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the-cookie-of-doom · 1 year ago

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Kim often returns late to the inn, often bloody. Porchay learns to anticipate this. He’ll stay awake in the common room, curled up by the fire, until his mysterious guest returns. Porchay doesn’t greet him, nor does Kim acknowledge his presence as he climbs the stairs to his rented room, at which point Porchay will go to the kitchens where he’s kept a heart burning all night. He’ll make a small dinner, familiar dishes to remind Kim of home—fermented rice noodles, tom yum soup. Recipes Porchay was never able to learn from his own mother, but his patrons tell him they’re authentic enough, and Kim never complains. Not that he says much of anything.

Tonight, Porchay is bold. He rises from his chair by the fire when Kim enters, rainwater dripping off his hair and soaking his wool coat, the cold bringing a flush to his face and turning his lips pale.

“Here, let me,” he says, and helps Kim remove the damp coat when he sees the other man struggle. “I’ll set this to dry by the fire.”

Kim watches him silently. There’s a single smear of blood on his jaw. He keeps his left arm close to his chest.

Porchay hangs the coat alongside several others, also drying, and returns to Kim. “Let me draw you a bath, Khun Kimhan?” he offers.

Kim studies him for a long time. Finally, he nods once. “Yes, thank you.”

“I’ll fetch you when it’s ready,” Porchay says.

“I’ll wait for you, then.” Kim makes the trek to his room. Porchay doesn’t think he’s imagining an added stiffness to his gait, that isn’t usually there, and concern weaves through the slats of his ribs. Was Kim injured tonight?

It’s none of my business.

Porchay returns to his own room. It’s the largest in the inn, sitting beside the kitchens, allowing the ever-burning stoves to warm him through the cold English night. The large tub along the wall he shares with the kitchen was Porsche’s idea. His brother would soak in near-boiling water to banish the aches that followed a night of fights. Porchay rarely uses it for himself, and never mentions it to his guests. Tonight, however…

Tonight, Porchay twists open the taps and listens to the heavy clang of pressurized steam driving hot water through the pipes, spitting out into the hammered-copper tub. The second tap spits out cold water to soothe the burn to a bearable temperature. He pours in jasmine-scented oil that makes the water smell delicately floral.

While the tub fills, Porchay retrieves Kim’s dinner from the kitchen and delivers it to him, where he’s met with something that almost looks like a smile, and leaves with a polite wai, and a promise to return soon. He feels Kim’s dark gaze on his back like a physical thing until the door closes between them.

Back in his own room, Porchay checks the temperature of the water. He spends his time tidying his room, trying to make it look less obviously lived-in, unwilling to bare too much of himself for Kim’s scrutiny. When the tub is full he twists off the taps and checks the water again; just the right side of scalding. He retrieves Kim as promised.

“I’ll leave you,” Porchay starts, but Kim stops him.

“Wait.” Porchay looks askance at his guest. “I injured my shoulder—I can’t move my arm. Will you help me?” Kim asks, plucking at a button on his shirt.

Porchay swallows. “Of course,” he says.

Kim lets his hand fall away when Porchay steps in close. Porchay keeps his eyes lowered out of respect as he opens each button, revealing unblemished, tawny skin. There’s no blood this time. Save for that lurid smear on his jaw, still there, and the lines of rust around the bed of his nails, caked beneath them.

Porchay is very careful not to let his hands brush Kim’s skin as he slides the shirt from his shoulders. His trousers, at least, Kim is able to take care of himself, and Porchay turns his back to give him privacy. Stands there, twisting his hands in his own shirt, until he hears Kim step into the water. He sinks into it with a moan that makes Porchay blush.

“This feels wonderful,” he sighs.

“Good. I-I’m pleased.” Porchay picks up the pile of Kim’s clothes—mostly dry, thankfully—and folds them neatly. “Would you like more tea?”

“No. Thank you.” He runs a hand through his damp hair, and it comes away tacky. Porchay doesn’t know what it is, this time, but it doesn’t look like blood.

Before he can think better of it, he offers, “Would you like me to wash your hair?”

Kim stills. He studies Porchay in that calculating way of his, before he nods. “Yes, please.”

Porchay tells himself this is no different than the baths Porchse used to give him as a child, or the times where his brother was too tired, too hurt, to wash himself, so Porchay would kneel beside the tub and help as best he could. He tells himself this as he gathers the items he needs, and he knows it's a lie, because those times never left him with an ache in his belly and heat beneath his skin.

There’s a pitcher of rice water that Porchay collects from beside his own wash basin. He drags over a stool as well, because he doesn’t want to loom over Kim as he does this. It’s enough that kim has to tip his head back and watch, his near-black eyes boring into Porchay, who desperately wishes he would close them, offer him some kind of reprieve.

Porchay tips the pitches and cups his hand under the cool water, working it into Kim’s hair. Kim does close his eyes then, and Porchay can finally breathe. doesn’t think he imagines the way Kim sighs when blunt nails dig at his scalp, or the way he leans into Porchay’s hands.

He settles into a rhythm. Ladles the rice water into Kim’s hair until it runs clear, the tacky strands now softer than silk between his fingers. His task is complete, yet Porchay can’t bear to step away now. Not yet. He remembers the dried blood in Kim’s nails and diverts his efforts there instead.

This time he does kneel as he takes one of Kim’s hands in his own and scrubs at his nails with a boar-bristle brush. He allows his gaze to wander, taking in the man before him. The water is milky-white from the rice-water, preserving his modesty. Porchay still takes in the slope of his chest, the delicate arch of his collarbones, the column of his slender throat.

“Are you so attentive with all of your patrons?” Kim asks. His eyes are still closed.

There is no answer Porchay can give that isn’t damning in some way. He decides, “I try to be a good host,” is a safe enough answer, and delights in the quiet laugh that answers him. It’s more of a sigh, really, but Porchay will take what he can.

“You are,” Kim agrees. The compliment warms something in Porchay. He sets his brush aside and turns Kim’s hand over, tracing the lines of his palm. The hands of a killer. Porchay kneads his thumb into the meat at the base of his palm. “What are you doing?”

“Do you want me to stop?” Porchay says instead of answering. He doesn’t know what’s possessed him. What has given him the courage to touch. He does it again, kneading Kim’s palm with steady pressure, and is rewarded with a quiet moan. Kim doesn’t open his eyes.

“... No.”

Porchay massages Kim’s hand. Continues to the delicate bones of his wrist, and makes broad, sweeping strokes up his forearm, until he feels tensely corded muscle become loose and pliant beneath his touch. He skims his hand up a taught bicep and curves it around a bruise-mottled shoulder. This time he keeps his touch gentle, assessing the extent of the injury in a way that’s painfully familiar.

Kim gasps and sighs as Porchay manipulates his muscles, kneading away the pain with delicate, insistent pass.

trick or treat! 🦸🏻‍♀️

Here's something from that Victorian AU that I have. Unfortunately begun plotting...

Porchay watches through a crack in the door as Kim disrobes. He slips off his wool coat and lays it over the back of a chair, loosens his tie and casts that away, as well. The shirt that follows is bloody. Red chrysanthemum blooms against white cotton, leaving crimson petals on Kim's skin. Porchay can just make it out in the mirror, the stains on Kim's neck and collarbones, dripping down his chest. His hands. The lamplight turns his tan skin into burnished gold, softens the shadows on his sharp face into something almost kind. Oblivious to his silent witness, Kim pours water into the basin beneath the mirror. He washes the blood off his hands first, then bends down to run water through his hair, rinsing out the soot and ash. Rust drips, drip, drips off the ends. Porchay's breath catches as he watches the muscles of Kim's back shift, his shoulder blades moving beneath his skin. When Kim straightens again, his eyes meet Porchay's in the mirror. "Are you going to stand there all night?" he asks, voice bored. “I-I’m sorry, Khun Kimhan, I don't mean to intrude,” Porchay says. He wants to run, squirming beneath that heavy gaze; even a reflection is too much to bear. Instead he drops his eyes to the floor and pushes the door open with his foot, and steps fully into the room. So long as he doesn’t look up, Kim won’t have to see the guilty flush spreading across his face, Porchay reasons. Kim soaks a cloth in the basin, rings out most of the water, and drags it down his neck, never once looking away from him. Porchay's mouth goes dry at the unsettling intimacy. His eyes track Porchay’s reflection through the room, and Porchay tries very hard not to notice the rivulets dripping down his skin to pool in the hollow of his collar bones. Every time he dares a glance, he finds Kim already watching him, waiting. Porchay finds an empty table and sets down the tray of jasmine tea and noodles too hard. “For you,” he says. “I noticed you came back late tonight, I didn’t know if…” Kim doesn’t smile. “Thank you,” he says, in a tone that sounds like a dismissal. Porchay accepts it gratefully. Wais, and bows deeper than he would for his own parents, and quickly leaves the room. He makes sure to shut the door firmly behind himself.

#kimchay #cookie writes #okay i'm stopping here bc it's past my bedtime lol #i want to write more but i have clinicalll

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sxlver-sweet · 3 years ago

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Please i'm begging youu i want to see more fantasy au for tokrev and that pirate would be so good i even have some idess on me already 😩

–🎴

I HAD A FUCKING FIELD DAY WITH THIS I WANNA HEAR YOUR IDEAS PLS SHARE

i’m currently sleep-deprived, so some of these are probably really basic and there’s most likely errors somewhere in here skdkcmdksk

also, requests may be closed, but discussions and more ideas are absolutely welcome.

faerie!kokonoi, who preys on the heartbroken drunkards at upscale bars, listening with a secretive smile as they spill their life stories to the bartender. silver-tongued and clever, kokonoi purrs his condolences, slipping their name into the conversation with ease and feigning oblivion when they, cloudy-eyed and ignorant, hand over their precious bank information and the locations of their valuables.

tailor!mitsuya unable to concentrate on stitching up a torn dress with the incessant clanging in the background and snapping at blacksmith!pah-chin, who’s busy forging knight!baji a new sword. mitsuya chastises baji for being so careless, but all baji does is grumble and turn away, black oil and dirt smeared on his flushed cheeks and long hair clinging to his sweat-stained forehead from his previous sparring session.

wizard!mitsuya spinning golems out of clay and shooing them away with an order to find him more materials to craft matching cloaks for his newest apprentices, luna and mana.

leprechaun!nahoya luring unsuspecting villagers into the forest with the promise of gold coins, only to send branches crashing down onto their heads when they venture far enough. they shout irately and scramble after him as he tumbles, laughing, into the shadows… but it’s no use. he’s too fast.

mermaid!yuzuha punching the shit out of pirates and dragging them down from their ships when they disturb and/or hunt the peaceful merfolk

knight!draken pledging his life to princess!emma

werewolf!baji, who appears to casually laugh off questions about his sharp, prominent canines; when in reality, when he’s secretly sweating bullets. werewolf!baji, whom the others wrinkle their noses at and tease when he orders his steak rare. werewolf!baji, who can’t hide the particularly ferocious, almost predatory glint in his eye that only appears during brawls after the sun has fallen. everyone laughs it off, mistaking his bloodlust for adrenaline. it’s only baji, he’s just intense, they reason.

half-blood!takemichi, who leaps through time with the protective blood of a phoenix coursing through his veins. half-blood!takemichi, whose blood aids him in resisting the beckon of death that pries at the empty body he habitually leaves behind and enables him to keep rising back to his feet no matter who knocks him down.

dybbuk!shinichiro, whose rage inhabits mikey’s body, only flaring to aid in crushing kazutora beneath his little brother’s fist. dybbuk!shinichiro, who plucks away at mikey’s sanity day in and day out, demanding for his death to be avenged. dybbuk!shinichiro, who is the reason that mikey can no longer set foot in his bike shop, because no matter how hard he tries, mikey can’t seem to shut out the eerie groaning of forgotten bikes as they rust away or the crackling squelch of metal colliding with bone that he’s positive he’s never heard before—so why is he hearing it now?

executioner!kazutora, who has no problem with the unjust slaughters that tyrant!kisaki approves, because his unchecked guilt can only be satiated by “cleansing the kingdom of immoral souls.” executioner!kazutora, who hums a crude tavern song as he takes his sweet time lining up his blade with the neck of the shivering woman hunched before him—the shivering woman whose only crime is swiping some bread to feed her starving family. executioner!kazutora, who only finds retribution in the twisted cycle of playing the role of god’s “divine” axe.

knight!toman forming a wall in front of their king to square off against an approaching army, a measly one hundred men with fire in their eyes and swords dripping with blood—a measly one hundred men fully prepared to offer up their lives to protect king!mikey.

jester!hanma, who flirts with the women of the court and openly takes cheap shots at tyrant!kisaki, regardless of whether or not he’s in the vicinity. still, it doesn’t matter how humorous the joke is. no one dares to allow even a twitch of their lips. how hanma hasn’t been executed yet, they don’t know.

pirate!nahoya, who cackles like a madman and jeers at an opposing ship from his place perched atop the crow’s nest

apothecary!souya meeting his future s/o in a field of lavender while he’s searching for fresh herbs. apothecary!souya, who’s mortified by the chalky powder spattered on his overalls and runs a hand through his hair, accidentally smearing a yellow dust through his blue curls. apothecary!souya, who blushes when you kindly offer to brush the powder from his hair. apothecary!souya, who offers you one of the dandelions peeking from his pocket as a gesture of gratitude.

ladies-in-waiting!emma and hina scurrying off to deliver empty dishes to cook!mitsuya, who leans forward expectantly to hear the latest gossip when they approach him with sparkling eyes and poorly concealed smiles.

adviser!draken storming into king!mikey’s private chambers without an invitation to shout at him for neglecting his duties and drag him by the ankle out of bed

sorceress!hina enchanting a four-leaf clover necklace with a spell to keep knight!takemichi safe in battle

spymaster!sanzu scaring the shit out of his scribe!s/o whenever he pops up in the windows of the library in all black with no prior warning

doll-maker!izana, who lives in a secluded area of the woods with his apprentice kakucho and obsessively lines his shelves with replicas of the older brother he wishes he had

knight-in-training!chifuyu working extra hard to impress knight!baji, who had recruited him and taken him under his wing

steampunk inventor!chifuyu, who’s never seen without his trademark goggles that kazutora always pokes fun at and threadbare overalls splattered with oil stains. inventor!chifuyu, who nearly has a heart attack when baji hobbles in on one leg, grinning at him with a face swollen with bruises while waving his detached prosthetic leg in greeting. inventor!chifuyu, who keeps wrenches on his belt specifically to hurl at his idiot friends whenever they come into his shop all beat-up with their bronze prosthetics severely damaged

steampunk!hanma, who has a glass eye with the word “pain” engraved on the iris. steampunk!hanma, who asks kisaki to hold something for him. when the latter holds his hand out with an exasperated sigh, hanma sets his replacement eye in his palm and cackles hysterically when kisaki promptly jolts with disgust and chucks it across the room

cyberpunk!sanzu, who’s already inebriated but continues to drown deeper in the neon lights of the club as he pops an array of glowing pills into his mouth, body numb to the robotic assistants that hum around him and intermingle with the equally delirious crowd in case someone were to collapse from overdosing

masquerade!mitsuya, who smiles at you with such kindness and respect as he guides you onto the marble floor that you immediately resolve to discover his identity at a later date

masquerade!kakucho, who does everything in his power to prevent you from uncovering his identity. masquerade!kakucho, who fears that you’ll be disgusted with his deformed appearance once you see his scar.

samurai!yuzuha, who rescues you from a band of thieves but is perplexed when you insist on repaying her goodwill. samurai!yuzuha, who eventually starts coming to you whenever she needs her wounds bandaged or a home-cooked meal. samurai!yuzuha, who refuses to let you touch her sword with your pure, unsullied hands.

potion-maker!ran, who always despises when rindou barges into his workspace for nothing else than to tip over a couple jars and poke fun at his craft. potion-maker!ran, whose skin and hair have been permanently imprinted with the scent of clove and allspice berries. potion-maker!ran, who concocts love spells and perfumes that grant increased intimacy for the lovesick women who visit him when their own assets aren’t working. potion-maker!ran, who smiles charmingly and calls his female customers “darling.” potion-maker!ran, who has no problem with allowing them to test his products on him in order to guarantee their potency—but only if they’re attractive and have a pretty penny to spare :)

gunslinger!mikey, who almost shoots his big toe off trying to impress the beautiful barmaid across the room

servant!baji, who isn’t the slyest but always makes sure he leaves out a saucer of cream for the stray cats that wander through the town during the night, regardless of how much trouble he gets in. servant!baji, who develops a forbidden bond with his royal!s/o due to their shared love of animals. servant!baji, who is ignorant of the ways of courtship but does his best to flirt with you, however flustered and awkward he may be. servant!baji, who sheepishly seeks advice from his mother about how to impress royalty despite him being unable to offer you any material items.

necromancer!takemichi who doesn’t know wtf is going on and is literally only a necromancer because he fucked up reading a recipe for garlic bread that was written in cursive

vampire!kokonoi, who looks wistfully upon his collection of dusty, old perfume bottles as he recalls how they’d been the most expensive items on the market centuries ago. vampire!kokonoi, who possesses splintered, wooden chests overflowing with outdated currency that will never again be utilized. vampire!kokonoi, who sits for hours and stares at the photo of the young woman that he’s preserved in mint condition for countless years, wondering why he can’t remember who she is

half-blood!mikey, who wonders why his legs are so much stronger than the rest of his body, why he’s always been so much faster than his peers, and why they’re always chock-full of energy. half-blood!mikey, who’s blissfully unaware that the blood of his ancestors is not as it seems. half-blood!mikey, who has zero clue that his lineage marks him a descendant of the minotaur.

farmer!chifuyu, who’s too shy to approach the seamstress’s daughter, so he resigns himself to only admiring her from afar until she makes a move herself. farmer!chifuyu, who’s beyond embarrassed when he accidentally bumps into her, the dirt and grime on his clothing soiling her pristine outfit. farmer!chifuyu, who tries to brush it off, only to panic when the dust on his hands stains the fabric. farmer!chifuyu, who shows up at your mother’s shop the next day to apologize and is nearly chased out due to his kind “not belonging there,” only for you to object and invite him in, claiming that he’s your friend.

jack the ripper!sanzu, who leans up against a dirty brick building with his head low, tongue clicking in rhythm with the slim hands on his golden pocket watch as he decides on his next victim. jack the ripper!sanzu, who dons a simple, shapeless white mask that contrasts sharply with the elaborate feather woven into his top hat. jack the ripper!sanzu, whom others eye skeptically when he skillfully, easily slices his steak into cross-sections with nothing more than a butter knife. jack the ripper!sanzu, who smiles so charmingly at women, basking in their ignorance as he lures them into a sense of false security with a few sweet words. jack the ripper!sanzu, who seals all of his letters documenting his crimes with a lipstick-stained kiss and giggles manically when it smears onto his cheek. jack the ripper!sanzu, who is taken aback when one of his targets whirls on him with anger in their eyes and a knife gripped in their hands, fully prepared to give him a dose of his own medicine.

achilles!izana and patroclus!kakucho. that’s all i have to say. y’all know what’s up👀

soothsayer!takemichi, who’s looked down upon by his fellow prophets because of his frenetic efforts to change the future. while the rest lounge beneath the shade of trees, sweet-smelling smoke curling from their ornate pipes and hazy eyes trailing after people who they know are supposed to die tomorrow, takemichi is doing his best to track them down to warn them of their fate. “he’s just a boy,” the others chuckle, “he won’t make a difference.”

victorian era painter!s/o, who finds seishu inui snoozing beneath a tree and resolves to capture his beauty on a canvas. seishu, who’s well-aware of what you’re doing but decides to let you have your fun. painter s/o, who’s mortified when seishu happens to “wake up” as soon as they sigh with satisfaction and requests to see the picture.

barista!izana, who mixes drugs into his drinks for certain customers while they discreetly slide a handsome wad of cash across the counter

archer!chifuyu, who accidentally spears his superior through the leg while struggling with his bow. archer!chifuyu, who meets kazutora in the dungeons and befriends him during the one night he spends there. archer!chifuyu, who is confused and hesitant when he is abruptly assigned to join the ranks of the prince’s bodyguards. archer!chifuyu, who is white with shock when he sees kazutora stroll into the room, a golden crown balanced atop his head and a wide smile blooming upon his lips when he spots his new friend.

