swung her door open and stood crossed armed. Visibly angry, “you absolutely cheated, but you had help in that. Isn’t that right Luca.”

She pointed a glare at the “Prisoner”, who was blinking owlishly at her. Naib, stood next to him let out a low whistle.

“Didn’t know you were into that stuff Mike- actually scratch that. I can see it.” Naib looked from y/n, to Mike, and back to y/n. Who was now glaring at him. He had to admit, despite the out of character aggressive look on her face, she looked good.

The maid dress she wore was similar in style to Lucky’s, but a little shorter which allowed room to show off more of the garters on her legs. The frills of the petticoat beneath flounced slightly as he tapped her heeled shoe in irritation. The dress, unlike Lucky’s, had a flexible corset with straps, lightly accentuating her bust, in a very fan service-like way.

Sighing heavily, y/n already decided to accept her fate. She just hoped some of the others wouldn’t see her.

‘I wonder if I could ask Lucky if I could borrow his instead... he’s taller than me so the dress would be longer...’ she thought her herself, her flushed features calming.

“It’s not that bad y/n- all you need to do is wear a short little dress,” Luca shrugged and spoke with a grin “it’s not too bad, and as a plus; you look really good!”

That flustered her again. ‘Fuck they’re all so hot, they can’t just compliment me I’m gonna fucking die.’

She then remembered the OTHER part of the bet and groaned loudly. Once again upset. This caused Mike to chuckle.

“Actually. Because she lost three bets, she has to clean the hunters side for two months. The first bet was for the dress. Second was for one month and third was adding on another month” he smirked smugly whilst explaining, much to y/n’s detriment.

Letting out another groan of distress, she turned and slammed her door. Her dress spun with her, petticoat bounced against her thighs before settling as she heard the three outside somewhat laugh at her pain.

—————————

And that was some shitty writing lmao!

[iridescenceoflove]

Okay, I know I said I'll take what I got and still love the show—and I still really, really do—but the more I dwell on it and stew in my turmoil of feelings, the more...depressed I get about the ending. Honestly, it was just all kind of messy and underwhelming after so many good, fast-paced and resourceful episodes.

1. We already know everything wrong about Han Seo's end, I don't even need to hash it out. If you don't understand what was wrong with that... 🤷🏻‍♀️

2. I was okay with Cha Young getting shot for the protection of Vincenzo; cliched as it was, they still kept her pretty in character with the way she stood up against Han Seok while being held at gunpoint. However, they took it too far by having her get shot, just to simply stay in a hospital bed until the very end. No action for her, no behind the scenes work, no second party (what the hell was the point in that anyways?), just—reduced to an invalid in bed for saving the love of her life. After all she's done, after always wanting to be right up in the front lines. I know one of the issues with her getting shot was the overused setup for Vincenzo to reveal his feelings, and honestly, I didn't mind that. But that doesn't even work, because he doesn't. He clearly is worried for her and we know he loves her, yet it doesn't spur him to make any further move. Han Seok already killed his mother, it doesn't even add to the narrative of him having a loved one get hurt to do something. He would've still killed Han Seok brutally regardless if Cha Young had gotten hurt or not. She deserved to be a part of it all. And I don't mean the killing. She didn't have to hit the button. But she deserved a final line to Myung Hee at least since she's her father's murderer. I'm pretty sure the Geumga men got more action than she did.

3. Han Seok gathering a bunch of mercenaries seemed filler. It makes sense for the purpose of hiring people to kill Seung Hyuk, but they literally added nothing to the very mediocre face-off with the Geumga men. In fact, the face-off at the beginning of episode 19 with the whole Cassano family was way cooler and more dynamic than whatever you call that. How the hell did they even know specifically where to find Han Seok and his men? Vincenzo and Cho were the only ones aware of the tracking device anyways. I mean, I could've lived with that, except, why have them come fight? We know they can stand on their own, it's been very much established multiple times. The stabbing wasn't even done by one of the hired men, it was done by Han Seok. Just seemed really messy and unnecessary; simply there for the purpose of having some of the Geumga tenants have one last moment.

4. The whole Guillotine File thing had such a great setup. It seemed very anticlimactic just for Vincenzo to whip it out and tell Gi Seok to take it. Like, they made a huge deal of using it to take down everyone, he even says nobody but himself knows where it is, then whips it out to hand it over like nothing when he could've used it for, oh, I don't know, being pardoned so he doesn't have to leave for a whole year. Which—

5. A whole year? Come on, you just can't have me fall for the fact that this guy, whom even the Director pardoned for a bit of time, has to leave for a whole year with no way or alternative reason to come back for more than just one day because he has to sneak in with Italian delegates? I'm calling bullshit.

6. I love Vincenzo and Cha Young. They truly do love and deserve each other. But the ending for them? Nah. I hate the fact they pulled a CLOY, I really do. You're telling me Cha Young has to be content with spontaneous year to year visits or has to go visit an island in Malta to be with the one she loves? FUCK NO. I'm manifesting a completely different end for that, same with Han Seo, don't @ me.

7. Where the fuck was Inzaghi? He didn't even get to say goodbye in episode 18, seriously, what the fuck.

8. The gold storyline was okay. I'm glad they didn't leave loose ends, but it once again just didn't sit right after all the buildup. They moved it all to her house and she sleeps on a hard ass gold bar bed. Queen behavior, but still.

9. Bye Bye Balloon. We all wanted it. We didn't get it.

As you can see, the more I ramble, the less eloquent and structured my points become. All in all, did they tie most of the loose ends up? Yes. I'm glad they didn't kill Mr. Lee off, I would've been too pissed for words if that had happened along with Han Seo. In my opinion, they didn't leave an open ending, which would've made things ten times worse. And it really isn't the worst finale I've seen. Far from it, contrary to my points. It's just after so much anticipation, building, excitement, and truly amazing episodes, it fell very flat for a finale. Way more bittersweet than needed.

However, I will end on some good points because I don't want to ignore them either.

1. I love Han Seok's and Myung Hee's deaths. Absolutely love it, so much that somebody would probably deem me crazy for how much I enjoyed it. Myung Hee fire dancing to her zumba music was so poetically beautiful. Han Seok and all the references to Greek mythology or whatever as he's left for the birds was stunning. Both of them being cocky until they realize how miserable their deaths really are going to be was pure enjoyment for me. Nothing says satisfaction like watching the pure horror take place on their faces as they beg for Vincenzo to just end it instead. They really and truly did deliver with their deaths, and I am still shocked and pleasantly delighted with how they didn't shy away one bit with the brutality of it.

2. I'm glad they at least gave Cha Young her moment somewhat in the end. She got to take down the Tae ho lover and his mom in retribution for both Vincenzo's mom and her dad. Her sass and savagery in the end gave me the hint of original Cha Young I'd been craving for the whole episode. And the fact that she got to lead the Cassano Geumga family was great too (despite how cheesy that walk up and taunting of Kingmaker and his guys was).

3. I'm glad Gi Seok was promoted, and I'm especially glad he and Mr. Cho get to work together. Those two are the best and deserve everything.

4. As much as they could've really polished it, I'm glad Vincenzo and Cha Young got their moment. At that point, I think my standards and expectations were so low that I was blown away by their kiss. I didn't expect it at that point and thought we were going to be left with them walking off together. It was still a pleasant surprise, nonetheless.

5. I really do like what the monk said to Vincenzo. Wrapped up his feelings regarding his lifestyle very well, and I thought it was the perfect balance of philosophical and realistic as you could get. He needed to hear that, and I'm so glad he got some form of content and peace with who he is in the end.

6. I really love that they didn't stray away from Vincenzo truly being an anti-hero. He even refers to himself as a villain, and I'm glad they didn't try to gloss over that in the end just so it could look good morally. His take on justice is very...Vincenzo Cassano. Befitting.

I love this show still, would still recommend it, and would still do it all over again. I'm so glad I was able to be active in this fandom and see so many wonderful discussions, people, and analyses. I'm going to miss these weekends so badly.