ROBIN HOOD!CHIFUYU

potion-maker!souya, whose face always softens whenever you stop by his shop during your daily mail delivery route. potion-maker!souya, who’s ashamed of himself for having considered exploiting your trust in him and slipping a love potion into your drink. potion-maker!souya, who always offers to make you something befitting the occasion whenever you’re running low on energy, not feeling well, or are nervous about something. potion-maker!souya, who’s too shy to confess his feelings for you.

town crier!nahoya, who sometimes slips a swear word or two into his announcements and prefers to storm the town on horseback, disregarding his elaborate attire. town crier!nahoya, who has definitely snatched you off the street during his routes, leaving you to cling to his sweat-dampened clothes and shout at him for being such an imbecile.

shapeshifter!nahoya, who diligently keeps his eyes closed because he can change everything about his appearance, except for his distinctive eye color.

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strawwritesfic · 3 years ago

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Loki Laufeyson x Female!Midgardian!Reader: A Bird in the Hand

Summary: …is surely not worth its asking price.

Rating/Warnings/Tags: All (some foul language; not Thor Ragnarok compliant)

Fic Trade Prompt: “Please, I don’t want to lose you, too.”

A Bird in the Hand

Once upon a time in a realm known as Midgard, there lived a girl. This girl, of course, was you, and you lived as many young women at the time did during that Age of Miracles. None of these miracles ever happened to you. There were no fish oil transformations on your horizon, nor were there any divine calls to adventure. Just like all New Yorkers, you grew use to your daily commute being interrupted by superheroes, to calling insurance companies to argue over their decision to not pay for alien invasion damage to your apartment, and even to carrying an umbrella around with you even on the driest of days in case certain Asgardians decided to visit. Life went on. You had stopped looking for a real miracle years ago.

As well you should have, because there was nothing miraculous about your wedding day. Outside, a seemingly endless mass of dark gray clouds let loose bucket after bucket of rain. Thunder rolled across the sky; lightning flashed–and that, really, was all you could see through the window you had stationed yourself in front of to sulk. If you hadn’t known any better, you’d have blamed the city’s resident thunder god for the disastrous timing of this storm front. As it was, all you could blame was your string of bad luck.

Speaking of bad luck, the door to your parlor snapped open and in stepped the dripping figure of your best friend. Aliyah paused only long enough to adjust her sodden pink hijab before plopping soggily onto an overstuffed loveseat.

“Well, the gazebo is flooded,” she announced, “the food is soaked through, and the caterer won’t bring more to replace it. Your flower arrangements are in pieces, and the band already ran off. I don’t think there’s anything left of your wedding ceremony.”

You did not bother to leave the window, though you did turn just far enough to throw her a sour look. “Do you have any good news to impart?” you asked.

Aliyah grinned. “Your maid of honor hasn’t walked out yet. At least there will be one person here to witness this fiasco.”

“Gonna need a groom for anything to be witnessed.”

Most close friends would offer sympathy when their friend’s fiancé of a year and a half decided to just not show up for the actual wedding. Most acquaintances would feel bad enough when the carefully planned event got rained out. Not your Aliyah. She simply let out a sharp breath and leaned her head back against the couch cushion.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said.

You glared at her, which of course she didn’t see, having shut her eyes to listen to the water tumble from the roof to the street outside.

“Thank you. So much,” you said.

“What?” she asked, forcing her eyes open again. “I told you Jared wasn’t good enough for you. Besides, you should keep all the gifts even if he doesn’t stop by. I saw, like, nine blenders in that pile. You’re better off this way, if you ask me.”

“You’re just saying that because you want a free blender,” you said.

“I wouldn’t say no. But, really, you should count your lucky stars. Free stuff and free of your jackass boyfriend. What better start to a weekend?”

“I’d rather be married to my jackass boyfriend.”

Aliyah’s disdain for Jared was nothing new or surprising. He’d fallen from grace in her eyes when he’d got jealous over your fondness for an injured pigeon you’d rescued only a few months after you started dating Jared. Even releasing the bird hadn’t entirely put an end to his complaints about how you spent your free time. On the other hand, you knew one thing that neither Aliyah nor Jared did: Jared’s jealousy wasn’t entirely misplaced.

But that was years ago. This was now. And that bird had always been bad news.

“Are you going to cry about it?” Aliyah asked, peering over at your perch by the parlor’s bay window. “Because, if not, I’d hate to have dragged Habib all the way to America for nothing.”

At the mention of her long-distance boyfriend, you motioned for Aliyah to go on. You preferred to do your moping alone, and Aliyah knew it. She stood and crossed the room to give you a quick hug before she left without another word. Probably you did owe your maid of honor at a least a blender for all the trouble she’d been through on your behalf.

Sighing, you lifted one hand, dug your fingers into your hair, and tore out what was holding it in its elaborate design. Who cared what you looked like now? Even if stupid Jared had shown up, the storm would have ruined your appearance before you made it down the aisle. Now Aliyah had free rein to spend the rest of her afternoon cuddling with Habib, and you had no one else to bother looking pretty for.

Outside your empty room, you could hear the indistinct muttering of your remaining guests. Family, mostly, who had already given up trying to convince you to let them in. What the rest of them were waiting for before they left, you couldn’t guess. Perhaps for you to come out and make an official announcement: The wedding has been called off. Party’s over. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. And thanks for all the blenders.

The shame of your situation suddenly threatened to crash down upon you. It would have, if you had remained sitting where you were. Instead, you got up, white dress rustling as you stalked across the room. A quiet shriek of rage was stifled only by your gloved hand pressed to your colored lips. Of all the pathetic, idiotic, insane things you had done in your life! Now you didn’t even have the courage to face your friends and family with the truth.

“Tap. Tap. Tap.”

Hail began to hit the glass behind you, soft and hesitant. Since you had no plans to leave the building any time soon, you ignored this weather development.

Jared hadn’t even called to say he’d changed his mind. You should have known when he hadn’t come home after his stag party the night before. He was probably laughing it up over your stupidity with some blonde bikini babe by the beach that you were supposed to go to for your honeymoon. The thought caused you to kick out angrily at the coffee table, and you heard a quiet rip issue from your skirt in response when it caught on a corner.

You swore.

”Tap. Tap. Tap.”

Now that you thought about it, the sound wasn’t regular enough to be hail. It wasn’t very hesitant anymore either. Still, you ignored the noise as you yanked off your veil, your gloves, and your garter. You were mentally preparing to rip them all to shreds with your fingernails when you heard it again:

“Tap. Tap. Tap.”

That time you did not suppress your shriek. As it faded into the overstuffed furniture surrounding you, you marched over to the window and shoved it open. The wind whistled through the empty space, sending anything in the room not tied down into the air and splattering your face with water. If ever there was a time to reasonably expect an Asgardian thunder god to step inside, it was then. No one was there, though, save for a single bedraggled pigeon.

“Oh, hello,” you said when it hopped onto the sill, and automatically you held out your cupped hands toward it.

The poor thing shivered once, then stepped onto your warm palms. Only when it looked up into your face did you see that it had bright green, very un-pigeon-ish eyes.

Before you could stuff the bird back outside, it lifted itself into the air to half-flutter, half-fly over to the loveseat Aliyah had been sitting on. A flash of light that had nothing to do with the lightning outside filled the room. When you had blinked and cleared your vision enough that you could see again, the pigeon was gone, and in its place reclined a tall, dark-haired, beautiful man, dressed to the nines in Asgardian fashion.

“Hello, darling,” said Loki Laufeyson. “Don’t you look ravishing?”

You were too shocked to contradict him. No mention of your torn dress, mussed hair, or smeared makeup escaped your lips. Instead, you said the only thing you could in that sort of situation: “What are you doing here?”

“Why, I’m here to offer you my congratulations, of course,” he answered, examining one perfectly manicured nail. “Or should it be my condolences?”

“Really?” Your tone dripped with enough sarcasm that it could be heard over the protesting window as you forced it shut. “You disappear for two years, never write, never visit, and then you just happen to pop by to celebrate my wedding to another man?”

“What kind of secret lover would I be if I did not?”

“We are not secret lovers.”

“Well, no, we haven’t been for quite some time. I see no reason why that should stop us from picking up right where we left off, however.”

“We were never secret lovers.”

“Really?” he said, mocking the tone of your earlier question. “That’s not what it seemed like to me. Of course, I had the brain of a pigeon most of the time, but at night when your beau had to work and leave you so very alone–”

“You can’t just show up out of the blue and expect me to want you again,” you interrupted. “And on my wedding day to boot.”

To his credit, Loki looked genuinely confused by your behavior–like he’d expected you to jump straight into his arms, marriage or no. Obviously, they did things differently in Asgard. You were not Asgardian.

“Fine,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it. I was only trying to thank you for helping me, you know.”

“All I did was take in a pigeon that got injured when Thor threw a bunch of peanuts at a flock. It didn’t really deserve that sort of thanking.”

“Ah, but you enjoyed it anyway.” That wasn’t the point. He knew it wasn’t the point just as well as you did, because once he made it, he got fluidly up to his feet to and walked over to stand in front of you. “If you are that disinclined to see me, I suppose I had better get going. If you ever grow tired of being lonely again–oh, that’s right. You don’t know how to contact me.”

You opened your mouth to remind Loki that you didn’t want to contact him, but then something about Loki’s words rang strange.

“Alone?” you echoed.

“Yes, alone. Or do you expect your Prince Charming to come riding up on a horse of white any second now? Better late than never?”

Without thinking, without warning, you slapped him straight across the face.

“Ow!” he snapped, pressing one of his hands to the mark on his face. “What was that for?”

“What did you do?” You lifted your hand for another blow. “What did you do to Jared?”

“Me? Do something to Jared? What should I have to do with that ponderous ass?”

“Did you kill him, Loki?” you asked, voice quavering. Loki could do it. Easily. He was a god, and Jared just…well, just a ponderous ass.

Loki let out a single bark of laughter. “Oh, please. I just got out of Asgardian prison. As if I’d risk going back over the murder of a petty moral such as he.”

That brought you up short. Frowning, you deigned to look at him again. “Prison?”

“Yes, prison. Did you think my absence was due to taking a pleasure cruise?”

“I thought you’d escaped prison when I found you the first time.”

“But you sent me back to Asgard when I started causing trouble,“ he reminded you. "Odin does not forget his son’s crimes easily, nor is he inclined to forgive them. Luckily my brother is far easier to manipulate.”

He had not, you noticed, made any real move to leave. Loki still stood in front of you, looking down as the pink handprint faded from his cheek.

“So…you didn’t kill my fiancé?” you asked uncertainly.

He shook his head. “If he isn’t here, it is because he is a dunce, not because I tricked him in any way.”

“Oh.” All the problems of your appearance seemed at once apparent and embarrassing. To think that this man would see you in such a state, and only because he’d wanted to see you after his release from jail. “Why did you really come, then? Since you knew he wasn’t here. To gloat?”

“The thought did occur to me,” Loki confessed. “I am not often in the position of being the more desirable choice. But,” here his voice turned oddly sincere, “I actually came to ask you to come with me.”

Your mouth fell open. Some of Loki’s usual acerbic amusement returned as he watched you flounder; you could see the faint outlines of his familiar smirk at the corners of his mouth. Finally, you managed a short, “go with you where?”

He shrugged, and started to twist the curtain in between his long, pale fingers. “I don’t know, really.”

“You want me to go somewhere with you without anywhere in mind?”

“I thought we’d figure it out as we went along,” he said. “Travel the galaxies. I cannot return to Asgard and Midgard, of course, is out of the question so long as I do not rule it.”

“You want me to follow you into outerspace?”

Only his silence could tip you off that Loki was actually nervous. He clearly had no idea how you would respond to his suggestion–which was by falling into a nearby chair to gape at him.

“You want me to leave my family?” you asked.

“They live far away and hardly talk to you.”

“And my job?”

“That you’ve never liked. We’re both aware.”

“And my best friend?”

“She spends most of her time visiting mosques in India with her boyfriend,” Loki said with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Besides, there’s no rule to say we can’t come back to visit her every so often. I have no objection. She seems a sensible enough woman.”

“And you want me to leave them all,” you went on as though you couldn’t hear him, “for you, a man I haven’t seen in years because he was in prison.”

Once more, Loki said nothing. His green eyes peered into yours with unreadable depths, just as they had the unfortunate day you had returned home after to work to find your injured pigeon friend gone and a strange man eating all of the meat out of your fridge in its place. You could remember, too, the feel of that man’s skin against yours, the heat of his lips on your neck, the sound of his low voice in your ear–and Jared complaining, always complaining, about how much time you spent with that damn bird.

You buried your face in your hands. “I can’t do it, Loki. I can’t.”

You waited to hear him leave again, to hear the glass move and the rush of the storm and the flutter of wings. None came. All that did was one soft word:

“Please.”

“Huh?”

When you looked up, Loki was right above you. His hands gripped the chair arms at your sides with enough force to make them whiter than ever–but his eyes were not on yours anymore.

“Please,” he said, “I don’t want to lose you, too.”

Another move without thinking or warning: You gently touched his other cheek.

Loki’s eyes closed for a half second before he moved one hand to hold your wrist there. “I have already lost my father, my mother, my home. My own brother has thrust me unceremoniously from both realms I sought to rule. And then to hear that I would lose you, too, to an oaf like that Jared.”

No one could say that Loki losing all of this wasn’t entirely his fault. He had decided to lead an alien invasion into Earth, to try murdering several members of his mentioned family, and to seduce young Earth women under the guise of hurt animals. But part of Loki’s charm was that he never failed to make one doubt that he could be better, maybe, if you only let him try.

“I’m sorry,” you said sincerely. A sincere apology didn’t mean your mind was changed, however, and this, also, Loki knew.

“Do you want me to beg?” he asked. “I am no longer a stranger to begging.”

With that, Loki slid to the wooden floor before you. Stranger or no, it was positive it wasn’t a position he relished being in, what with how stiff his hands were around yours when he made to hold them. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and began:

“I know I am asking a lot. But I, too, have lost a family, a job, and my closest friends. I would not ask you to come with me if I did not intend on paying you pack ten times in kind. If you will allow me to take you with me, I know I can make you happier than you would be here. Together we will find some place to call our own, and you shall be my queen. So please,” he said, “please let me keep one last thing that I love. Don’t make me leave you behind, too.”

It wasn’t the prettiest speech you had ever heard come out of his mouth, but it was probably the most honest. You gave him a tiny smile as you squeezed his hands in return. “A queen, huh?”

Loki smirked. “Or a comfortable, quiet living, depending on what we find, and how thorough Thor is in seeking me out. At least we could be comfortable and quiet for a little while.”

“Can’t imagine that’s going to last long with you around.”

“With you around to look after me, though…”

That got you to laugh. “Oh, yes, I’m sure I’d do a wonderful job making sure you didn’t get into any trouble. I did such a good job before.”

Some of the color returned to Loki’s features. He was starting to hope. Against your better judgement, so were you. A couple of things, however, remained to bother you:

“What if you came here and Jared and I were married?” you asked.

“Then I would have had to resort to kidnapping.”

“And how did you even know I was getting married today to begin with?”

He smiled his Cheshire smile, and that was when you knew you were truly lost. “You really ought to stop talking to the birds on your fire escape. You never know which one would be willing to pass information off in exchange for a couple of peanuts.”

“Oh, and you stalk me. What part of this deal doesn’t sound good?”

“None of it, I should hope.” Standing, Loki kept one hand firmly around one of yours. “We should go, you realize. Unless you want to say your goodbyes?”

You thought of your parents blustering about how you dared to invite both of them to your wedding. You thought of the forlorn apartment you shared with a man that had never really loved you for you. You thought of Aliyah and her instance that Jared would never be good enough for you. You thought of the awkward explanation that would be expected as soon you set foot outside that door–and you grinned.

“Not a chance.”

“Then I believe,” he said, and abruptly pulled you into his arms in an obvious parody of carrying a bride before pushing the window open with his boot, “we have a few errands to go on before we get on our way.”

“Like what?”

“Unless you plan to live the rest of our lives with nothing but multiple blenders,” he began, but was not able to finish over your sudden laughter and the return of the torrent outside.

You latched your hands behind his neck as he dove back into the rain. There were stars somewhere above those clouds, and you would be visiting them soon enough–them and endless other realms. Maybe eloping with a man that could turn into a pigeon wasn’t the best miracle there ever was on Midgard, but it pulled off the most important trick of them all: Against all odds, you lived happily ever after.

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fantasia-monogram · 3 years ago

Text

Happy birthday (the cupcakes are ruined)

♥️ Jaeyoon x gender neutral reader.

♥️ Smut; just 2k words (!) of what I'd call comfort porn, lol. It's Jaeyoon's birthday. An awkward first time handjob with a little sprinkle of oral happens. Jaeyoon is a total sweetheart and the reader tries their best! You could almost take it as a crack fic, I guess I can't take anything seriously (and I imagine sexy time with Jaeyoon must be fun anyway).

♥️ Disclaimer: this is just for fun! I’m not claiming that’s how he is in real life, it’s just my imagination doing whatever it wants. Read at your own discretion.

Baking cupcakes, decorating them, waiting for Jaeyoon to come back from work, then cuddling together and, if it escalated, an extra surprise the mere thought of made your heart beat faster... Through the three months of your relationship, you’ve already figured your boyfriend wasn’t big on celebrations, and his busy work schedule didn’t leave much time to elaborate plans anyway. That’s why your idea for the night was fairly simple.

Except, here you were, staring in disbelief at the burnt cupcakes. You could swear you only left the kitchen for two minutes, long before the set baking time. You carefully peeled each cupcake one from the silicone mold in hopes they could, somehow, still be salvageable. Well, you were in for a disappointment, as the burn had already reached way below the crust the moment you turned off the oven.

The sound of the front door opening caused you to hold your breath in horror.

“Baby, I’m home,” you heard Jaeyoon announcing. His voice was noticeably tired.

You froze, still holding one of the silicon molds, unsure of what to do.

“I’m gonna shower first, okay?”

He didn’t wait for your answer, instead going straight to the bathroom.

Two rooms away, you were trying to think of something. You must have lost track of time again, because it felt as if your boyfriend finished showering in seconds.

The moment you caught him standing in the doorway, you threw a kitchen towel over the tray and, for safety measures, moved to the side in a way that made you cover any proof of your failure.

“Happy birthday!” you exclaimed cheerfully. “By the way, the cupcakes are ruined.”

Jaeyoon blinked a couple times, then snorted, visibly amused.

“It’s fine, baby. Thank you anyway,” he said with a smile, approaching. He sneaked his arms around your waist, glancing over your outfit, which was a very bold word, considering it consisted of baby pink briefs and an oversized white T-shirt.

Another thing he wasn’t big on was wearing clothes at home. You were still warming up to the idea, so you always had to throw something on top (comfy sweats or T-shirts were acceptable, and he wasn’t really a fan of fancy underwear either - you appreciated that greatly). Jaeyoon, however, unashamedly walked around in briefs only. God, it wasn’t easy for you. You couldn’t say you didn’t like what you saw, but it was so distracting it almost forced you to keep eye contact with him.

Looking anywhere else would make you blush profusely.

You snatched his attention away by placing a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“There is still one more present I have for you…” you started, looking up at him.

“What is it?” he asked, smiling. Damn, those cute dimples…

As an answer, you glided your hand from between his exposed pecs, down his abs and happy trail, stopping at the edge of his underwear, cautiously hooking a finger under it.

“Hey, we don’t have to.” Jaeyoon kissed your forehead, lightly grabbing your wrist. “Haven’t you told me you don’t feel ready yet?”

“I’m not ready to go all the way,” you explained, looking to the side, “But I wanna take a little step forward tonight.”

You pulled out of his grip and, biting your lip, placed your hand on his already impressive bulge. You didn’t expect it to be so warm to the touch.

“Okay, maybe not so little”, you snorted.

“Are you sure?” Jaeyoon uttered, sounding a bit out of breath.

You nodded with a smile on your lips.

Your boyfriend, despite very obvious physical attraction to you, has always been a total sweetheart when it came to reaching next levels of intimacy. He knew you had no real experience and never pushed you into anything. It took you over a month to get from shy smooches on the cheek to actual making out, and even then, whenever he’d get too aroused, he’d stop in his tracks and ask you to let him cool down a bit. You almost couldn’t believe his patience, even though he’d insist he was just being a decent human being everytime - that wasn’t the experience you had with your exes, though.

This time, you had no intention to leave him with nothing.

“Do we go to the bedroom, or…” you stopped mid sentence, courage leaving you all of sudden.

“I don’t mind just staying in the kitchen,” he replied, planting another kiss, this time on the side of your neck. “It’s so nice and toasty in here after all that baking.” Another one. “Or maybe it’s just because I’m excited for your present.”

You felt a warm shiver spreading through your body. You motioned Jaeyoon towards the counter before the arousal could haze your mind completely.

A makeout session with a lot of tongue followed, with him leaning against the edge of the counter while you trapped him in place with your arms. You really felt in control despite the height difference, plus, it gave you a nice opportunity to squeeze his glorious butt from time to time - he seemed to like it a lot, moaning into your mouth each time you did that.

One particularly low moan encouraged you to slide your hands to his front. He kept you so occupied with his kisses that you pushed his briefs down almost absentmindedly, while you two stayed pressed tightly against each other.

The weight and warmth of Jaeyoon’s hard cock, that you could feel against your stomach even through the fabric of your shirt, made you break the kiss with a surprised gasp.

Jaeyoon giggled sweetly.

“I guess I did get a bit too excited, after all.”

He pulled back (not without pecking your cheek for a good measure) and carefully sat on the floor. After a short hiss because of the direct contact with the cool tiles, he leaned against the cabinet door below the counter.

Not breaking eye contact, he shamelessly spread his legs.

“So, what are we doing?” he asked with a wink.

Doing your best to hold back a nervous laugh, you sat in front of him, the lewd sight of your boyfriend sprawled for you like that making your head spin with desire. You never felt like this for any of your previous partners, but Jaeyoon absolutely deserved to take all of your firsts.

“I was… thinking…” you mumbled, finding it hard to not glance at his dick every now and then, “I just wanted to focus on you tonight… Maybe I could use my hands?”

You hesitantly looked into Jaeyoon’s eyes. The tender gaze he gave you caused your heart to swell with love.

He reached for your hands and held them delicately.

“Can’t wait, baby,” he whispered, “I’m going to guide you, okay?”

A chuckle escaped your mouth. He really couldn’t give up on any chance to hold your hands.

Not wasting any more time, you looked up at the counter. Conveniently, a jar of organic coconut oil was within your reach, so you grabbed it together with a spoon placed nearby.

“It’s fine to use this as lube, right?” you made sure, uncapping the jar. “I’ve read it somewhere over the Internet.”

“It’s more than fine,” Jaeyoon reassured you, tactfully omitting his amusement over your possible research.

Well, your search history was already messed up. It better be worth it.

Jaeyoon’s face was getting flushed; you’d find it cute if not for the situation you found yourself in.

You spooned a hefty amount of oil. After moving the jar out of the picture, you slathered the makeshift lube all over your palms.

“Where do we begin?”

In a matter of seconds, your hands were in Jaeyoon’s again. He guided your left hand to hold his cock at the base. The sight was mouth watering --- your palm looked so small against the thickness of his shaft, but you did your best, holding it firmly with the pressure suggested by Jaeyoon himself.

He made you circle your right hand around him, with your thumb resting against the underside. Here, the pressure applied wasn’t as hard, so your boyfriend started guiding you through the entire length with slow, careful strokes. The whole experience was so intense for you, even though you were the one pleasuring your boyfriend; his cock was so hard and hot, you could feel all the veins under your fingers, and the gentle guidance only made it feel even more intimate.

The strokes became faster and more desperate. Jaeyoon would let out a breathless moan every time you squeezed his cock near the top. Soon enough, when you brushed your thumb over the head, you noticed pearly droplets of precum smearing along with it.

You didn’t even realize how fast your breathing has become. You caught yourself letting out a quiet, breathy moan from time to time, now unable to look away from the filthy sight in front of you.

The best thing about it? Jaeyoon’s whines were becoming louder and more prolonged with each jerking move now. You could see his arms and thighs shaking.

“Let me…” you whispered, your voice hushed by the weight of your desire.

Jaeyoon let you take control, his hands now squeezed into fists, resting on his thighs. Since you got the gist of the stroking already, you dared to glance at your boyfriend’s face.

He looked divine and so vulnerable at the same time: his head thrown back, image of pure bliss on his face. His sculpted chest heaving for air. His abs quivering.

You couldn’t believe it was you who turned him into this gorgeous mess.

“Oh God…”, he moaned, eyelashes fluttering, heart-shaped lips just slightly open. “You’re doing amazing… Baby…”

You couldn’t hold back a giddy smile that beamed across your lips. Turning your gaze back at his cock, you saw - and felt, oh, you felt it so well - it twitch.

As another motion reached just under the crown, Jaeyoon’s hands were back on yours, this time stopping you from any movement.

“Stop... Wait...” he pleaded, breathing heavily, sweat rolling down his chest. “Gonna cum…”

“Isn’t that like… the whole point?” you asked innocently. Jaeyoon looked back at you, wide-eyed.

He didn’t want you to move your hands anymore? Fine.

You licked your lips and leaned towards his shaft. Mustering up your courage, you kissed the tip tenderly, making a soft, wet sound.

Things happened quickly. You didn’t even get a chance to fully lean back to your previous position when you heard Jaeyoon whine loudly. You felt him tighten the grip on your wrists. Next thing you knew, he came in thick spurts on your chest and neck, some of it even hitting the lower side of your cheek.

You froze for a moment. Did you just really… bring him over the edge? With so little touching?

Jaeyoon’s long sigh snapped you out of your musings. He finally let his hands slide off yours. You let go of his spent cock, putting it down as gently as you could.

Your boyfriend tucked his fingers under your chin. He raised it so you could face him.

His relaxed smile was a tell-tale sign you did an amazing job.

“There is my birthday cupcake,” Jaeyoon murmured, smearing his cum on your face with his thumb, squishing your cheek a bit too much in the process. “With icing and stuff.”

You tried to playfully squirm away, but he firmly held your chin in place and leaned down to give you a deep, messy kiss.

Jaeyoon backed off a little to look into your eyes again. His gaze dropped down theatrically. You followed it, only to discover there was a wet spot on the light pink fabric of your briefs.

“It’s a moist one, too.”

Before you even thought of getting embarrassed, he hooked his arm tightly around your waist. He easily lifted you off the floor, only to seat you on the kitchen counter.

He situated himself between your spread legs.

“I better eat it before it gets all soggy.”

#sf9 smut #sf9 scenario #sf9 imagines #jaeyoon smut #jaeyoon scenario #jaeyoon imagine #Please tell me how you like it!#It's been a while since I wrote a piece this long ;;

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stanknotstark · 4 years ago

Text

Toxic + Toxic = Healthy

Summary: You and Loki break up. Both of you deal with it uncharacteristically. Loki sleeps with girls that look like you and you mess around with Thor in retaliation. It’s all very healthy stuff here.

You and Loki had had an unceremonious falling out a couple weeks ago and called it quits on the relationship you had built. You had been dating for 6 months but Loki had started an argument about how you didn’t love him, that you lie to him, that you probably sleep with men behind his back. Everything was false, of course, you’d never do that to Loki and it hurt that he even thought that. So, you told him that you need some time to think and Loki having to have the last word said maybe breaking up is the best option. You agreed and while you saw the shock in Loki’s eyes at your agreement you were too pissed to care and left.

What makes it awkward is that you both live in Stark’s tower and still have to interact with each other. What makes it even more awkward is that the rest of the Avengers walk on egg shells every time they’re in the same room as the both of you.

You’re taking it like a champ, you feel. You only cry about it when you go to sleep at night, in the privacy of your own room. Sometimes when you spar with your teammates you might hit a bit harder than necessary. You even manage to speak with Loki civilly. On the outside it would appear that you’re completely fine with the break up, but on the inside and behind closed doors you’re literally falling apart. You’re sure the only person who realizes this is Natasha because that woman sees everything.

You almost lose your composure the first time you see Loki bring a girl back to the tower. It’s only been three weeks and he’s already whoring around. You’re livid, he claims to love you then gets over you in three weeks? Bullshit.

What you fail to realize at first is that the girl he brings to the tower kind of looks like you. It isn’t until you’re in the kitchen eating breakfast that you realize this. She comes in, only wearing one of Loki’s too large t-shirts and enjoys a bowl of cereal with you.

You don’t get mad at the girl, you’re mad of course, but she’s not the problem. She doesn’t know what happened between you and Loki. She has no idea you even dated Loki. So you talk with her like you would any stranger. With a happy smile, a joyful voice, and morbid curiosity about having a new person in the tower.

“It’s really cool to see the tower from the inside. I always look up and imagine what you guys live like.” The girl says with a smile at you.

You smile back, “It’s pretty laid back, honestly. Nothing too exciting happens around here.”

“That’s what it looks like,” The girl laughs a light laugh, “I doubt I’ll ever come back, Loki said it was a one time thing, but I’m happy I got the chance anyways.”

You squint at the girl when she’s not looking at you because she’s eating her cereal and question everything. Loki doesn’t do one night stands. That’s what the god had told you the first time you both fell into bed together. He had explicitly stated. “If I bed you, I mean to have you forever, I do not play games when it comes to courting.”

You hum at the girl and truly look at her. Her hair is cut at about your length and although the color is a tiny bit off it’s still in the same general shade as yours. Her features are vastly different from yours but her body shape is almost exactly like yours too.

At this conclusion you’ve thought of three things. One, Loki is trying to make you jealous. Two, Loki is showing there are many other girls just like you he can use. Three, Loki is still hung up on you and has really bad coping skills.

You bring you mug up coffee to your lips as you ponder over your conclusion and raise your eyes when Natasha walks into the kitchen. She raises her brows at the girl, with a glance to you, who introduces herself as Nat reaches in the fridge and pulls a carton of eggs out.

As Natasha waits for her pan to heat up so she may cook her eggs she questions the girl.

“What is it you do?”

“Oh, I’m an accountant for a small company here in-” The girl stops and looks at you, concerned when you start choking on your coffee, “-are you ok?” She asks, you nod still choking a little but get it under control.

“I used to be an accountant, I started out with a small company based in Colorado then moved here when Stark offered me a better job.” You tell her.

“Oh! I just started my job seeing how I just graduated, but it’s my dream to work for someone as significant as Tony Stark.”

You smile and nod, “I’ll put in a good word for you, see if we can get you a promotion you can’t deny.” You say, glancing at Nat who is smirking devilishly at you. You truly do want the best for this girl but at the same time you’d like to see Loki squirm with his one night stand working in the same tower he resides in.

The next time it happens is two days later. This time you’re in the common area with Bruce, teaching him how to play Minecraft at night when the elevator dings. You both look up and see Loki ravishing some poor girl on the elevator’s wall. They let out small moans and gasps. Then Loki turns and looks out the elevator to see you and Bruce staring at them, game completely forgotten.

You’re sure Bruce is wide eyed and blushing like crazy, you can’t see his face seeing as he’s turned towards the elevator. However, you control your face and look bored with a raised brow at Loki.

“My apologies, I thought I had pressed my floor.” Loki says.

The girl he was just basically eating up giggles and pokes her head around his body to look at you two.

“We’re really sorry!”

They both pull from each other but don’t truly stop touching, they’re just in a presentable position now. Loki pushes his correct floor number and you watch as they disappear in the elevator.

When Bruce looks at you he’s not blushing or wide eyed. He actually looks a bit green in the face.

“You ok?” You ask, confused.

“It’s wrong of him to do that to you. He’s smart, has to have his floor memorized. The only way he’d hit this floor was because he knows you’re here.” Bruce says with a sigh, the green hue in his face receding.

You chuckle, nodding to the controller in Bruces hand so he can continue harvesting his wheat.

“It’s ok, he’s always been really bad when it comes to coping skills.”

Bruce watches the TV as he harvests wheat but gives you a glance with a raised brow.

“The women he’s bringing to the building look like me. Or at least the first one did for sure, I wasn’t really looking at this one. The last one even had the same job I used to have.”

Bruce frowns at the TV then realization dawns on his face. “Now that you mention it, this girl did have the same characteristics as you...”

You hum with a small smile. “Loki is going to be Loki, I’m just trying my best to get over him and move on.”

You watch as Bruce pauses the game and looks at you with an evil grin. You’re a little shocked because you’ve never seen the doctor show any emotions like this. His eyes are far away in thought, but he smirks with malicious intent.

“What if you dated one of us? Not really, but in public you would kiss and hug, hold hands do all the couple stuff in front of Loki?” Bruce asks.

Your face must be shocked because Bruce chuckles.

Breaking from your shock you smirk back at the doctor. “And just who would I date?”

Bruce thinks for a second, “Well Loki....” Then you see a sinister look come over his face. “Thor.”

You gasp and slap Bruce on the shoulder, “That’s evil, Bruce!”

Bruce chuckles and shrugs his shoulders with a now timid look on his face.

“I live with a bunch of people that have perfected getting under each others skin, I’ve picked up on how to do it too.”

“I’ll talk with Thor later. Tell him of your nefarious plan, it’s genius!” You say relishing in the fact that you’ll be able to break Loki’s heart more, the god deserves it you justify.

You talk with Thor and kickoff the plan right away. The next morning, Loki actually comes in and has breakfast with his one night stand across from you at the table as you enjoy staring at the newspaper, waiting on Thor to come in. They’re being sickly cute, feeding each other, giggling, and just overall making you want to throw up. You know Loki is truly nothing like this, he’s just putting on a show for you.

When Thor walks in he gives a big good morning, throwing you a smirk Loki misses because he’s too busy kissing ass to his girl. Thor makes coffee for you and brings it over to you. When he sets it in front of you he says, “Just how you like it!”

Then Thor leans down and takes your lips into his. Thor really puts on a show and brings a hand up to caress at your jaw as he delves into your mouth with his tongue. When he pulls away you’re breathless and look up at him with adoration. Both the gods really know how to use their mouths...and tongues for that matter.

You lick your lips and look at the girl Loki brought home when she makes a remark.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones who got lucky!” She giggles.

You smile at her, glance at Loki who is glaring daggers into you, then look back up to Thor as you raise your coffee mug to him and say, “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Thor smiles down at you and offers to make you breakfast but you decline saying you need to help Tony with something. Before you leave the room Thor pulls you into another kiss, lets you go, and slaps your ass as you walk away. You give a small yelp and giggle. Enjoying every second you feel Loki glaring at you before you leave the kitchen.

You spend a few hours with Tony just talking as he works on his suit. You came down here to hide and be happy at the whole situation that had just happened. Tony laughs uncontrollably when you tell him what’s going on.

“This is either gonna turn into amazing make up sex or a really big argument.” Tony says, wiping a hand over his face, smearing it with oil.

You laugh as you sit on his work table, swinging your legs.

“As long as he hurts just as much as I do, I don’t care which one happens.”

“That’s toxic.” Tony states without malice. “But so is Loki so it kind of cancels each other out, right?” He asks, throwing you a devious look tapping his wrench to his chin as he does.

“Ya, we’ll go with that.” You say, jumping from the table, getting ready to leave the lab.

“Thanks for letting me hide for a bit.” You say.

“Anytime!” Tony says over his shoulder as you leave.

You’re walking down the hallway to your room when Loki materializes out of nowhere and pins your to the wall. His left hand pins your waist to the wall, his right hand is balled in a fist and rests on the wall next to your face. His face is inches from yours, absolutely livid.

“You play with fire without thinking about the consequences, sweetheart.” Loki spits out the nick name you used earlier.

“What? You didn’t expect me to fight back when you started fucking girls three weeks into our break up?” You ask through gritted teeth. “You were supposed to be in love with me Loki, if you were really in love you would have waited a bit longer.”

Loki’s face turns to regret before he gets angry again.

“You could have went for anyone other than my brother, you can’t act like you’re holier than me.”

You scoff and push at Loki who doesn’t budge. “You started it when you brought home girls that look like me. Making me think I was expendable, replaceable.” You say, your voice cracking when you say replaceable. “I may act like I’m fine all the time but my heart is in pieces Loki. You decided to take my heart and step all over it like I meant nothing to you!” You begin crying.

Loki furrows his brows at your tears, like he actually cares that he’s the one who made them fall.

You close your eyes so you don’t have to look at his face anymore. Silently crying there. You feel Loki wipe your tears with his right hand, his left hand keeps you pinned though which is smart because if you could break his grip you’d run from the situation. His right hand stops wiping at your tears when they stop falling and slides his hand down till it’s cusping your neck.

“That was not my intention.” Loki finally says in a soft voice.

You open your eyes and frown at the god. “So it was just you trying to cope in a really bad way...” You say, deflating in his hold but leaning into his hand. You haven’t felt his touch in weeks and your body is practically craving it. You hate that you react like this.

Loki gives a sad smile. “We are a concoction of toxic chemicals. We may not get a happy ending...” Loki whispers, his thumb caressing your jawline where his hand holds your neck, his eyes roaming over your face, “But I wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re worth every second.” Loki finishes, closing his eyes and kissing you.

You lean into the kiss, tasting Loki and losing yourself in his mouth as he dominates your weak fighting with tongue. His left hand comes up to grab your hair and pull at it causing you to gasp into his mouth. He practically swallows the gasp and moans. His right hand squeezes your neck then drifts down over your breast, making sure to flow over your nipple, and then grabs your hip in a bruising grip and pulls your body to arch into his.

When you pull from his kiss you look into his eyes and see nothing but love and lust. Then it changes to a frown and insecurity.

“Did you sleep with him?” Loki whispers, not sure he wants to know the answer.

“No.”

Loki sighs and uses both hands to hug you into his body, burying his face in your neck. When he pulls away to look at you you see the love there again.

“I love you.” He says sweetly.

You smile up at him, “I love you too.”

#loki x reader #angst #loki #reader insert #my writing #toxic + toxic = healthy #my thoughts on this is that this is SO toxic #but i wanted to write this situation and didn't know how to handle it without some toxicity #come on loki would be a TOXIC ex #he would constantly remind you why he is better than anyone you date #flaunt that he's completely fine even when he's not #at least pre ragnarok loki would

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himbodjarin · 4 years ago

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LUNAR; CH15

18+ Content: General fluff/angst. Din POV. Word Count: 5138 Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader

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

EPILOGUE

Whispers.

Din is subjected to whispers surrounding him and clinging to his beskar like seafoam on his boots; sensitive and hushed tones aimed to show their condolences, their pity, regarding the absence of light beside him. They raise their voice no louder than whispers out of fear, not sympathy—sterile beskar contaminated with the sun’s liquidised crux intimidating them into tight-lipped smiles.

Sorrow radiates off him in potent waves that roll over the settlement to drown them in his grieving. It doesn’t need to be voiced. There’s a plenitude of evidence that stacks up against the presumption; the reclaimed rifle adhered to slippery beskar as opposed to cradling its framework into soft flesh, a tattered cloak that now only stretches across one side of his back, broad shoulders appearing so compact in on themselves, and a heavy-footed stride that simply speaks anguish.

If those factors aren’t indication enough, the blood does it.

Dried blood that coats his tan appendage but not his gloved—funny, how he always seems to dirty his hands—thick streaks that have yet to reach that dry point smeared against his armour, dark patches on his flight suit that adheres to the skin beneath.

A picture is worth a thousand words, but the scene of The Mandalorian—a stoic warrior capable of pulling the tides that’ll swallow their settlement whole—so vanquished and mourning the woman he loved in such dreaded silence is worth a million and then some.

The element of a bare hand no longer pining to envelope itself from intrusive eyes is grisly. Abnormal. Eerie, all most, as if Mando’s resolve will snap before their inspections. Children are guided behind the adults with a subtle hand but it doesn’t pass unnoticed.

Din suspends in the maelstrom of the locals, helmet burdensome on his shoulders, vacantly swaying side-to-side as though struggling to remain awake on his feet; struggling to not let slip of his eyelids and succumb to the mud that’ll pose as his eternal resting grounds. If it weren’t for the slumbering speck of green nestled in the arms of Omera, perhaps he would allow himself to sink to his knees for the second time that night, no—third. Third time.