[yelena-bellova]

Fault Line: Prologue - Steve Rogers x F!Enhanced!Reader

Prologue - chapter one

Masterlist

Plot: Y/n’s life is a game of hide and seek and so far she’s beaten everybody. But her winning streak may not last as long as she’d hoped it would.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: OKAY. I have too many fics going at once but I got this idea and couldn’t let it go. I tried writing a Steve x Reader series a while back and it sucked quite frankly, so I spent a little more time developing this one. Steve doesn’t appear in this chapter but plenty of familiar faces do. Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! (no beta reader because we die like men.)

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Bosnian winters were brutal. It got down to freezing temperatures, the pavement was iced over, you couldn’t go a day without being hit by a snowstorm…It was by no means remote but if you were hiding from something, not many people thought to look there. Which meant I was safe.

I casually strolled through the crowded Sarajevo marketplace, the only care in my mind being what I should eat for lunch. As soon as I stepped foot into the city, I knew I was on borrowed time. Not that it mattered, quick escapes were my forte. I spotted a falafel stand run by a middle aged man, one of the only stalls I hadn’t stopped at in the last few days. 

“Jedan, molim,” I said, smiling sweetly at the vendor as I watched him make the dish. As he prepared to hand me the finished product, I faked innocence and rushed to dig through the empty pockets of my coat. The man handed me the food wrapped in paper and raised his eyebrows expectantly. I looked up from my coat pockets and tilted my head, “Izvini.” Before he could understand why I was apologizing, I was gone…Having vanished into thin air.

When I reappeared, I was no longer in the marketplace. I was outside the abandoned shack in the Bosnian forest I’d been calling home the last couple days. I was living a ways out from the country’s capital so the search for the disappearing woman remained unsuccessful. Triumphant in having scored lunch, I turned on my heels to head inside my temporary home.

I hadn’t expected the dozen armed soldiers with their guns aimed at me.

“You boys wanna come in for a drink?” I quipped in English, gesturing to the front door, “I’m not sure I have enough for everyone but I can pop out to the store and get some more.” “I’d stay here if I were you,” a shadowed figure said from the front porch, “It didn’t take us long to track you and it won’t be hard to do it again.” Americans. In Bosnia. Interesting…

“Mind telling me who the hell you are?” I called, squinting to try and make the voice’s body out.

A man came forward, stepping in between two of the soldiers who still had yet to lower their weapons. He pushed back the hood of his winter coat to show his face, “Agent Coulson, we’re with S.H.I.E.L.D. We’d like you to come with us.” I looked behind and around me, waiting for someone to make a move. “So I’m supposed to just go with a group of soldiers with their guns pointed at my head? Is it that simple, Agent Coulson?” “It can if you want it to be,” he replied, for as threatening as he should have been he wore a small smile on his face, “We’d like to talk to you.” “About?”

“About how someone like you has been jumping from Russia to Colombia without a plane. Or India to Canada. Or Jamaica to Scotland.”

I raised an eyebrow and casually took a bite of the stolen falafel I still held, “So you have been tracking me.” “Miss Y/l/n, it would seem that you’re highly gifted,” Agent Coulson continued, taking a step closer to me, “We’re here to help you, not to hurt you. I’d like to bring you back to headquarters to talk to you about your abilities.” I smirked as I chewed, “I’m not a mercenary that organizations like yours can just hire for an assassination.” “That’s not why we’re here. It’s not what you can do for us, it’s what we can do for you.” “Hmm,” I sarcastically smiled, “And what is it that I’m getting out of going with you?”

“A life where you don’t have to steal baklava for lunch.”

Having lived how I had for so long, I prided myself on my good instincts. There was good, there was bad and every once in a while there was a grey area. A combination of right and wrong that was subjective to each person’s perspective. As my eyes scanned over Agent Coulson, a professional yet non threatening presence, and the soldiers ready to kill me if I dared to fight back, I decided that I had just landed in a very grey area. If I didn’t go with them, I wasn’t sure what they’d do. If I did, I wasn’t sure what they’d ask of me.