There’s no communication between them, no are you okay’s or I’m so sorry’s, just a simple exchange of glances that reads she’s gone, my girl is gone when Din recovers the Child from her arms. Familiar weight in the nook of his elbow, the same elbow her head resided as she lay dormant, he reverts back between the compound aisle of onlookers.

It’s all the same expression—that pouted bottom lip and upturned eyebrow, colourful eyes attentive to his exposed hand and gory armour; anything besides the chilling black slit of his visor, the red thumbprint of a much larger hand impression sitting in the corner of his view field—Din’s chin descends to his chest to avert his eyes from the hands on their loved ones, pulling them to a warmth he’ll soon forget the feeling of, the silent declaration of adoration upon seeing such a depleted man without his.

Voices are deteriorating before him, echoing and remote as if they were isolated across a vast canyon—everybody’s tone blending into one heaped bulk he can’t decipher who or where they’re coming from; a procedure his mind conducted to dissociate from the pity timbres.

Caben…

...I know.

Beskar wrenches their route, initiating eye contact with the two farmers his love died to save—died so that they could live fulfilling lives while she’s devoured by parasites—and his fist clenches by his side. Din doesn’t blame them for her demise, not really, she never would’ve inflicted such a gnarly wound if it wasn’t for the fact the Guild was after him; the fact that rescuing a helpless child would lead to a chain of events that brings him such an acquainted feeling of despair.

And he’d do it all over again if the situation arises—that’s what causes his slitted fingers to curl into his palms and draw blood out the gaps between. Din had breached many rules, some of his Creed’s and others his personal pledges; do not fall victim to a girl’s loving touches. They were there for good reason. Din’s not mad at Caben and Stoke nor Omera for informing him of their situation. Din’s mad at himself because, despite knowing the outcome of it all and despite how her name has been carved into his ribs, he would never not rescue the Child.

Even if that statement alone induces a thousand scenarios in which his beloved dies in his arms. Perhaps it’s his private method of torture; a way to inflict damage onto himself that doesn’t bruise skin but the sensitive heart beneath it all.

Caben and Stoke quiver underneath the leer of a visor blemished with vermillion—someone so black and white touched with the coloured essence of a cherished one—he’s never donned so much vibrancy. Not even when he wore his shoddy spraypainted duraplast armour had he been so rich in hues that no eyes should witness.

Din takes mercy on the men and tears his helmet away, feet falling with a burden into the forest haunted with a spirit that’ll never be able to rest.

It takes a day of being in hyperspace to reach overfamiliar craggy rocks and whipping sand granules—a day of being confined within his home, now a duralloy prison, with a fallen star coursing ripples of glacial bursts. The corpse of his sweetheart had been covered with what little material remained of the cloth on his back for the Child’s sake, not his. Din could never want that pretty face cloaked even with the browning plasma cracking on the surface of her cheek, the dark crescents beneath eyes that holds overtones that now only live in his head and windburned lips that once felt warm and smooth against his own roughened.

There’s a steep drop to his death waiting for a mere slip of his boots against the coarse siltstone—internal bleeding upon the impact that would cater his physique with that unaccounted heat one last time—but Din is versatile and makes it down with limited injuries; some grazes into the paddings of fingers and a sore ball of the foot where he’d dug his boots into an uneven surface a little too vigorously.

Soft sand sits beneath his feet in contrast to the grittiness above, a result of the lack of rays that reach between the gorge. It’s darkened down these parts, plagued with skeletons of unfortunate victims to the brittle canyon edgings.

A mote of black pokes upright from the golden ground, the end of a matte-finished cylinder storing pale grains into its blueprint. The ground swallows his knees whole and adheres itself to his flight suit where it’ll reside in the empty space that’s left behind for journeys to come.

Din combs the sand with cupped hands, bare digits burrowing deep and bandaging around the target to wedge free of its tenacious grip. It extracts from the planet’s crust with falling particles from its bore reuniting with its sum beneath his weight—a shattered chamber decays in his clutch. The stock, its untethered support deeper in the terra, withdraws into his idle grip.

It’s a straightforward design—a barrel he’s stared down into more times than he can account for—but there’s sentimental value in its mere existence, despite Din never having any interest in the dark oil encrusted with scratches and weathered patches around a jammed trigger. Such a stocky weapon for arms crafted of supple beams. The tide could easily harness such a defying artifact; digest the barrel whole into the belly of its trenches, the increased pressure simply too great for it to ever leave. Not the beams, though—they should never be required to carry such unstable weight, such compactness.

The amban rifle was perfect for those hands; nimble and delicate, easy to employ.

Salvaged firearm in hand, Din finds himself before the entrance of a shoddy dome shack; a flap of shroud swaying one with the wind eased to the side with the back of his knuckles, helmet dipping as he sets a lagging foot inside. The sparseness, the emptiness, drowns his lungs and constricts his airways—it’d been ransacked, by Jawas presumably, all of the deconstructed mechanics that should be gathering dust pinched from the schism-riddled wooden slab.

Disconnected halves of a rifle are gently laid to rest on the surface, the skeleton of a shattered Creed shortly following. Its critical gaze eats at the delicate man frontwards, toned eyes melting to a bubbling molten transparisteel that scars his assaulted morals. Three tan fingers spin the helmet on its axis to face the duracrete, allowing the pang in his temples to subside.

Din’s calves encased with his duraplast greeves butt against the edge of a mediocre cot, not too contrasting to his own—cramped with little to no support, but it’s stable and it works—he envisions a bandaged figure curled up on the durasteel, nothing but an oversized poncho to supply warmth that wasn’t necessary on such a heated planet. He sinks to the bunk and pursues the comfort of a merciless prod in his waist, a sweat-slicked forehead pressing into the wall.

If he closes his eyes and breathes deep he’s rewarded with a faint whiff of a rich syrup that combats the stale crux on his platings—the point of a pinky muscle stimulated with a fleeting taste of his favourite flavours. Sand particles deposited by the gusts of winds flood his ventilators from the cot beneath him, slicing through the linings of his insides. In lieu of coughing and spluttering Din deeply exhales and laxes his muscles; the overwhelming requirement for rest inevitably forcing his mind to disable and his breathing to even out.

Kuiil and his craftsmanship came up short as expected.

Even with the labour of three lifetimes, I cannot fix this. I have never seen something this shattered be repaired before. Perhaps you are not supposed to restore its properties.

Din respected the Ugnaught too much to vocalise his thoughts—what a load of bantha—and opted to depart from Arvala-7 before its granular claws burrowed into him more than they already had; his boots packed to his ankles with hot grit that converts the soles of his feet to blisters, flight suit drenched in sweat and blood.

Rather than dedicating a whole five minutes of changing attire, rather than finally ridding himself of the constant reminder of his dead lover clinging to his skin and clothes, he punches the navigation and activates the auto-piloting to his next destination.

The Child has developed some independence in the peak of Din’s mourning, often finding himself entertained with a drifting gear knob in the vacancy of the air before him—he almost appeared aware of the situation, aware of the black hole in Din’s chest narrowing his interiors and destabilising his balance—and he no longer needed assistance to vacate from the Crest when the hatch extended.

His guardian, on the other hand, wasn’t so eager to leave his penitentiary. It was quiet and cold in comparison to the hustle and bustle outside the duralloy cell, the loud exclaim of a snappy mechanic, no matter how late into the night it had to be, scolding her droids.

Are ya looking to get shot at? You know the drill, back away from it!

Din straightens himself out from the floor between the cockpit and the hold’s ladder, the one place he didn’t encounter the phantom of waning memories; they plagued these walls beyond belief. Recollections of brief intimate instances strewn throughout the hold, his bunk, the cockpit—it made operating his spacecraft a difficult chore.

He does his utmost not to glimpse at the emptiness atop the crates, the browning streaks that run down the slopes of the cubes and into the grooves of the Razor Crest’s base, but there’s only a limited measure of self-control residing within him and its line has been blurry as of late. Submitting to the gravitational pull of his eyes is inescapable and he risks a peak; a raggedy cloak that concealed gelid mounds now servicing as a blanket for the bare inventory containers.

Shoulders tighten and footwork falters as he maneuvers to the hatch, the idle purring of a preservation machine in the far corner a reminder of what he’d gone and done—guilt and grief goading his esophagus but he swallows it, greets the sting in his walls with a gruff clear of his throat.

What’s the big idea of stationing yourself here? She doesn’t appear in bad shape at all. I ain’t free parking, ya know.

Shiny credits are flung in her direction, the satchel containing the remainder of what was once a reimbursement to the bisected rifle in his leathers, he doesn’t allow him the privilege of feeling sorrow upon parting with them. Din doesn’t deserve to experience such sensitive emotions when he’s the trigger that snapped against a guard—a cherry bolt of a hand jabbing through the wind and tossing delicate goods down a ravine.

Peli eyeballs the exposed spinal plating of the Mandalorian and compiles the fragmented pieces of his physique, slotting in each individual aspect from his impaired posture down to the crust on his steel. Shards of a rusting man relocate, twisting and turning—no, not there...not quite...oh...—until it connects, a brittle sharp-edged outline of a man receding.

But that’s all it is.

An outline. Incomplete. His jam-packed insides—his essence, his life, his love—has been swindled from within leaving a husk of an exhausted bereaved soul ricocheting off the internal boundaries of beskar in search of its partner.

Din deposits himself in a corner of the hangar tucked away where the shadows push and pull his limbs, steering his appendages across the surface of an eroding strongbox showcasing the deconstructed blaster. Phantoms of apprehensive hands ghost overhead, their primary function programmed to destroy and slaughter not replenish and recover.

Reparations are out of the question. It’s beyond demolished; hardly decent for a mantlepiece let alone functional. It’s laid out like a butchered tip-yip primed for roasting, components scattered and misplaced; a muddle not even the greatest gunslinger could capitalise from.

Engravings on the stock of the rifle stabilise him, a gorgeous aluminium that shines beneath all the oil and base of obsidian. Its lines paint a picture of nothing, overlapping and crossing into a mess, but it fires a brisk bolt against his heartplate all the same. Bare fingers spelunk its origins for its quirks, its stories of a stubborn girl entrapped within it; utilising the elongated barrel like a third arm, a trigger snappy as her words, the scenic stock a mirror to the beauty beside it.

Roughened fingers were a by-product of being consistently handsy throughout the decades but when perceiving the sun rays they were reborn entirely. Soft and smooth and careful. Now that the sun no longer responds to his touch, now that he’s left with cool inscribed metal, they’ve reverted to their nature. Sandy. Sharp. Aggressive.

Aggressive fingers that match the stained violence of his Creed—his beskar that simply won’t return to that elegant silver shine no matter how desperately he rubs against the surface. Water sloshes back and forth in the modest trough of a sink, a tainted red-brown colour accumulating at the bottom provoking an ache in the tender organ residing in his centre.

He’d practically been forced into the shoddy refresher by the mechanic—you got the kid all anxious, just look at you, go get that gunk off yourself.

That’s all it can be perceived as by others; nothing more than filthy smears required to be rid of simply for presentation—to preserve the comfort of others no matter how intense the guilt chews against his muscles as her pith dilutes. Gunk.

Din muffles a sob. It’s her.

She’s abandoning him for a second time. What little of her refuses to part from him is so encrusted it’s become a part of his armour, inserting herself into the nicks and grooves of his platings his fingers fail to penetrate.

Mindless hands shift to his lesioned flesh, unsteady digits summarising the hills of rashy bumps visible only through the lens of steamy caf. Phantoms of lingering touches mark tan terrain in the shapes of slender fingers and cottony lips on his chest, his stomach, neck and face; everywhere that’d been blessed with the loveliest of kisses and nips from the Sun now scarred over.

Pendant held firmly in place pulses a scorching burst through the tissue on his sternum, the beskar skull leaving its claim. Its fraying thread drifts to thick fingers and lays loose between them, irritable skin of a palm flaring at its exuding heat and crisp pang; none of its physical but it’s as though he’s brushed with a hand of a million degrees all the same.

Shiny silver occupies the empty space beside him, a lithe barrel glittering in the substandard lighting of a crummy Tatooine refresher; heckling the helmetless man but he could never glance its way in any sort of negative class.

It hurts to connect with the beskar pendant and perhaps he deserves to hurt, but he can’t sustain it, can’t confront that sting in his throat and eyes each time it shifts against his chest.

Din weaves the lace of his material initiation through the metal perch beneath the shiny stretch of a barrel; dangling and showcased on the paired rifle of his Sun where it’ll reside—operating as a threatening symbol to partner his visor against enemies who dare glance his way.

And it did, far more successful than he could’ve imagined; rumours of his descent traversing parsecs faster than his Crest could vie with.

Did you hear about that Mandalorian—supposedly lost his lover and went rogue. I heard he turned berserk, he’s killed a town’s worth of criminals! Someone ought to lock him up before he turns on us. He’s a threat to us all!

Din didn’t much care for the presumptions. It wasn’t as though he frequented locations to be overwhelmed with the local’s support, though it made discreetly getting around a challenge—no longer were the days he could enter a cantina with a few intrigued eyes devising a way to lay claim to his beskar before returning to their booze.

But now it was people confronting him in false hope he’d be too deep in mourning to fight against their attacks. It never did end well for them.

He’d become a magnet for death, even of his own.

It wasn’t righteous to die in that common house. Not when those disproportionate black eyes observed from the arms of a droid; deep, dark masses that depicted more emotion for his guardian’s condition than perhaps they should. He’d been selfishly greeting his emerging end with an inconsiderate let me have a warrior’s death. It’d be a lie if he was to deny its translation; let me see my beloved.

As is his entire life, Din’s been allocated with responsibilities far out of his expertise but he’s not relinquishing his guardianship to the kid that easily. It’s not as if he could be transferred to any other old sucker either; not everybody has the same compassion for a floppy-eared bounty worth their retirement funds.

No, it wasn’t his time to rest. It’ll come when it’s merited.

That night after the events that’d transpired, Greef Karga bestowed some unusually wise statements underneath the moonless canopy of speckled stars patterning the abyss. Simply reminding Din of its existence; the constant celestials that’ll never desert him no matter what dodgy planet he dwelt.

A new moon is approaching. As a child I had been told stories of a cosmic reset at the commencement of a new cycle; an opportunity to start anew. Perhaps it was all just folklore but it’s fascinating all the same, wouldn’t you agree? I always did like shiny things.

It’d been the vulnerability that encouraged his Guild’s leader to utter those words—that unmistakable change in demeanour since they’d last met, that insecurity swallowing an iron stomach upon hearing a dead name chanted amongst an army of Stormtroopers—Din knew without it being conveyed.

He had been stripped of his privacy and put in the spotlight in front of dozens of lifeforms. A name reserved for a benevolent tone now recognised by the enemy, trespassing on those memories of all the situations it’d been murmured into his bare flesh as if labelling him as a person; a real breathing blood-pumping person and not the Creed he fought for.

Gideon was his name, the man who spoke of his identity as though he crafted it himself. As though he nursed the bruises and traumas of his title and being—not gentle hands that’d remain uncomplaining despite how little Din offered in return.

If Din had inspected his fallen TIE fighter for life, perhaps he could’ve avoided the forthcoming events.

With the naive belief of security, Din encouraged the pursuit of his aspirations rather than the concern of his violations towards his code. His relationship with the Creed had been on thin ice and he’s not quite willing to pardon its strict principles.

An opportunity to start anew.

His brain requests a rebalance—the interest for the Child’s consideration prodding needles into the fleshy mass—demands his sentiments to be torched, cremated until they are stardust particles drifting through the celestials above. They crack and pop in tune to the sizzle of a droughted driftwood pyre bearing the corpse of his lover, profitably filling two needs with one deed; a clear state of mind to focus on his ongoing responsibilities and to allow depleted beams to finally rest across the horizon.

She’d endured suffering enough; receiving punishment from those she trusted, the guilt and onslaught Din presented as a by-product, sustaining wounds until it’d finally become too much.

Even in death, she wasn’t permitted serenity.

Her fucking body is still with me!

It slipped out of his mouth back on Tatooine.

I had to - had to put her in carbonite...she was fuckin’ rotting in my ship. I didn’t know what else to do. What are you supposed to do with the body of your-... I can’t just - just ditch her on some shitty planet all alone like that!

Peli had been of assistance; providing Din somewhere to rest his eyes without breathing in the stench of decaying flesh. She’d even gone ahead and supplied him with a pair of gloves to preserve his corrupted honour though she wouldn’t admit it,—prefer not to recognise you as human, makes it hard to dupe you outta credits if I’m too busy pitying you—she wasn’t repelled by his grieving, the unusual depictions of a man underneath all that shiny steel.

She’d been of more assistance than he could thank her for.

Being on Tatooine facilitated the idea of his Sun’s disposal.

Kote Kyr’am.

It’s the best memorial he could devise. A ceremony he’d attended countless times as a foundling watching his elders fall in battle. The very same elders who’d knock Din upside the head for constructing such an ancient farewell for an aruetii but she’s worthy of nothing less; more, perhaps, but there are no alternatives in the vacancy of his helmet adequate for the burial of a star.

Din’s lips are chapped, his skin is on fire, there’s a rumbling in his stomach. He’s watching his beloved burn to ash underneath the new moon and yet he feels as though he’s the one succumbing to the flames; the heat just as powerful as the dormant embodiment it’s consuming.

Velvety skin he’d allocate his hands, his tongue, and time, never enough time, to now blister and contract, tear and melt, crackle and—

He heaves over, helmet rim caught on a scrunched forehead, and readies his throat for the bite of acid. It doesn’t come. Not even a trickle of saliva disperses. Instead, his lungs impale themselves on his ribcage, contracting and expanding so rapidly he fails to recognise his cheeks are devoured with a downstream.

The salt probes his tastebuds though it’s insufficient to dominate the heavy particles of ablaze flesh. It’s so rich, so potent that it’s evolved to a taste rather than a scent. Din could withstand the odour, his filters stripped the majority, but the taste is intolerable and it just so freely floats in through his agape mouth to nestle among his tongue - as if it belonged there - as if a contrasting sweeter taste didn’t.

Din’s skin reddens from Navarro’s meanspirited terrain but it’s not enough motivation to rise to his feet. He sits there, steel dwelling amongst the molten, and waits because he can’t continue his journeys for two without that flicker of confidence she’s at peace.

He’ll take a crumb of assurance, it’d be plenty for him to muster up the strength and return to the Crest where the Child awaits.

Usually, as is Mandalorian custom, he’d be stripping the shell of armour from her corpse as a keepsake of a life well-lived - to preserve the name of her clan but all Din had of her’s was a shattered rifle that’ll remain in the vacuum of a satchel.

Not to mention the chants—the gruff Mando’a words designed to ensure their warrior’s spirit may join their fallen. Din had his fair share of howling war cries through the years but not this time - it’s not right.

An aruetii wouldn’t be welcomed.

Besides, his Creed had stolen his spirit. It doesn’t qualify to steal hers.

It isn’t until a final blow of wind carries her skywards that Din raises to his feel, latches his helmet back in place, and returns to work.

Din likes the skies, no—loves the skies; the magnificent blues and pinks and oranges that blend as one, the swollen cushiony whites that conceal his naked face from the shell whatever planet he’d roam, but above all else Din loves how the sun blessed him with its astral kisses.

That unmistakable warmth flushed over him; the remnants of his extinguished star’s touches.

There was a peace up there that’d never reach the conflict of the galaxy; serenity that allowed for a moment of buoyancy—floating among the cornflower identical to how one might in the colossal depths of the ocean without the intimidation of anchoring oneself by weighted platings.

It was a real sight to behold up there; unfamiliar without the confines of his Crest.

Din had forgotten the thrill of the sweeping winds through his limbs, the freedom rising in his chest upon cutting through white puffs. But it had been the horizon that lured his attention inwards—the bends and slopes of a shimmering orange star smiling at the returning glint in his visor.

It was the first time he’d genuinely smiled since the loss of His Star. It had something to do with the warmth; the sunbeams managing to penetrate past beskar and into his flesh and organs so intimately, so overfamiliar to delicate fingers stroking the muscles of his chest or the bones beneath his cheeks.

It became sort of a custom in his travels to visit the heavens at least once on each planet. Often times bemused squealing would accompany him. Grogu—Grogu...the kid had a name—had been adamant about participating in his encounters and Din now has no doubt that was his abilities, the Force as Ahsoka mentioned, enabling him to perceive his intentions; his ambition to be touched by someone who no longer lives. It’d be easier to go up against seven Krayt dragons than to convince a power-wielding typhoon to remain on land, thereby he’d hoist Grogu up and above the overcast where the beams kissed the peak of his fuzzy forehead.

Renouncing his guardianship to Grogu had been challenging. Losing another lifeform so that he’d be entirely alone wasn’t a consideration as he journeyed in search of a Jedi, but it was to be expected. The kid was powerful and Din didn’t possess the knowledge to help him wield his abilities. Didn’t make saying goodbye any easier, though.

The situation resurfaced ghoulish remembrances of draining light in his arms; how he never presented his emotions without the guise of his helmet. So, encircled with copious lifeforms, Din removed his Creed before Grogu—introducing that vulnerability and love for a toddler who’d swindled his affection so effortlessly. A claw on his face wasn’t the same as gentle fingers but he didn’t love it any less.

The ordeal was absolving despite the moisture in his eyes.

Din’s ambivalent about what he’ll pursue from here with no mission, no ship, no love, but he doesn’t much care when he’s brushed with the warmth of his lover’s thumbs on his eyelids. It’s his favourite space; lingering above the clouds, head craned backwards with his helmet loosely held in his leathers, savouring how the beams kiss his skin until it’s pink from its spice.

Some days he simply wishes to take a peak, a small little glance to quench him until the desire builds up again. Some days he remains in the skies until his jetpack whines and runs into failures; until it makes its descent and is replaced with a shimmering orb.

He’s envious of the moon; how it so easily recovers its glossy shine and integrity, neglecting to address the events of the eclipse. Its radiance chips away at his armour but the sunshine restores it—realigns the shards and offers a toasty kiss to the steel, commending it for protecting her Mandalorian.

Din suspends in a herd of clouds and sighs into the air. It’s quiet except for the monotonous bursts of thrusters from behind. Sunshine is greeted with lukewarm caf, a partnering smile tugging his lips.

“Beloved Girl,” Din’s voice is raspy from inactivity but so loud, so clear in contrast to everybody else’s he’d consulted.

There’s too much he wants to say but he determines to voice them all. Din expresses his thoughts he’d been too stoic to admit, ranging from whispers to shouts at the sun as if it was a sentient being listening to his passion.

He tells her of how much he longs to see her, to taste her on his lips, to provoke that sparkling smile he loved so dearly. He communicates his guilt and how he loves her more than he can fathom—mentions the successful end of his journeys with Grogu and how he now has zilch but an undesired blade to show for it.

There’s nothing but a sway of wind whipping his eardrums in response and Din hums, accepting it.

Din cherishes the splinters of beams as she comes to rest beneath the horizon and he too sinks from the skies, obscured dimples in his cheeks as he recounts the memories of his beloved wrapped in his arms.

One last thing, Cyare, keep an eye on the kid for me, will you?

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honeymoonjin · 5 years ago

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ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: voyeurism, exhibitionism, filmed sex, praise, anal, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, massage sex oh i wonder who it could be, fingering, nipple play, cursing

DAY THREE

You wake up with a pounding headache, faint whispers of a nightmare with long shadows and wounded glares, a familiar face wracked with hurt.

Your heart thuds sickly in your chest as you fumble for the phone on your nightstand, wincing at the sharp light of the screen. Earlier than you would have liked, but you need reassurance of the conversation you’d had the night before.

Not the one in the rec room - you still grimace at the thought of how badly you handled it - but the text conversation held much later, one that had eased your worries then. You hoped it could still provide that relief now that guilt was pooling up inside you again.

When starting the show, you’d been given everybody’s phone numbers but hadn’t really needed to use them. So late last night it had come as a shock to you when your phone buzzed, lighting up with Kim Namjoon on the screen.

Part of you had been worried that he was going to yell at you or be crying on the other end. Biting at your nail, you’d let it go through to voicemail. Less than a minute after your screen went dark again, leaving you in shadow, regret had seized you, and you’d rushed to pull up his contact, sending a text. You look over it now.

He hadn’t replied after that, so instead you send him a quick good morning text now before getting up out of bed.

When you get ready and go downstairs, anxiety easing once more, you see that true to his word, Namjoon’s outside walking again.

If any of the other guys know it’s your fault, they don’t say anything, Yoongi silently smiling in greeting from where he sits at the kitchen bench, hunched over a cup of coffee like it’s a lifeline, scrolling on his phone.

“Morning,” you say with a yawn, gravitating towards the still-steaming electric jug. Past Yoongi, the sight you’re greeted by in the adjacent lounge area gives you pause.

Completely unawares to your entrance, several figures gather around the coffee table, where Hoseok is sitting with eyes closed and mouth hung open, moaning pornographically at the hands that expertly dig into him, massaging his muscles.

Behind him, Taehyung’s dressed in nothing but black boxers and a rosy silk robe, brows furrowed in focus and lips twitching with satisfaction as he rolls his thumbs between Hoseok’s shoulder blades, kneading out the tension.

Yoongi sighs. “They’ve been doing it for over an hour. Hoseok’s only the second person to get a go and Seokjin and I are still waiting. Taehyung just finished Jungkook, that’s why he looks dead.”

True to word, Jungkook’s body is splayed out on the couch beside the action, boneless like a corpse, eyes lidded and hair in a tangled nest. Yoongi calls out to him to confirm he’s still alive, receiving a wordless grunt in response.

“He’s fine,” Yoongi decides. “Do you want a go? Lady of the house, I bet you could skip the line.”

“I think I’d rather check how long it takes Jungkook to recover. I can’t be out of commission for the whole day.”

Yoongi hums thoughtfully, finishing off his coffee. “I guess Jungkook can now that he’s done his prompt. Not really much else for him to do except wait to see if he’s staying or not.” He bites his lip for a minute, jaw working as he mulls it over. “Do you have any thoughts so far? About who’s maybe going, who’s definitely staying?”

You shrug. “Seems pointless to consider before you guys have all finished, you know? Either way the decision is going to suck. I’d rather just enjoy myself for now.”

Yoongi pauses while a moaned curse fills the room, Taehyung’s elbow now running down Hoseok’s spine as he bends over, hands splayed on the table to keep himself steady. The older man huffs out a laugh at their antics. “Hoseok really doesn’t seem bothered, huh? I don’t think I’ve seen him trying to put the moves on you once.”

You grin, side-eying him. “What; have you been watching me? But no, he hasn’t, really. I’m glad to see them comfortable to be here, you know? This could have easily been so awkward for all of us.”

Yoongi hums in thought, nodding eventually. “That’s true. It’s a good bunch of guys they’ve managed to pick.”

“You included,” you add with a nudge to his shoulder. “You aren’t going to whip it out in the middle of the kitchen and get your turn over and done with?”

“Are you wanting me to?” Yoongi raises an eyebrow in contained surprise. “But no; I’m still mulling mine over. Seeing what the others do, what you like. I’m patient.” You stare at him, eyes searching for any signs of deception, but he seems genuine. He turns to you with a droll look and jerks his chin towards the lounge. “Taehyungie on the other hand looks like he’s warming up for the main event.”

“Does he now?” you murmur under your breath, looking over to the lounge area, where Hoseok has replaced Jungkook for most boneless contestant, spread-eagle on the carpet and sighing happily. Seokjin’s now under Taehyung’s grasp, lips not stopping for a second as he instructs Taehyung on where exactly to press and how hard. Taehyung, however, has his eyes on you, and a bolt of shock runs through you when your gazes connect.

“Come on over,” Taehyung calls out with an inviting smile. “Seokjin-hyung is almost finished.”

“Hey, you brat, you only just sta-ow!”

Jin jumps like he's been shocked, rubbing at the base of his neck with an expression like a wounded puppy.

"There," Taehyung announces firmly, "finished. Y/n, come over!"

Yoongi pushes you closer with a fond shove. "Go get 'em, tiger. Preferably in a different location to me."

"Beggars can't be choosers," you quip in a singsong voice.

"Oh, when it comes to it, I won't be the one begging," he answers casually.

You falter, open-mouthed, but Yoongi has already turned back to his phone, the faintest hint of a smirk still tugging at his lips.

Going over to the couches, you step over Hoseok’s splayed-out limbs and throw Jin an apologetic smile. The oldest contestant joins Jungkook on the couch, chatting in a low murmur with the blissed-out boy.

Taehyung waves for you to sit down on the coffee table, and you do, eying up the collection of suspicious and rather wet-looking bottles just beside you.

“Pick your poison,” Taehyung chimes when he sees your dubious glance. “Massage oils. There’s lavender, jasmine, eucalytpus and spearmint, almond oil, calendula and coconut oil - that one doubles up as lube - and jojoba oil.”

You blink, feeling overwhelmed. “Uh… What did the others use?”

“Hoseok got almond oil, Seokjin had the jojoba one, and Jungkook asked for the lubey one.”

“Of course he did,” you murmur. “I’ll have the jasmine one, if that’s okay?”

Though Taehyung seems a little disappointed at your choice, he wipes the oil on his hands off on his pants, leaving glossy smears on the soft black fabric, and reaches for the appropriate bottle. He’s dressed comfortably, just loose black cotton pants and an equally baggy tee, faded green. The thick curls of his hair still hang in his eyes, but it doesn’t seem to bother him as he cracks the lid of the bottle, pouring a generous amount of thin oil in his palm. “You’ll have to take your shirt off,” he points out, capping the bottle again.

You frown, looking over at the other guys around the room. “They didn’t take their shirts off.”

“Hoseok pushes down his sleeves, Jungkook did actually take off his shirt, he just put it back on once he was done, and Seokjin’s- Seokjin had a speedy massage.”

“Speedy, my ass,” Seokjin complains from on the couch, jostling the black-haired boy who’s fallen asleep on his shoulder.

Ignoring him, Taehyung warms the oil between his hands slowly. The sight of glistening skin, thick drops running down his forearms where he’d poured a bit too much, and the lidded look in his eyes has you obeying, and you awkwardly slip out of your shirt, balling it up and holding the fabric in your lap.

Taehyung hums in approval, stepping up behind you and nudging you into position with the backs of his hands, knuckles pressing against the bare skin of your shoulders. You feel awkward, sitting in the middle of a room of guys in your bra, but you suppose it's probably good practice considering the show you're on. At least you still had-

"Could you push the straps down?" Taehyung's voice asks lowly from behind you, already slipping into a sensual drawl, the one he must be used to putting on for clients. "We'll start with a shoulder massage."

Great. With an unsteady breath, you shuffle them down one at a time, jumping when warm, slippery hands rest on your bare skin.

"Relax," he coos, and the more he speaks the more you forget your surroundings, the other people there. "Can you close your eyes for me?" You nod, not trusting your voice. After your eyes have slipped shut, you hear him again, his voice like an anchor in a black, hazy ocean. "Take a big breath in for me. Good, and exhale. That's it."

Somewhere to your right, Jin pipes up. "I didn't get this special treatment," he points out with a petulant whine.

As his hands run up and down your upper arms and shoulders, spreading the oil, Taehyung doesn't miss a beat. "If you don't shut up, Seokjin-hyung," he responds in that same sweet and husky tone, "the only treatment you'll be getting is medical."

Jin huffs, but leaves it at that, murmuring something you can't quite pick up. As you shiver at the feeling of Taehyung's smooth hands on you, dipping in front to lightly coat your collarbones and sternum, you hear what's undoubtedly the muffled groan of Jungkook waking up. After that, a thud, an oof and three sets of footsteps patter away into the distance.

From further away, another voice, this time Yoongi. "I'm assuming I won't be getting my massage, then?"

"Another time," Taehyung calls out, the slightest hint of irritation. "You guys aren't even paying me."

The ceramic scrape of a coffee mug being placed in the sink and Yoongi leaves too, the only sound in the room Taehyung's rich voice, smooth and velvety in your ear.

"Anyways, where were we?"

You crack a smile, eyes still closed. "I'll give you another week's accommodation here if you give me a good massage. Is that payment enough?"

He hums at that, almost like a purr. Slowly, you feel the gliding swoops of his fingers begin to slow, spots of pressure as his thumbs begin to deftly seek out any tension. "Is that so?" As his fingers dig in to the taut muscle just behind your shoulders, you feel yourself sigh, mouth falling slack. "I have to say, the coffee table isn't the best place for a massage. I'd be able to give a better service if we relocate-"

You fight a moan as he targets a spot just to the right of your upper spine, pleasure rushing through your body at such a simple touch. "If you take your hands off me for a fucking second I'm kicking you out right now." Though your voice is lofty with relaxation, the threat is there, and Taehyung presses deeper, triggering a cut-off moan that falls from your lips unbidden.

"Noted," he says simply. "Eyes still closed?" At your subtle nod, he continues. "I want you to picture a meadow. Green grass, gentle sun. You can smell the flowers that bloom around you, carried by a gentle wind."

With every word, and the nimble circling of his thumbs easing the knots of tension, you feel yourself unravelling. No longer is the floral perfume from the oil, but instead from petals of every colour, rising up between blades of soft grass. No longer is the cool moving air on your skin from the air conditioner, but a natural breeze that lifts your spirits. Through it all, his hands and his voice encompass you in a cocoon of bliss, head lolled back with the depth of it.

"It's just the two of us in the meadow. We're alone here. No responsibilities or deadlines or worries. We can be at peace." You gasp, core clenching as his hands lift slightly, sliding over your oiled skin to wrap around your neck. But instead of applying pressure to your throat, his fingers find the nape of your neck, stimulating the muscles at the base of your scalp before they snake upwards through your hair, bold circles and decisive lines that have you sinking deeper into a blissful abyss, textured grass of the meadow in your mind morphing into soft sheets, the sun a warm blanket and Taehyung's hands on yours not in your hair but drifting lower, lower...

You let out a strangled moan when you realise his hands moving downwards isn't just in your dream, but in delicious reality.

"Shall we take this off?" his honeyed voice questions in a murmur, and it takes your fuzzy mind a moment or two to connect his voice to the feeling of a finger tugging at the strap of your bra where it meets the cup, his knuckles brushing against the swell of your breast.

Unable to form words, you nod breathlessly, eyes still clenched shut in pleasure.

Rather than remove it completely, Taehyung pushes the cups down, exposing you to the cool air. You hiss at the feeling on your peaked nipples, panting as his hands sweep down, pressing the flesh on either side of your breasts and cupping them in his hands. He must have stepped forward at some point, because you become aware of the way your back is tucked against his front, head at the level of his lower chest, and a distinctly recognisable hardness pressed to the middle of your spine.

The knowledge that he's getting off on this awakes your nerves even more, and when you feel his fingers come in, rolling your nipples just hard enough to feel, it's electric. You moan, sucking in gasps of air, his hands rising and falling with every shallow breath.

When Taehyung speaks again, his voice has changed; a little darker, fuller. "But you don't want to be in a meadow, do you? I bet you wish you were splayed out on a bed, feeling my hands all over you, touching you, teasing you, fucking you. Because my hands aren't the only thing you want, hm?" Your mouth never closes, an unending stream of moans and whimpers filling the air as he grinds himself slightly against you, hands slowly building up more pressure until he's kneading your breasts and tugging roughly at your sensitive peaks. You realise now why he stepped forward; you're pinned between him and his hands, writhing but unable to shake off the intense pleasure, though you wouldn't want to. He keeps you close as he bends down, hooking a leg over the coffee table so that he's sitting behind you, slipping his arms under yours to continue flicking and scraping your nipples, a new sensation of his teeth on your right earlobe joining the fray. You rock your hips, unable to find an angle that gives you any friction.

"You're such a dirty girl," Taehyung purrs in your ear, evoking a throaty groan in response. "Look at you, grinding at the table. I bet your pussy feels neglected, hm? Must be so wet for me and yet I won't touch it. I'll make you cum from this alone, make you soak your panties just from my hands on your perfect tits, how about that?"

"Please," you whimper, feeling a high begin to build inside you, but one deeper than you've ever felt before, coming from a new source.

Taehyung's fingers speed up, merciless as they wreck you, your nipples on fire even as they sing out in pleasure. He growls in satisfaction as you pant out his name. "That's it. You filthy little thing; getting off to this. Are you going to cum for us?"

You suck in a breath, brows furrowing. Us? As your climax draws unbearably close, you force your eyes open, keening when a cool gaze greets you, the lazy smile and unruffled appearance of Jimin, watching you from the couch.

The sight of him, so calm and collected, fully dressed in his usual formal attire compared to your half-naked debauchery, sends you over the edge unable to break his gaze as your thighs shoot together like you've been shocked, trembling with the force of your orgasm, Taehyung's fingers not letting up as he purrs sweet nothings into your ear, flooding your body with inescapable pleasure.

Jimin watches you intently as you fall apart in front of him, one leg crossed over the other and champagne silk shirt making his eyes seem even blacker in comparison. Though you'd been on camera the past two times you'd engaged in anything sexual, his gaze on you makes you cum harder than you ever have before, his unique quality of making you feel studied, analysed for every minute reaction.

Once you finally come down from your high, thighs shaking as they grind together and core throbbing, Taehyung takes your weight, letting you lean back against him. You tremble as he uncaps the bottle again, this time pouring a glossy streak directly on top of your breasts, the feeling of the cool liquid on your heated skin making you whimper and look down. Finally breaking Jimin's gaze, you watch Taehyung's hands collect the oil, massaging it gently over the tender skin, shushing you softly when you hiss and jump in oversensitivity.

As you gasp for air, the rest of your energy leaves you. Your head lolls back over Taehyung's shoulder weakly, and you sigh as he presses a single soft kiss, right at the base of your neck, past your collarbone.

"Show's over," he says in a low tone, the melodious flow replaced by his usual voice. It takes you a moment of confusion to realise that he isn't talking to you, but to Jimin.

You watch bleary-eyed as the blue-haired man stands up, smoothing out his pants before he steps up to the two of you. You go still in anticipation of him touching you, his eyes heavy as they run up and down your half-naked figure.

A single hand reaches out, fingers laden with silver, and you swear you don't even breathe. Rather than your breasts or your face, however, his fingers find your throat, tightening just slightly as he watches you intently, head cocked to the side.

You can feel the cold metal of his rings digging into your throat, and when he applies enough pressure to restrict your airflow slightly, you let out a thin whimper, hips rocking against the table.

With a cat-like grin, he takes his hand away quicker than it came, stepping back. "Thought so," he surmises with a lilt of satisfaction. His eyes lift up past you, to Taehyung. "Good show."

Before your mind catches up to what just happened, he's gone, the creak of the stairs the only sign that he was ever there.

You try to catch your breath, sitting up as your vision blurs for a moment, still feeling blissed out from the massage and orgasm. "Holy shit," you make out, "what the fuck just happened?"

Taehyung gets up off the table but reaches a hand out to steady you, still slippery with oil on your shoulder. "A good show, apparently," he quips, "though if you let me take you upstairs I can give you an even better one."

Your hair must be a mess, your panties are sticking to you uncomfortably with the evidence of your orgasm, and your bra is still shoved halfway down your chest, but you take one look at the need in his eyes and the tent in his pants and you're nodding. "Please, Tae. I need you."

His eyes fall shut for a moment, like he's savouring the comment, before he opens them again and fixes them on you. "Let's go clean you up. And then we can make an even bigger mess." He grabs the coconut oil, the one that he'd proudly declared had doubled as lube, and flicks you a wink.

Still with shaky legs, you slip your bra back on properly, wincing at the fabric over your sensitive nippes, and hastily slip on your shirt as you follow him up. “My bathroom?” you offer, knowing full well it would be bigger than his.

In front of you, making his way to the foot of the stairs, Taehyung pauses. “...Yeah,” he answers after a moment, “I think that counts.”

You furrow your brows in confusion, but let it slide, content to watch the outline of his ass in the thin cotton as he climbs the stairs. At the top, he turns right and makes his way to your room, opening the door with a bounce in his step.