Then again, I was a bit of a grey area myself.

I held up my food, “It’s a falafel.”

————

It had been a long time since I’d been back in the states longer than the five seconds it took to steal a bag of Cheetos from a convenience store.

Agent Coulson had deposited me in a stark white interrogation room and promptly left. After the twenty minute mark passed without anyone entering, disappearing and landing in Cairo began to sound more and more attractive. Just as I was seriously considering it, the locked door opened.

“Miss Y/l/n,” a dark skinned man greeted, “You’re a hard one to pin down.” “Really? Cause according to Agent Coulson, it was as easy as breathing for you guys,” I replied, tightening my crossed arms.

“It got easier once we developed the right tech,” he said, coming to sit in the the chair directly across me, “But apparently you’d never heard of us until today ergo you didn’t know we were tracking you which begs the question…Who were you running from?”

“Wow,” I chuckled, “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” “I don’t like to waste time.” I snorted before giving him a once over. He wore an eyepatch, all jet black clothing complete with a matching trench coat. He looked the part of Man In Charge perfectly. “If you’re gonna ask me for my life story, I’m gonna need to know a little bit about you too.” “All you need to know about me right now is that I’m a man who sees potential in you.” “Potential?” “Potential.”

“That’s not what people typically see in me,” I narrowed my eyes and shook my head.

“No, they see a thief, a cheat, and I’m willing to bet,” the man leaned forward and put his arms on the table that separated us, “Somebody sees you as a threat.” Oh, if only he knew…

“If you’re a government agency then you already have a file on me, meaning that there’s not going to be much I have to say that you don’t already know,” I spoke up, making sure to continue matching the guy’s intense eye contact. 

He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head in concurrence before turning to the double sided glass window. It didn’t take more than five seconds before the door opened and Agent Coulson stepped through carrying a manila folder. He handed it to my questioner before disappearing through the doorway once again, I almost wished he would stay. He was the only person I knew at the moment.

“Looks like you’ve been all over,” the man observed as he flipped through the folder, “Gotten yourself into a lot of trouble and whenever someone catches you, poof! Like magic…”

I was excellent at hiding, but I knew when I was beat. As nice as leaving sounded, S.H.I.E.L.D knew too much about me for me to run.

“I don’t know,” I sighed, lowering my gaze to the table.

“Don’t know what?” “I don’t know who I’m running from,” I continued, “But they’re there. If I stay in one place for too long, someone breaks into whatever rusted shed I’m living in or ambushes me in the middle of a bazaar…Somebody wants me.” The man had stopped browsing my file and was intently watching me recount my story, “How long’ve you been on the run?” “Five years,” I explained, suddenly not comfortable with meeting him eye to eye  “I was fifteen, woke up in God knows where with no memory of how I got there. While I was wandering around trying to figure out where I was, a group of men tried to grab me. Fortunately for me,” my lips twisted into a smirk, “I can make a quick getaway.”

“You remember where you’re from?” I inhaled deeply and shut my eyes as I exhaled, “No. Any memories before I started living like this are…blurred. I can almost make out a few, mostly from when I was a kid, but I don’t remember any details about my life other than my name and my age. Got anything in your almighty folder that can fill in the gaps?” “We only know what you’ve told us and what you’ve chosen to shown the world,” he replied as he reopened the packet, “Looks like disappearing isn’t the only trick you’ve got up your sleeve.”

“A girl’s gotta defend herself somehow,” I cocked an eyebrow, by now I’d relaxed my rigid posture and was tracing shapes on the table with a finger, “But if you’ve done as much research as you say you have then you should know I don’t bring any of that out unless I absolutely have to.” “Oh, I’ve seen the security cam footage,” he laughed, folding his hands together in front of him, “You put on quite a show. That’s that potential I was talking about.”

After a beat of silence, I finally asked the million dollar question. “What is it that you want from me, Director Fury?”