Once inside, he beelines for the bathroom and curses lowly under his breath in awe. “This is huge,” he gushes. “A shower and a tub?” You watch in bemusement as he whirls around with a boxy grin on his face. “Can we have a bath, Y/n? With bubbles?”

His innocent glee combined with the fact that he was still rock hard in his pants makes you laugh. “Okay, sure, we can do that.” You make your way to the jacuzzi, but just as you’re reaching for the faucet, Taehyung stops you with a tug on your shirt.

“Not now,” he whines. “We haven’t had fun yet. C’mere.”

You let his grip on your shirt pull you back to him, enough momentum for him to dip his head and join his mouth to yours, the hand that grabbed at your shirt snaking around your waist to hold you close, your still-sensitive chest pressed against his. He kisses much like his massage; thorough, not holding back. His tongue runs over the seam of your lips hungrily, making you gasp, and he takes your parted lips as an invitation to devour you further, your head rocking back and force slightly with the depth of his motions. His free hand finds your hair again, winding it in his hand, tugging just enough to draw a moan from you, grinding against the hardness in pants.

“Taehyung,” you gasp as his teeth find your lower lip, nipping teasingly. “Please, I need you.”

He hums against you, licking into your mouth hungrily for one, two, three more moments before he pulls back, chest heaving. His eyes are like two points of black fire, burning into you from behind curls of hair, and the desire in his gaze has you breathless. “I’m gonna make you feel good,” he promises, ducking down to steal one last chaste kiss before he releases you, stepping away to grab a towel from the rack. It’s the same thick white kind of an expensive hotel’s, and he shakes it out, laying it on the floor. Grabbing another one but leaving it folded, he places it at the head of the towel, the side closest to the bathtub. “Let’s get these clothes off,” he guides with a husky voice.

You let him undress you, urgent but not rushed, placing every article of clothing on top of the vanity. You stand, breath hitching as he unhooks your bra, crowning each reddened nipple with a soft, reverent kiss. He kneels to undo the button of your jeans, sliding them and your panties down so smoothly that you don’t have time to be self-conscious before you’re naked. His fingers wind into yours, pulling you down and helping you lie down on your back. Your head is resting on the folded towel, and the feeling of the slightly rough fibres against your back, butt, and calves has you shivering.

“You just relax,” Taehyung murmurs from above you, running a comforting hand up and down your thigh as he kneels and uncaps the bottle of oil with one hand. You bite your lip, looking down your body to where he settles between your legs, spreading them. “Fuck, look at your perfect little pussy,” he swears. “So wet. Should we make it even wetter?”

You swallow and nod, gasping when he turns the bottle upside down, and a stream of glossy oil, slightly thicker than the other one, stripes across your lower abdomen in a broad arc. Taehyung looks so in his element as he caps the bottle and sets it beside him, palms flat as he collects the oil and spreads it, tongue peeking out of his lips in focus.

Due to being in the state of unbelievably turned on, even the feeling of his fingers slipping down the creases of your thighs has your muscles jumping, a jump as he skims past your core.

“Shh,” he soothes, voice dipping back into that sensual chant, “I’ve got you. Just relax. You can close your eyes if you want.”

But you shake your head. For now, you want to look up at him knelt between your legs, the shine of his elegant hands soaked in oils as they run over your inner thighs, stomach and mons pubis, avoiding where he knows you need him most. “It’s not fair,” you mumble, tongue feeling heavy in your mouth. “I’m naked, and you’re still fully dressed.”

He scoffs softly, barely more than a puff of air, but pulls back to lift his shirt over his head, tossing it carelessly away. One of the more tanned men in the house, he’s a bronzed god, hard chest and soft stomach, biceps flexing with every nimble movement as his hands return to your quickly heating body. “Better?”

“Better,” you answer with a pleased smile, eyes roaming over the smooth lines and shallow curves, the dusky brown of his nipples and the trail of baby hairs that lead below his bellybutton to the waistband of his pants, the elastic worn enough to hang low on his hips.

You let out a throaty sound of dissatisfaction as he continues to pass around your dripping core, rocking your hips up with a pout. "Tae," you whine, spreading your legs further apart. "Don't tease."

"But you look so beautiful when you're needy," Taehyung retorts with a smirk.

Just as you're about to protest, though, you feel a single finger slip down between your folds, rubbing against your clit. You moan openly at the sudden pleasure.

"Oh that's it, you're so gorgeous," the masseuse praises, his own chest hitching just from watching your reactions.

You groan, rocking your hips at that single finger as it simply runs straight up and down at a glacial pace.

"So needy, petal," he gushes, voice velveteen, "was the orgasm I gave you downstairs not good enough, hm?"

You pout. "It was good, Tae."

"Then why does my baby still want more?"

You pant, staring at him with pleading eyes. You don't know what he wants to hear, all you can think of is his finger lazily running up and down your core and the smirk on his face.

That same smirk widens into a grin, not boxy like usual, but darker, slightly asymmetrical. "Maybe you're just greedy, petal. Are you greedy, baby?"

You whine, legs tightening on either side of his waist. "I'm greedy, Tae, please just give it to me."

"Fuck," he swears under his breath, leaning over you to capture your mouth again, hot and needy as you finally feel his finger circling your entrance before plunging in in one slick thrust, curling inside you so that you moan into his mouth, keening underneath the pressure of his body on yours.

"Tae, fuck!" you cry as he pulls out to slip a second finger in, immediately crooking and curling them inside you like he's giving you a massage from inside. The thought has you shuddering, letting his mouth, his lips, his tongue swallow your moans of pleasure.

The sounds of his fingers as they fuck into you fill the room, and there's no way of telling what is oil and what is your own arousal, wetter between your legs than you've ever been before.

Expertly, his thumb finds your clit at the same time that he moves up to three fingers inside of you, and you cry out at the added sensation, falling apart under his trained touch.

"You're so beautiful," Taehyung pants in between passionate kisses, licking the inside of your mouth like it's oxygen. "I wanna feel you cum for me again, petal, can you do that for me?"

"Yeah," you make out, voice breaking as his fingers speed up. You can't stop moving, hips rolling and back trying to arch even as his body cages you down to the floor, mouth slack as he takes what he wants from your body, surrendered willingly.

He's so skilled with the hand between your legs that you don't realise he still has one free until you feel fingers close around one of your raw nipples, rolling the bud mercilessly. You scream into his mouth as you cum, vocal cords vibrating violently, vision whiting and body convulsing, pitched to heights as his hands speeds up impossibly, stroking at your g-spot and rubbing your clit. "That's it, you're so perfect, give it to me, Y/n."

You cry out again as his mouth leaves yours and instead ducks lower to nip at your neck, sucking a single point of colour at the base of your throat. Mouth now uncovered, your moans spill out unbidden, raising in pitch as the warm coil of pleasure turns sharp, your nerves overstimulated. "Fuh-fuck, too much," you sob, weak hands pushing at his until he pulls out.

As you fight to catch your breath, still shivering with aftershocks, Taehyung sits up, hands running smoothly up and down your sides, one slick with oil and one slick with you, though your mind is too heavy with pleasure to work out which is which.

"You did so well, deep breaths, baby," he guides in a voice like honey. It anchors you, brings your vision back and your mind back into your body. You blink, dazed, and stare up at him with an exhausted but satisfied smile. "There she is," he chimes warmly, eyes appraising you like he's proud of you. "Do you think you can cum one more time for me, petal? You're doing so well."

You let out a breathy. "Fuck. I don't-"

"I can just clean you up and help you to bed if you don't want to. I can take care of myself. You don't have to."

You bite your lip, gathering the energy it takes to lift your head off the towel, looking down to see him palming at his crotch just enough to relieve the pressure. Though you're sure he wouldn't hold it against you if you took him up on the offer, you can't deny that you want to be the one to make him cum, not his own hand.

"No, I want to go again," you decide, voice still quiet as your heart rate returns to normal. "But I'm still so sensitive."

He hums in thought. "We have options. It didn't say in your limit sheets that you were opposed to anal." Your breath hitches and you find yourself nodding, wanting to feel him inside you so desperately. "Good? Okay then, petal, I'm going to need you to turn over so I can get you ready for me, yeah?"

He helps you up, guiding you onto your knees, facing away from him and gripping the edge of the bathtub for support.

"Is this okay?" he checks one last time, and you nod, arching your back in response. Taehyung chuckles, punctuated by the sound of a cap clicking open. "So you are my greedy girl."

If there was a reply in your head, it dissolves the moment you feel a cold liquid running down your cheeks, cooling your heated core. You sigh, folding your arms on the edge of the bathtub and resting your head, eyes closing as the pressure of a single finger circles your ass, tight muscles fluttering at the contact.

"Relax for me," the masseuse coos as he breaches you, sinking in easily with the aid of the oil even as you clench around the intrusion.

There's something different about the pleasure like this. It feels deeper, primal, dirty as he slowly fucks into you, the tip of his finger crooking inside to ease your muscles.

You only realise that your hips are moving when he lays a forearm on your lower back, stilling you. You groan in frustration, but it just makes him laugh, pulling out of you to press in two fingers instead.

"Two orgasms and baby still wants more," he muses, speeding up his fingers to make you whimper, moans catching in your throat with every thrust.

"Fuck, yes, I need you now, Tae," you babble in a reedy voice, back arched under the pressure of his arm holding you steady. The room is filled with the smell of sex, but it's lifted by the floral tones of the oils he's used, and it makes your head spin, dizzy with arousal.

He pulls out his fingers, smacking your ass lightly. You wait with baited breath as he shucks his pants, letting them pool on the floor around his knees. You crane your head back to look at him, but he's already pressing his head to your entrance, pausing to pour some more oil over his length before he's snapping his hips and fucking into you, bottoming out on a single thrust.

The breath is punched out of your lungs, and your hands scramble to hold you steady against the edge of the bathtub as you cry out brokenly. "So full," you moan, toes curling.

Taehyung lets out a throaty growl as he stays sheathed in you for a moment, grinding his hips against your ass as you adjust. "Oh, fuck," he curses lowly. "So good, baby."

After another moment, you feel him shift inside you, like he's adjusting his stance. Reflexively, you grip onto the side of the bathtub, moments before he pulls out swiftly and thrusts back inside you, your whole body jerking with the force of it.

You let out a long moan, voice jumping every time his hips meet yours, shallow but quick strokes that have you drooling. With every slide of his cock inside you, so unbelievably slick with the excess massage oil, you feel yourself being fucked dumb, incoherent.

"Tae, Tae, yes, god, hngh, please Tae," you chant thoughtlessly as he fills you over and over again.

His growls of response and the slap of skin-on-skin surrounds you, flooding your senses.

"I'm not gonna last long," he warns, but you feel your own high building inside you, only needing a little more to send you over.

"Cum inside me," you gasp, "please, fuck."

He moans at that, not a low growl but a keening moan that's followed by him speeding up inside you, a hand finding your clit and stroking roughly over it with four fingers, desperate.

Your third orgasm hits you like a train, rendering your whole body boneless as he chases his high, cursing when you begin to clench around him. Unlike the other two times, you don't moan or cry out. Instead, the pleasure is so blinding that a single sound doesn't come out at all, your eyes rolling in your head and your limbs going slack.

He spills inside you moments later, hands sliding up to massage your breasts as ropes of cum paint your insides.

When the two of you come down and he pulls out of you, you can't feel your legs. He cleans you up with a towel soaked in warm water, but you're so far gone that you barely feel it, content to let him manipulate your body, eventually picking you up, your vision swirling as the next thing you feel is a mattress below you and a blanket above. You mumble something, not even knowing what, and let the smooth motions of a hand rubbing your back soothe you into sleep.

TAGLIST

All tags will now be in the comments as that’s the only way I can be sure you’ll get notified. Apologies!

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besanii · 4 years ago

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shattered mirrors 57

WangXian ; 1676 words

[set after #40 ; directly precedes #19]

“Xian-ge, if you’re not feeling well, we can ask Wangye to come back another day,” Mo Xuanyu says worriedly.

Wei Wuxian shakes his head and gestures for him to pass the pot of rouge on the table. He dabs a tiny amount onto his finger and smears it lightly over the arc of his cheekbone, blending it in to add a touch of colour to his otherwise pale cheeks. The dark shadows beneath his eyes have receded enough to be hidden by creams and powders, and he adds a touch of rouge to his lips as well for good measure.

When he’s finished, Mo Xuanyu helps him into his outer robe, a wide-sleeved robe that drapes over his thin frame, rippling over the dark grey of his middle robes like water, falling to the knuckles of his slender hands. It’s one of his favourites for the way it appears almost black until it catches the light just so and the hidden blue-purple hues become visible; it had been a gift from a client, a wealthy merchant with a generous wallet and access to Qinghe’s finest silk mills.

He shakes out the sleeves one last time.

“Come,” he says. “We mustn’t keep Wangye waiting.”

Xiao Yan is standing outside the private suite when they arrive; she jumps at their approach and shifts nervously from one foot to another as she greets them. Wei Wuxian is immediately suspicious.

“Xiao Yan, what are you doing here?” he asks. “Are you not meant to be serving Honglian-jie?”

“Xian-gongzi,” she stammers. “Ho-Honglian-jie is—”

Her eyes dart guiltily to the closed doors and his insides grow cold. He looks over at Mo Xuanyu, who nods stiffly and pushes past her to throw the doors wide open.

“Xian-gongzi!” Xiao Yan cries out in protest. “You can’t—!”

Honglian’s blood-red lips curve into a smirk from where she’s seated at the table beside Lan Wangji, her body angled towards him as she rests her chin on the palm of one hand. The edge of her outer robe is slipping off one shoulder, exposing her pale skin in what would have otherwise been a seductive manner, if it weren’t for the muscle twitching in Lan Wangji’s jaw and the intensity of his gaze on the teacup in front of him. They aren’t quite touching, but the distance between them is negligible at best.

At the sound of the door slamming open, Lan Wangji looks up with an expression of relief. Wei Wuxian doesn’t spare him a glance as he locks eyes with Honglian.

“Honglian-jie,” he says pleasantly. “What a surprise. I believe your room is down the hall.”

“Xian-er,” she responds with equal pleasantness. “So good of you to join us! I was just telling Wangye about those stunning robes Yang-daye gave you—oh, you’re wearing them now. How lovely.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes narrow as they take in Wei Wuxian’s outfit and his lips press into a thin line, but he says nothing. Wei Wuxian draws closer to the table, the smile still playing on his lips.

“Oh, it really is nothing compared to the…gifts Honglian-jie receives from her clients,” he says, letting his gaze linger on the necklace of gold adorning her neck. The words drip from his tongue, sweet and syrupy. “In fact, it is quite hard not to notice, given how vocally you…sing their praises.”

He watches as the colour rises high in her cheeks as she pulls away from Lan Wangji, her expression stormy. There is a faint flush to Lan Wangji’s ears as well and the thin line of his lips curve downward at the corners in distaste—whether it is from the action itself or the vulgarity of his words, Wei Wuxian isn’t sure, but he feels a curl of satisfaction replace the ugly feeling in his chest at the sight.

“Now,” he continues. “I believe Honglian-jie has her own appointments to keep. Please, don’t let us delay you any longer. It would be terribly rude to keep them waiting.”

Honglian sniffs disdainfully.

“I am not the one keeping my clients waiting,” she says, one hand reaching up to run through a lock of her long, silky hair where it tumbles over her shoulder. “If you hadn’t taken your time getting ready, I wouldn’t be here keeping Wangye company. You really shouldn’t waste Wangye’s time and affections if you do not take them seriously, Xian-er. I am only doing you a favour—”

Whatever she says next is cut off as Lan Wangji surges to his feet, eyes blazing.

“Honglian-guniang,” he says stiffly. “As it seems your presence here was not by request, it is no longer required. You may leave us.”

Her mouth falls open in shock.

“But Wangye—”

“At once.”

Lan Wangji’s tone brooks no argument and Honglian is shameless, but not a fool. She pulls her robes closed and slides off her seat, dipping her knees and bowing her head low while muttering an apology between clenched teeth before fleeing the room. She casts one last baleful glare in Wei Wuxian’s direction as she passes, and he meets it with a chillingly polite smile of his own. The door slams behind her.

As soon as they are alone, Lan Wangji exhales.

“Wei Ying,” he begins. “She was only—”

“Wangye is free to enjoy the company of whomever he pleases,” Wei Wuxian says, his voice polite but abrupt. “Xian-er does not dare to monopolise Wangye’s time or person.” He makes no move to approach the table. “If Wangye would prefer the company of others this evening, then Xian-er will excuse himself.”

“No.”

Lan Wangji rounds the table in two quick strides to take his arm in a firm grip. Wei Wuxian’s breath hitches at the heat of his touch, the blood thrumming in his veins beneath the point of contact; Lan Wangji uses this opportunity to step in closer, until the hem of their robes brush against each other, his eyes heated.

“No, Wei Ying. That’s not what I meant,” he says fiercely, intently. “I want no other company but yours.”

They are close enough in proximity for Wei Wuxian to feel the caress of his voice against his skin, sending little thrills down his spine. He inhales sharply, blood rushing to his cheeks at the memory of last time he had been close enough to feel the heat of Lan Wangji’s body against his, the strength of his arms around him—how, in a moment of weakness, he had clung to him in desperation and begged him to stay.

The hand at his elbow slides across to rest against his lower back as Lan Wangji shifts even closer, his other hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair back from his face.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji murmurs, his eyes following the movement of his fingers as he traces the line of his jaw, his cheek, his brow with excruciating gentleness. “You have not been well.”

A statement, rather than a question. It jars Wei Wuxian from the haze that has clouded his mind like a splash of cold water and he flinches. He pushes Lan Wangji away with hands on his chest, bitterly aware of the futility of the action if Lan Wangji decides not to yield—but he yields, as he always does, however reluctantly, and allows him to step away.

“Thank you for your concern, Wangye,” he says with as much dignity as he can salvage with the tremble in his voice and the flush in his cheeks. He draws himself up to his full height. “I am much recovered.”

It is not a lie, but not quite the truth either. The incident at Wang Dafu’s party had left him bedridden for three days; he is well enough now to resume his work, but he is still taking medicine daily, enough to warrant the need to mask the bitter, biting smell with scented oils before entertaining. But no matter how he tries to disguise his illness, he knows it is not enough to fool Lan Wangji, not anymore.

And yet, Lan Wangji does not press, even though his fine brow is knitted with concern and his hand curls into a fists where it is still hovering in the space where Wei Wuxian had been only moments ago. He exhales.

“I am glad to hear it,” Lan Wangji says quietly. “If you require anything at all—I can arrange for the best physicians, medicines, herbs to be sent here for your use. You need only ask.”

Wei Wuxian dips his knee and bows his head.

“Wangye is too generous,” he murmurs. “Xian-er is undeserving.”

He hears the intake of breath and waits for Lan Wangji to speak, to protest as he has done in the past. He is surprised by the twinge of disappointment he feels when it does not come, and masks it by rounding the table to place distance between them.

“Forgive me, Wangye, I have neglected my duties as your host,” he says with a smile. “Please, come take a seat. I will have the servants bring us a fresh pot of tea.”

He busies himself with the task as Lan Wangji takes a seat, grateful for the distraction. By the time he is seated beside Lan Wangji, he has regained his composure enough to look him in the eyes again.

To his surprise, Lan Wangji is the first to speak once they are settled.

“I have prepared something for you today,” he says. Wei Wuxian smiles.

“Oh?” he laughs lightly. “I thought it was my job to entertain you, Wangye—”

Lan Wangji reaches into his sleeve and draws out a slim box, placing it on the table before Wei Wuxian. His fingers fumble with the clasp, and he looks uncharacteristically nervous as he sits back and waits for Wei Wuxian’s reaction.

“I have been meaning to give this to you for a while,” he says. “I hope you will accept it.”

Master Post and ko-fi link on my sidebar!

#mdzs #wangxian #my writing #shattered mirrors fic #shattered mirrors au #lan wangji #wei wuxian #王爷机 X 花魁羡 #courtesan!wwx #prince!lwj #no knives #not really anyway

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vercopaanir · 4 years ago

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Keeping Warm

The Lovely Moons Series, Chapter 27

Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!Reader

Summary: The Mandalorian is unsuccessful in capturing his quarry.

Words: 5.5k

Rating/Warnings: M for mildly graphic depictions of injuries and wounds (burns).

Notes: BET YOU THOUGHT I FORGOT! Well, I didn’t. I have been very mentally tired from this new job, so I’m sorry for the delay. I hope this...well, if it’s not worth the wait, I hope it sustains us a little bit. I’ve already begun work on the next chapter, so fingers crossed it won’t be long!

AO3

You don’t know how long you sit and stare at the closed ramp of the ship, listening for the sounds of distant gunfire or voices. Your heart continues to pump blood angrily through your ears, throbbing at the thin veins threading your neck until your stomach curls into a thorny bramble of anxious sickness. You release a breath you didn’t realize you held, and you feel the gentle pressure on your arm draw your pale eyes away, down to the tiny child peering up at you with the sadness of a lost and worried little one in need of comfort.

It is natural to pick the baby up, to cradle him against your shoulder and kiss his head, sniffling against the fuzzy down that’s dusted between his ears. You both clutch each other, listening and waiting.

The ship is freezing, and it feels as if it continues to get colder by the second. You tug your cloak tighter around the two of you, the fabric clinging to your limbs where it’s been wet with snow. The heating system is old and unreliable, and you have to fumble with the panel to adjust the temperature, hoping it will actually pour warmth into the recycled air. You share a worried glance with the child when there comes a great, juddering sound from beneath the belly of the ship, and you sigh.

No noise, save the wind, continues to whistle through the cracks of the ship from outside.

Din hadn’t shared the details of his bounty with you. He had once said that it’s Guild protocol not to ask questions, not to get too deep into the quarry’s life beyond the necessary information it would take to capture and deliver. He had not spoken of any quarries to you, not since the Avalice brothers, and you think that the less you know, perhaps the better.

You still vividly recall the strikes to your face and head, the tightness of your bindings in the fathier stables, and you wonder if ignorance would be enough to comfort you. Not knowing the truth didn’t guarantee you wouldn’t be hurt again, and as you go through the motions of preparing dinner for your little one, you decide that not knowing what Din faces is worse than risking your own involvement. You try to bring back to mind the blurry image of what you had seen in the snowy field, the small smear of red against white, how violently Din had changed from a gentle and loving man to a deadly, unfeeling hunter, and you shiver harder than before.

You and the child usually share meals, but you can’t find an appetite. Your stomach is still tight with worry, hands shaking if left idle, so you sniffle against the cold and draw your cloak around the baby while he drinks soup from his favorite cup. The two of you are curled as close to the air vent as possible, the pitifully warm air doing little to chase away the chill.

When he has finished eating two helpings, you close the two of you in the refresher and run hot water into the sink until it steams the mirror and fills the small cubicle with humidity. The hot water is a precious commodity, but as the sun dips lower in the sky and darkness overcomes the world outside, the ship is practically icy. You don’t know where Din is, how long it will take him, or what, if any, trouble he may encounter, so drawing a small bath in the sink for your little child takes your mind off of those terrible ideas for a short time.

The soap is a gentle, milky emulsion of honey and herbs, and it makes the water froth with bubbles as you draw it through your hands to gently wash the baby, taking special care to clean his ears, hands, and feet. The steam curls the hair around your face, and when the child giggles and smacks the bubbles, they catch in your hair like the snow Din had dropped on you.

Wrapping him into a towel, you dry and dress him in the thickest garments you have, bundling him in his favorite blue blanket that smells of his father from how often he rocks the little one to sleep.

No amount of rocking soothes him this night. The closer he gets to slipping into dreams, the more he fights it, fussing against your breast and clutching at your dress. You avoid your shared quarters with Din, knowing it is too cold, and you don’t open the doors of the cockpit, too scared that someone outside might see the movement through the observation windows. Though, you desperately wish that you could see through them, wish you could look for any movement outside.

When the baby finally settles, you tuck him into the pram with yet another blanket and his stuffed bantha, hoping the insulation will retain the warmth better than your own body heat can. You push the pram into the medical bunk and close the door, hoping to block the cold air, and you lay a hand against the smooth steel. You yearn to climb into the uncomfortable medical cot, curling your entire body around the little one and drifting off to sleep with him, but your fears won’t let your mind settle. You can only think of the Mandalorian outside in the dark, and the gnawing sensation of something horrible won’t leave you.

You begin pacing the length of the hull again, rubbing your eyes, your brow, your face until it feels raw and pinched. You pass a short amount of time practicing movements with your walking aid, familiarizing yourself with its reach and the sounds it makes against the different spots against the walls and floors. When you grow weary, you retrieve the thick fur and blankets from the bed of the captain’s quarters and bring them back down into the hull, making a small cocoon near the air vent and settling down. You tug your gloves back on your fingers, admiring what you can make out of the soft leather. Your staff remains at your side, fully extended and gleaming in the low light.

Sleep is on the edge of your mind, just out of reach, and you focus on your breathing, letting whatever idle thoughts topple through come and go. You consider how much this ship, as cold and dark as it can be, has become your home. Once, it was an overarching shadow that made you tremble, but now it feels like a sanctuary, a respite from the outside world. As much as you miss the covert and yearn for that communal kinship, the desire to move, to wander, has planted itself in your breast. You can only hope that once this is over, you might wrap your arms around Din’s neck as he pilots, resting your temple against his helm and savoring the freedom of greedy men.

It’s unclear to you when you fall asleep, because suddenly the harsh knell of a fist against the hull’s door wakes you. It is slow, solemn, heavy.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Whoever it is wears armor upon their hands, not the soft leather gloves you are accustomed to. It is not a weapon or object being hurled against the hull either, and you suck in a breath upon the realization that someone is standing on the other side of the door. And it is not Din.

You are terrified to move, your back against the wall near the air vent. Your breath trembles with clouds in the cold air, and you bite on your lip to keep yourself quiet. The heating system has shut off, and you remember Din once mentioned that the systems would automatically expire after a period of inactivity-some kind of energy saving program to help conserve fuel.

The wind is howling outside, rushing against the metal siding, and you know if you don’t get the heat on soon, you’re likely to lose the feeling of your fingers and toes. You push yourself up, slowly and carefully, pressing your palms flat against the wall behind you. Blood rushes through your limbs, waking them from rest, and you don’t hear any retreating footsteps from the door.

If it was Din, he wouldn't knock.

If it was Din, he’d call out for you.

If it was Din, you wouldn’t be afraid.

Your eyesight is poor in the dim lighting of the hull, and you don’t feel safe enough to try and turn on the overheads. You don’t need light, however, to find the release to open the Mandalorian’s weapon locker, nor do you need to look for the shined and oiled WESTAR-34 gifted to you by Rhalaz and Briinx. Your hands shake as you hold the weapon with both hands, bracing your back against the wall across from the door, and you draw your breath from deep in your stomach. You close your eyes and focus all your attention on the sounds.

You hear the howling wind, the icy creaks of the ship shifting and settling, and then, you hear something else. Metal upon metal, as if that armored glove is dragging across the outside of the hull, feeling for an opening, for a way to get in.

Braced against the wall with the blaster drawn between both your hands, bones shaking and muscles aching from the cold, you don’t know how long you stand in the dark. Thoughts shuffle through your mind at such a speed it leaves you dizzy. Will a blaster bolt stop someone who is armored? If you cannot protect them from getting in, what will you do? You don’t know of a way to contact Din, uneducated in the communication software the Razor Crest is equipped with. And even if you were, is it safe to use when others are nearby?

But you become aware of a release in pressure, after a long time of listening and dreading, and you’re not sure how you know that the presence outside has retreated, but you do.

It’s as if the entire galaxy is focused upon you and your child for an agonizing stretch of the night, until suddenly it recedes, stars settling and moons turning back into their orbits once again.

Your breath continues to cloud the air in front of you, and your teeth begin to chatter now. When the engines are running, the air recycling system keeps the ship warm in deep space, insulating from within, but you are unsure how long it’s been turned off.

You don’t set the blaster down, shutting the weapons locker as an afterthought and crossing the hull with stunted steps. You leave your staff behind, climbing into the upper deck of the ship and opening the cockpit. You can’t be sure it’s safe to do, but the unknown-the lost, floating uncertainty of everything is too much to bear.

When the doors slide open, you squint in the blue tinted pre-dawn light, feeling your way to the pilot’s chair and settling in it, running your gloved fingers through the motions. You make a mental list of the pre-flight checks, knowing you will be spending precious amounts of fuel to burn the engines this way, but you are unsure now if you fall asleep that you will wake up again.

The engines are a soothing sound, the quiet flare of power beneath the ship reminding you of the earth growing organic life, a familiar and safe sensation as the gentle hum vibrates imperceptibly beneath your feet. The threat of an intruder seems like a far off nightmare now, only on the edge of your periphery, and you wonder if it is because you haven’t truly slept. Your instinct is to retrieve the baby, to crack open his pram and scoop him up into your arms, but you know what little heat he has is precious. You risk it if you expose him now.

So you curl into the pilot’s chair, tugging your cloak as tight around you as possible and wait for the heating system to begin chasing the chill away. You let your eyes focus and unfocus on the distant horizon through the observation windows, admiring the hues of blue and purple and gold. It reminds you of the flowers on Quanera, of the first time Din trusted you completely with his son, and salt gathers in your eyes against the powerful memories.

When the first tear pearls big enough to slip down your cheek, it releases a torrent of things you remember-the way he held you after he killed Toro Calican, the sound of the child breathing and sleeping upon his chest in the dark of the cockpit, the quiet, reserved motions of slipping into bed beside you every night with all the respect of a saint for their deity.

You wonder if your mother loved your father with such a depth, such a wrenching ache that you can hardly breathe to think of it. It hurts, a pressure bearing down upon your chest, and when you part your lips it tears a gasp from your throat. You press your head back against the chair, a small smile teasing the edges of your lips, and more tears slip down the sides of your face.

You haven’t truly considered the feelings you’ve harbored and nurtured until now, and it all unleashes with happy tear trails. It feels as if you have an answer for every question, somehow. A piece of a puzzle that has finally locked into place, you turn your face against the pilot’s chair and smell clean, cold woods.

It is when you start to doze before the lavender fingered dawn that you feel the shuddering of the ship beneath you, and your eyes fly open at the familiar sound of the ramp lowering. In your haste to throw yourself out of the chair, your legs tangle in the cloak and you nearly drop your blaster, but you brandish it between both hands as you approach the port of the ladder that descends into the belly of the ship.

Suddenly beading with a cold sweat, you hold your breath, listening intently to the sounds of a muted shuffling across the metal floors, soft grunts and harsh breathing, and then the ramp is closing just as soon as it nearly lowered completely. The ship seems to settle once more, and there’s nothing you can hear over the wind outside.

Then, you hear a sudden, heavy thud, and it might as well be your heart.

Scrambling down the ladder, your boot slips when it catches the hem of your dress, and you fall the rest of the way to land on your ankles. You feel a painful jolt from the impact up your legs, but it is a passing thought when you whirl around in the dimly lit space. There is a darkened mass quivering near the carbonite freezer, and at first you think it to be an animal of some kind until you hear the quiet static of the modulator catching on a painful drag of air.

“Din?” you whisper, slipping the blaster in the back of your sash, approaching the freezer with caution. You tilt your head downward, hoping to make out anything as you slowly kneel down and take off your gloves. “Are you hurt?”

It is so difficult for you to see, but the light catches his beskar well enough. You move to take his helmet with one trembling hand, but his own shoots out and latches onto your wrist so tightly you yelp.

“D-Don’t,” he hisses, letting you go with shaking fingers. He’s slumped against the wall, uses one hand to grapple with the hidden release of his helm before tearing it off. It hits the floor with a solid crunch, ice chipping off the steel and rolling along the corrugated grooves of the floor. You watch it roll until it comes to a stop somewhere down near the exit ramp, and you turn your eyes back to him, his hair matted with sweat and sticking to the blurry edges of his face.

He’s pale, you see immediately, almost as pale as the snow coating his clothes. You try to reach and help him take the armor off, but he bats your hand away again, growling as he rips off a pauldron, fumbling with his chest plate, peeling off the cuisse of his legs. “F-Frozen,” he whispers from between teeth. “It’ll b-burn.”

You suck in a breath, watching as each heavy piece of steel hits the ground with a slicing ring, not unlike some great beast losing its scales. You push yourself up on shaking legs, locating the crate you had been organizing a few days prior and retrieve a medkit. Once he’s torn his vambraces from his arms, you kneel back down, reaching out to remove his gloves and going still when you feel holes eating through the leather.

“W-What is this?” you ask, turning your face up to him. His eyes are like black holes against his ashen face, and you realize he’s trembling so hard, so violently that he can’t speak. You yank the glove off and jump when he yells in pain. It’s not apparent to you what’s happened until he bends over his newly naked hand, and you can see the shoulders of his woven undershirt and how they are also splattered with holes.

No. No, in fact, his shirt is barely hanging onto his frame at all.

Your eyes widen, and you can’t stop the automatic reaction of shuffling forward on your knees, quick to grab his arm when he tries to pull away from you.

At first, you don’t understand what you’re looking at because the lack of light is so watery in the hull that it seems his shirt has been worn away in places, wet in other spots until it shines beneath the light. When he lays his hand upon your knee, you look down and see it better.

His back is burned, lashes of brutal red welts becoming discolored from the extreme temperatures outside. There are blisters forming through the holes, and what you thought appeared to be melted snow is actually blood.

“L-Lay down,” you whisper, your voice cracking as your heart begins to beat out of rhythm in a terrible, frantic tune. You have to help him, his body clumsy and heavy. Din slips the rest of the way and coughs when his cheek meets the floor, his entire body juddering like the engines of the Razor Crest when they stall.

You might pass out, you think, staring in horror at his back. Perhaps be sick.

Once, you’d seen a servant burn their hand by taking a cast iron skillet from a fire, and it had not left any skin behind. Now, looking at the man beneath you, fear almost swallows you whole.

He is going to die, if not from his wounds, than an infection.

It’s only when his hand reaches out, trembling and weak to touch the hem of your skirt that you ignite. You throw yourself forward, grabbing at his boot and finding the blade he used to once cut your own dress from your body. You move carefully, kneeling beside his hip and finding the ruined lip of his shirt near his collar, and you are thankful he keeps his blades so well-oiled once more. It cuts the fabric like butter, and you go slow so that you don’t accidentally pierce his skin, cutting the shirt from his arms first and then the top of his shoulders.

The heat has finally circulated through the ship enough to chase off the worst of the chill, so when he begins to shiver even harder, you know it is not from the cold.

“Din,” you whisper, setting the knife down and bending towards his face. You lay your fingers to his cheek, your stomach falling when you find his eyes closed. “Din, you have to stay awake.”

His breath comes out in a grunt, his face twisting in pain. He whispers through his teeth again, “‘m awake.”

Turning, you throw the medkit open, finding electrolyte tablets by their bright yellow pouch and tear it open. You had read an old medical book as a teenager, finding every braille book you could get your hands on in the Moff’s extensive library. Braille is often only found in the driest and most rudimentary genres, but now you are thankful. You are by no means a healer, but you know enough that he is going into shock. You force his lips apart and shove the electrolyte tablets between his teeth, making a noise when he doesn’t respond.

“Chew them!” You yell, your voice becoming shrill in your panic. He needed water, too, but you didn’t want to leave him so you cup his chin and give his head a tiny shake. “Din!”

He grunts, and it takes him too long for your liking, but you can hear the soft clicking of the tablets breaking between his teeth. You turn back to the medkit and find several small glass bottles. You can’t read the print on them, and you struggle to find anything your eyes can make out aside from a syringe.

If you could fly the ship to a port, to a medical center, you would, but you can’t. There’s no way you can make it with your limitations beyond getting off the planet, and that wouldn’t be of any more help than being stuck here. You squeeze your fingers around the bottles before leaning back towards his face, tapping his cheek with your fingers.

“Din, open your eyes,” you say, soft and gently prodding. “Please, my love, I need your help. You have to tell me which of these is the anesthetic. I can’t see it.”

It’s good, you think, when he makes a heroic effort to lift his lashes, that you can keep him awake this way. If he falls asleep now, you know he will never wake up again.

“Is it this one?” You hold it up. He is too weak to shake his head, so he simply closes his eyes, and you want to cry. You truly do, but instead you hold another bottle in his line of sight. “This one?”

You do this for several turns before he grunts, lips pressed firmly and jerking his head in affirmation. You stab the syringe into the bottle, drawing the anesthetic as much as you dare and look back down at his back.

It will hurt, no matter how much you can give him, you realize, but removing the rest of his shirt will be the hardest part for both of you. You lay one hand on the back of his head to both steady and comfort him, and you slip the needle beneath his skin, biting your lip as you release the plunger. Once you’ve set those tools aside, you pick the knife back up and shift forward again.

“A-Alright,” you whisper, sniffling against the cold and your nerves. There is a tight, painful knot in your throat, but talking seems to ease the discomfort. You hope it might be of some comfort to him, too, might keep him awake. “I-I have to remove the rest.”

He says nothing, only seems to be focusing on breathing, so you take that as the only bit of encouragement you’ll get, and you use the knife’s tip to fold the top of the shirt backward. You aren’t sure if it’s your eyesight, the light, or the fact the burns are so spread out, but the shirt does not cling to the skin as terribly as you suspected. His gloves must be giving him more pain, you think, as you peel away the ruined, bloodied tunic and he does not move, save for a twitch of his boot.

The pattern against the golden skin of his back reminds you of fingers, licks of blood and blisters that gleam wetly under the faint yellow light. For a moment, looking upon the wounds, you feel as if you’re choking, a surge of terror rising in your throat.

It’s too much, you can’t do this, how are you supposed to do this?

Your hand grasps your throat, staring blindly at his ruined back while your other hand lays atop his own that weakly grips the hem of your dress. He is close to falling unconscious, close to never waking up, and a small voice within reminds you that if he had chosen someone else in that dirty, dusty cantina, they would know what to do.

His fingers twitch beneath your hand, a small movement that snaps your attention to the present like a hook reeling in a fish. You clamber up to your feet and cross the hull, movements muted and succinct. You take a cloth from a cupboard and dip it under a stream of cool water, sniffling and realizing you’ve been crying the whole time.

You ignore this and march like a stormtrooper back to the wounded man on the floor, rolling your sleeves up and kneeling like a supplicant before an altar.

It has been years since you read the medical book in the Moff’s library, but burns are a nasty business and are not easily forgotten. You knew better than to let the water run into the wounds themselves, nor did you disturb the blisters that could be disastrous. You cleaned the blood away, sniffling persistently as you worked. It was easy to do, uncovering the gold beneath the red.

Din grunts under your administrations, though you couldn’t be applying more pressure than a feather. The silence is suddenly too much for you, hearing his muffled noises of swallowing his pain. You want to fill the empty space before it makes you scream.

“Do you know how I knew those flowers weren’t poisonous?” you ask suddenly, thinking of Quanera and the fields of blue and purple flowers, of the baby that had babbled and happily given you and his father blooms of his choosing. “It’s all in the number of leaves. Though with all the frogs and lizards your son eats, I don’t think a flower would bother him much.”

You want to demand who did this to him, make him answer for this atrocity, but you can feel the fist he makes beside your leg, knowing how much it is costing him just to remain awake while you retrieve a bacta spray from the medkit. You pray it will be enough, pray it will flush out any chance of infection from the snow.

“Some flowers,” you go on, administering the spray from the base of his spine upward. It’s a fine mist that doesn’t make any noise, but you can see the muscle beneath the burned skin tense when he whimpers, burying his face against the unforgiving grooves of metal in the floor. “Some flowers become poisonous. Did you know that? When you make tea out of them and let them set overnight, they can become deadly.”

As if delicate things could turn dangerous, given enough time.

He will have scars, you think. Scars over the untouched planes of ocher skin you had caressed and felt when he made love to you. It breaks your heart when you reach the top of his shoulders, the back of his neck, feeling the charred ends of his curls where the fire has singed so much away. You know the burns cover the crescent moons your nails had once left, tokens of love and desire no longer bearing the evidence of the first time he put his mouth on you.

“S-Stop,” Din whispers, his voice no more than a hoarse rasp. He sounds deathly, faint and hanging onto the last vestiges of his energy. “Please, stop, Cyare, it hurts.”