He should’ve been surprised, most people were, but it didn’t seem like me digging around in his mind was more of an event than eating breakfast was. “Only when you absolutely have to, huh?”

I gave him a small shrug and waited for him to answer. He kept his eyes locked on me, nodding his head ever so slightly. “Miss Y/l/n, whether you’ve thought about it or not, you have the ability do a lot more with yourself than skipping out on the dinner bill. You could be out there stopping the kind of people that are after you instead of running from them. And if you weren’t interested in the prospect of that even just a little, you wouldn’t still be sitting here.” Now there he was right. I agreed to come with Agent Coulson, I willingly let them bring me into an interrogation room, I’d discussed vulnerable details of my life with Director Fury…There was a small part of me that wanted to be a part of something.

“You wanna keep bouncing between continents praying that you don’t get caught? That’s fine, it’s no skin off my back,” Director Fury held his hands up in mock surrender and promptly lowered them back down, “But you stay and you can be a part of a world bigger than you could possibly imagine.”

The only world I’d ever known was spinning a globe, picking a random location, finding the most remote part of the county, stealing what I needed to get by and living in abandoned houses. I’d never had any sense of security. And while the life that Director Fury was offering me gave no guarantee that I’d live long enough to grow old, it didn’t require me to stay as paranoid as I was in the name of survival. I’d gotten by just fine on my own, but I’d never allowed myself to think of a future where I didn’t have to just get by…

“I already told Agent Coulson that I’m not a mercenary,” I began firmly, “I’m not a weapon for you to utilize whenever you want. I’m not joining some super secret spy organization only to find out after a while that I’m working for the bad guys,” I paused to take a slow breath, “But I don’t particularly enjoy being a criminal and if what you’re saying is true, I’m willing to give it a shot.” Director Fury gave me a single nod and just like that, I’d accepted a job without actually committing to sticking around. Fury turned once again to the double sided mirror and the door swung open, ushering in Agent Coulson, a redheaded woman and a blonde man I had yet to meet.

“You’ve already met Agent Coulson, I’d like to introduce you to Agent Romanoff,” he gestured to the woman, “And Agent Barton,” he looked towards the blonde, “He and Coulson will be some of the senior personnel personally overseeing your transition into S.H.I.E.L.D and I have a hunch you and Miss Romanoff will work well together.” “I work just fine on my own, thank you,” I stated, the thought of trusting someone to have my back sent the walls I’d just lowered shooting back up.

“I hate to break it to you but we work as a team here,” Agent Romanoff said, her voice cool and unaffected by my displeasure. If anything, it seemed like she found it slightly amusing, “Besides, you don’t have anything to worry about. Agent Barton’s my partner.” 

Director Fury made for the door, Agent Romanoff and the still silent Agent Barton following promptly. “I’ll leave it to Coulson to get you settled, but I’ll be watching your progress closely.” I could give the man credit, he knew how to wear the whole Tall, Dark, Man-With-All-The-Secrets hat well except for one thing. He couldn’t keep any secrets from me. Once the room’s occupancy had lessened, my eyes flew to Agent Coulson.

“What’s the Avengers Initiative?”

He wore a small and knowing smile, “A work in progress. For now, let’s focus on getting you through training then we’ll work on finding you a partner.”

Standing up to follow him out the door, I protested against his checklist, “I already said-“ “I know, but there may come a time where you change your mind,” he interrupted, his tone had gone from professional to semi-friendly as we walked down the hall, “This job is rewarding, but it’s hard work. Having the right partner by your side makes it all a little easier. You’ll see…”

We approached a railing that overlooked the main floor of the headquarters. Coulson didn’t think twice about the view while I approached it curiously. There were people everywhere, more than I’d been around in a long time. Something about the sight of so many individuals dedicated to doing the right thing made something inside of me relax. Maybe for the first time in my life, I was right where I needed to be.

Agent Coulson must have sensed my peace, he came to stand beside me and turned his gaze to where mine was. “Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D.” 

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Translations: Jedan, molim: One, please.

Izvini: Sorry.