“I’m almost done,” you implore, biting your lip. There is a small canister of burn salve in the medkit, meant for minor wounds from the sun or being in the kitchen. You don’t know if it will have any effect, but your limited knowledge prevents you from not trying anything. You scoop the salve out, careful to use it on the worst parts because there is so little of it.

You are halfway down his back when suddenly he begins trembling from head to foot so hard that you can hear his teeth knocking together. Your arms hang still, your eyes rolling upward to his whitened face.

“Din?”

You set the canister down, moving until you can turn his cheek upward. Sweat the size of slugthrower bullets wet his face and dampen his hair, and his eyes are squeezing tightly shut. Every word is forced, breaking in desperation. “T-Too much,” he whispers, and you think you see him bite his lip, marble teeth piercing flesh. “‘S t-too mu-much-”

You don’t know, then, if he is going to live. The tears that washed your face and the panic that you had swallowed both come back, and you grab his hand between both of yours, holding his burned fingers to your lips. “You said I wouldn’t be without you, don’t-! Please, please don’t-don’t leave me.”

But then, he does.

It’s not sudden or dramatic, like you have always imagined something like death is. In fact, it is quiet, soft, and quick, a gentle brush of air that disturbs the hem of your dress, and his entire body goes slack against the rough metal floor.

“N-No, no-” Your hands cup the back of his neck quickly, your other hand turning his face enough to pat his cheek. His eyes flutter, but no breath disturbs your fingers from beneath his nose. “Din!”

Tears the size of credits well in your eyes and begin falling, soaking your cheeks as you pat desperately at his face, his shoulder, his arm, whimpering when he continues not to move.

“Wake up-” Your lungs catch on the words, swallowing and choking on them like some kind of live creature wriggling between your ribs. Your mouth breaks open on a silent, raw sob, shaking his shoulder faster, harder, blinded by brine and panic. You draw his head into your lap, desperately trying to get him to wake, whimpering against the charred, sweat dampened black curls at the crown of his head. You rock him quickly, hoping touch will somehow bring his tattered, bloodied spirit back to you. “-You said, you promised-you said you would be here,” you choke, squeezing your eyes closed and bending over his head. “Y-You promised!”

If you just hold him tighter, you think wildly-so, so blind-he will wake up. He will.

And then, he does.

This time it is sudden, harsh and visceral like a fish breaking the surface of a choppy ocean. His arms strike out on either side of him, and he chokes on his own breath, gasping and coughing into the soft fabric of your skirt. You jerk backward, stunned and eyes widened to look down at his broken, torn body.

There, tucked near his side, you find the tiny green child pressing his two three-fingered hands against his father’s flank. Your heart will surely come up, you think, staring in awe at the little one’s ears twitching, his eyes narrowed into slits of concentration.

You are too shocked, too indignant in what you conceive to be happening to react. Din clutches at your lower half in desperation, and you watch in fearful rapture as the torn, burned flesh of his back is slowly knit together. Blisters melt away like water, the deeper slashes the fire left behind sewing themselves as if there had only been too much sun shining upon the son of Mandalore.

The child falls over abruptly, and you have to reach forward to catch him before his tiny head connects with the hard steel grating. His skin, upon closer inspection, is pale, a sickly non-color that makes you feel queasy, and he lays against your shoulder as if he is overheated, panting quietly. You cup the back of his head, turning your own ashen face down upon the Mandalorian.

He lays panting too, his entire body now drenched with sweat. His eyes are still shut tight, but the air flowing through his nose in harsh puffs gives you enough strength to stand on shaky legs. You find the medical bunk opened, the pram’s shutters parted like a well-cracked egg. You don’t know how he managed to get out of both, but you lay him inside the pram once more, pressing your hands against the steel wall and taking a deep breath.

Din’s back is smooth once again, save for a small spattering of scars you’ve felt before. His skin is heated, and you wonder if the child had to stop short, couldn’t quite draw out all of the damage. You had seen workers at the Moff’s estate with burns from the sun, spending too much time outside. You don’t know how long you sit beside him, your hand petting the middle of his back.

You do know that when he wakes, he will tell you everything that happened.

You also know that whenever you sleep, your blaster will be within your reach.

Mando’a Translations:

Cyare - Beloved

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#The Lovely Moons #The Mandalorian fanfiction #The Mandalorian x Reader #The Mandalorian x you #Mandalorian x you #Mandalorian x reader #Din Djarin #Din Djarin x you #Din Djarin x reader #my fic #my writing #oof #hope this is...ok

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fernsplaysthings · 3 years ago

Text

A couple of very small writes about Kes and Crow because...I wanted to.

Humour me and my OC x canon BS.

When Spider had originally offered a trinket from his lair as a prize for defeating the High Celebrant of Xivu Arath - anything in the room, he’d said - Kestral hadn’t had anything in mind. He had a lot of stuff for sure, but that’s all it was to them, just things that would end up stuffed up in storage until they finally decided to shift it for some extra glimmer.

At best they probably could’ve gotten their hands on a new shell for Roost.

It had only occurred to them now, standing in the middle of the room face to face with the Eliksni mob boss, the feeling of eyes on the back of their head from the presence behind and to their side slightly, that perhaps they’d be able to deliver a real blow to Spider’s plans with that offer. Spiting Spider was always somewhere near the top of their list of things to achieve since it was about time they got the upper hand on him at least once but…

Well, things had also changed somewhat and there was finally something they wanted from him.

Someone they wanted…

“You’re absolutely sure, I can take anything in the room?” they ask, letting their eyes trail over the odds and ends, relics and bits of machinery scattered across shelves behind the Eliksni’s throne, “Anything?”

Spider scoffed at their tone, obviously not unsettled by the idea that this Guardian believed they could take anything of actual value from him, “Anything.”

Dropping the facade, now certain they could pull this off they turned, locking eyes with Crow and grinning smugly, “I want him.”

As expected Crow was startled, eyes wide and raking over the Wolf’s face to find even the smallest hint that they were joking, bluffing, were insincere or trying to pull a scam at his expense. Spider however...Spider was equally startled and hiding it miserably.

“Cute. Real funny.”

“Anything in the room, you said.”

They turn, fix their stare on Spider, cold and even and completely unwavering. He chokes on an inhale, glances from one Hunter to another, back to Kestral and waving dismissively.

“Fine. You can have him. Fly away little birds.”

Without hesitation they turn, waiting for Crow to realise that he can follow them out of the lair and not have to return. It takes him all of a few seconds before pacing out by their side, glancing to his shoulder to try and figure out the Hunter to his side. They were puffed up proudly, the slightest hint of a smug smile on their face that softened as they noticed his attentions on them.

“Why...would you do this for us?”

Kestral deflated slightly, unable to hide the realisation that they weren’t sure how to explain their choices but knowing the answer they didn’t want to give, “You...you’re a Guardian.”

Crow lets out a breath and relaxes.

“Plus I can’t pass up a chance to mess with Spider,” they add with a wink.

-----

After being chased down by a pack of pike riding Eliksni, Kestral slumped down by the side of their wrecked sparrow on the edge of the ruined road, Crow quickly pulling up beside them and removing his helmet to check the damage on Guardian and sparrow. He knelt down beside them and on realising they were pretty much fine after a brief once over, he fell to his backside beside them, pulling them in with one arm.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

Crow chuckled at the memory of his own usage of the phrase, a little sad, and kissed the top of their head, “What about the sparrow, want me to fix her up?”

They shake their head, nudging it into the crook of his neck affectionately, “I’ll just blow it up.”

“How about, if you let me fix it up instead of shooting it to shit, you can take a moment to recover. We have a nice view if you ignore Firebase Hades over there.”

They sighed, sat back and nodded, “I can’t believe I’m enabling your tinkering.”

When Kestral had finally called on Roost and got themself fixed back up, Crow was already elbows deep in their sparrow trying to reconnect the parts that the pikes had blown apart with Glint shining a light into the machinery. They watched for a little while in silence, smiling at Glint when he occasionally peeked up.

“Who taught you all this stuff? With the lure. Ghosts. Sparrows.” they asked softly, trying not to startle him out of his concentration.

Without looking up he chuckled, “I think I taught myself? You can learn a lot by messing with junk, taking things to pieces and fixing garbage.”

“If I knew I was going to wind up with such a fucking smart boyfriend I probably would’ve tried to woo you a little more impressively instead of being a drunken dumbass.”

He paused, glanced up to his side where the other Hunter was leaning, “Boyfriend?”

“That’s what you’re going to take from that?” they replied with a laugh.

He flushed, laughed nervously in response, “Well, no I’m flattered by the compliment of course but, does that mean you’re my…” he stuttered, flickered his eyes down, up again, brows furrowed tightly, “my uh…”

“Girlfriend is fine.”

His expression melted and he reached out to touch their face, noticing the oil and grease on his hands just in time to avoid smearing it on them. They just laughed, took his filthy hands in their gloved ones and snuggled up closer.

“Is that alright?”

“What?” he smiled even softer, even wider, reaching his eyes and softening his brows, “Me being your boyfriend? You being my girlfriend?” he paused, mouthing the words again under his breath, enjoying how real they felt.

“Yeah, that.”

“Might take some getting used to,” he teased with a chuckle, “In the best kind of way.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to get used to it if you want, don’t worry about that.”

Barely a breath after they’d finished speaking he swept forward, capturing their lips in a sweet kiss and breathing them in deeply, unconcerned by the fact that they were parked by the side of a main road.

#guardian x crow #young wolf x crow #kestral //

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thelionbyname · 4 years ago

Text

Together We Are One (prequel part 5)

(This has kind of evolved from a fanfiction into its own story, but eh, enjoy!)

“Hey Impulse! What’s going on? Little Tango called and said you wanted me to come.” A friendly voice drifted through the house, preceding its owner: another old man, but one who still had streaks of blond hair visible between the grey strands. This man walked in slightly bent over, not because of age, but because a very small girl was clinging onto his index finger. Together, they walked over to the center of the room, where a gathering of sorts seemed to be taking place. Four toddlers were sitting on the ground, facing the old man with the dirty shirt: Impulse.

Impulse looked up at the newcomers and replied, “Zed! Yeah, well... I think it’s time to tell them, and I thought it would be easier for both of us if we did it together.”

Whatever Zed had been expecting, this wasn’t it. It seemed Impulse had uncovered some memories he had tried to suppress. His eyes were suddenly filled with pain, pain that had not been there the first time, that now crashed back like a boomerang; only temporarily disposed of. He dove head first into the rabbit hole of memories that, despite having been in a hidden corner of his mind for thirty years, were clear as day, made fresh through the pain that stained them.

“Gwampa, what’s wong?” The innocent voice of the small child pulled him out of his whirlwind of thoughts, and Zed was suddenly aware of the girl gently tugging his finger.

“I’m okay, Tekkie. Go sit down.” And to Impulse, he said, “Yeah… I guess it is.”

The little girl, Tekkie, her grandpa’s troubles already forgotten, ran over to sit next to Tango and held his hand. Her soft fingers, which had not yet lost their baby fat, easily wove through his, and were clearly very comfortable doing so. He grinned at her, and she flashed a dimpled smile back. Then they turned their heads to face their grandpas.

Zed had taken a seat in the chair normally occupied by Impulse’s wife. He automatically reached for his friend’s hand in comfort, but he didn’t know if he was comforting Impulse or himself.

And in this position, hand in hand, they started.

Though there was still pain, it was a relief to talk about it, together. It was mostly Impulse talking, because he had spent his entire life dwelling on this, analysing every mistake, remembering every thought. Every time he paused for breath, however, Zedaph continued, contributing his own perspective.

The five toddlers listened intently to the most epic tale they had ever heard. They were very good listeners, gasping at the right time, whimpering when a character died, never interrupting. Only the oldest, Tango, was aware that this was all real, not just some story.

When their grandpas got to the part where little Tango’s namesake disappeared, they could not continue. Zedaph let out a sob.

Little Tango didn’t make them continue; for a five-year-old, he was very emotion-sensitive and seemed to know exactly when it was too much. Instead, he asked them, “Did they ever come back?” though he already knew the answer.

Impulse fought to hold back tears, and choked out, “No… they never came back.”

At the same time, in another world...

“Screwdriver.”

“This one? Here you go.”

“Wrench.”

“You could ask politely.”

With the sound of metal rolling over concrete, a man emerged from beneath a complicated-looking machine. He lay on a skateboard he was using as a car creeper, and his face was smeared with oil and what looked like rust. The man blew his moustache away from his mouth with a sigh of exasperation. “For efficiency reasons I find it easier to name what I need, rather than go ‘Tango, could you hand me that drill over there?’ every time.”

“At least say please?” Tango replied.

Mumbo rolled his eyes and disappeared under the machine again. For a moment there was no sound except the steady tap, tap, tap, of a hammer, but then Mumbo spoke again. “Bolt, please.”

Grinning, Tango handed one to him and replied “That’s more like it.” He heard a sigh come out from under the machine, but he could tell Mumbo was smiling. Tango turned when he heard footsteps approaching them. Suddenly, he stood face to face with Xisuma. “Gah! You startled me, X!”

X chuckled and looked down to where Mumbo’s hair was visible. “Nearly done, Mumbo? I have something to tell you guys”

“Almost.” Mumbo sounded like he had his tongue between his teeth in concentration. There was the low buzzing of a drill, and then Mumbo rolled out from beneath the machine again. “There! It’s finished! Phew… I’ve been working on that for weeks!”

“Amazing! So now all Tango has to do is program it.”

“Yes. That’ll be done within a few minutes. But you said you had to tell us something, X?” Tango reminded him.

“Yeah. Could you follow me to the meeting room? Falsie, Grian, and Keralis are waiting for us.”

The three of them walked into the next room, where indeed there were three other people sitting around a table, playing cards. False, Grian and Keralis looked up as they entered. They looked expectantly at Mumbo, who answered the question in their minds. “It’s done,” he said, with a hint of pride in his voice. They cheered, and Grian gave Mumbo a high-five. Sort of, because since he was sitting and Mumbo was super tall, Mumbo had to give a low five to Grian’s high five.

Xisuma walks carefully past a wall covered in weapons and over to a mobile whiteboard. He turned to face the rest, who had all sat down and were patiently waiting.

“I have some rather depressing news. Every day, I walk out of my apartment and meet my neighbor, who leaves at the same time. When I first moved in three years ago and met her for the first time, she was cradling a baby of perhaps four months old. Last week, when I saw her, she was holding that same baby. Then I realised, over the course of three years, that baby had not aged at all. I see them every single morning, yet I had not registered this until last week.

“So naturally, I decided to get to the bottom of it. I found pictures of us from when we had just arrived in this dimension, and saw that none of us have changed at all either. Of course, that doesn’t say much, because adults simply don’t change much over a mere three years, which is probably why we didn’t notice before.” He paused for breath, and Grian spoke.

“So, we don’t age. Is that really such a bad thing?” He grinned.

Xisuma didn’t smile. He looked at Grian sadly, and Grian’s smile vanished. “I wasn’t done. While I was trying to find out exactly what was going on, I found some other information. I asked Tango to hack into NASA for me-”

“So that’s what that was for!” Tango interrupted. Then, catching Xisuma’s eye, “Sorry.”

“NASA managed to do quite a bit of research on the time machine before we stole it. It is a miracle that Mumbo was able to fix it, when some of the best scientists in this world couldn’t. But the point is, I found some things. We previously thought that the black hole sent us to another dimension. We were wrong. We are on the same earth, but in a different timeline.”

This revelation was followed by shocked and comprehending gasps from those listening.

Xisuma nodded absent mindedly, and continued. “Black holes warp time. This explains why we don’t age. Time flows differently here. We didn’t go through the black hole, we are inside it. It doesn’t just freeze all organic matter into one state, it slows time as we experience it. For us it feels like we have been here for three years, but back home in the other timeline, it has been ten times as long. So for the other hermits, we have been gone for three decades. They probably think we’re all dead.”

This time there were pained gasps. Remorse transformed each of their features as they realised how their friends must feel.

“But it’s not all bad. Our original plan to get back was to use the time machine to travel across dimensions, but now that we know that doesn’t apply, I made some adjustments. We need to travel through time. We know the risks of messing with the past, but it is the only way to get back. You see,” He paused and started drawing on the whiteboard. He drew a straight line from left to right, and then split the line at the end so it resulted in a rotated Y of sorts. “This is what the timeline would look like, were it possible to visualise it. This,” he gestured to the bottom of the Y, “ is when we were all still back home. And here,” he pointed at the intersection, where all the lines came together, “is where we went into the black hole. We went to one timeline, while the other Hermits continued on the other. So the only way to go back to them is to take the time machine back to before we went into the black hole, because any time after that, we would still be in this timeline.” Xisuma looked around to see if they understood. It looked like some were still processing all the information, but there was only as much confusion as what was to be expected.

False spoke up. “That means that when we go back and change the past, we erase all the suffering we caused them, and their entire timeline,” she stood up and walked to the board, “will vanish.” she wiped away one of the split-off lines.

“Exactly,” Xisuma nodded. “We need to stay hidden until our past selves have gone into the black hole, because otherwise we could seriously mess up the past. This means that we have to stay far away, because past Tango or past Cleo could sense our presence.”

At this, Tango’s eyes widened. “That’s right! I used to have telepathy! I had entirely forgotten about that…” His eyes glazed over for a second, clearly seeing things the rest could not. Xisuma’s smooth British voice brought him back to the present.

“Right, yeah. I found information about that during my deep dive into NASA’s archive, too. NASA has two theories; the first being that the black hole runs on a different frequency, one that is not compatible with magic. The magic is still in the air somewhere, but humans can’t access it. The second theory is that magic is entirely dead here, because the vortex is too powerful, and magic simply can’t survive.”

They all sat and stared blankly, remembering a better time, when they were above the regular laws of humanity. They never knew why their powers had ceased to exist when they regained consciousness after being thrown around the void, until now. At least, a theory as to why. As they thought back to when they were more than human, the homesickness was suddenly overwhelming. From one moment to the next, they were all desperate to go home. It had always remained their home, all three years they had spent elsewhere. It had never felt truly theirs here.

Tango cleared his throat, which suddenly had a lump in it, and said, “I say we leave as soon as possible. I’m going to go program the time machine so it’s ready to go.”

Everyone nodded in agreement, some wiping the silent tears from their cheeks. Tango speed walked into the room with the time machine; he couldn’t get there fast enough.

Once he disappeared past the door frame, Keralis spoke for the first time that evening. “I agree with Tango. Let’s go home. Today. Anyone have things in their apartments they want to bring to the past?” He looked around, studying each face individually. He realised he hadn’t really seen them since coming here, to this new world. He knew he would only see the ghost of his past life.

“Nah, but I do want to keep these cool suits,” Mumbo said, gesturing to the six spy outfits on display in glass cases along the wall behind him.

“I second that. I just want to go home,” Grian concurs.

Within a few minutes, as Tango had promised, the time machine was ready for departure. Somehow they all managed to squeeze into the machine designed to transport one person.

With effort, Xisuma got enough oxygen to say, “Tango, you did program this properly, right? You were in quite a rush.”

“Yes, X. Have some faith in my abilities, please.” Tango rolled his eyes. “Ready? Here we go!” he pulled a large lever- with difficulty- and they vanished in a bright flash.

* * *

#hermitcraft #hermitcraft fanfiction #Tangotek #tango tek #Xisuma #Xisumavoid #Falsesymmetry #False symmetry #MumboJumbo #Mumbo jumbo #Grian #Zombiecleo #Keralis #Keralis1 #Impulsesv #Zedaph #Zedaph plays #Zedaphplays

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cheri-translates · 4 years ago

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[CN] Shaw’s Encounter Date

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date (and Season 2) which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

It’s important to know what’s going on in Season 2 so you wouldn’t get confused in this date. Do read this post if you don’t! :)

Parallel World Dates Collection: Gavin // Kiro // Victor

Check out @skyholders‘ translation of Lucien’s date here!

Making use of the university vacation, I return to Loveland City to begin practicing producing programs with the company.

Once I'm done with my afternoon work, I smile and lean towards Anna’s desk.

MC: We did quite a lot today. Thank you Anna.

Anna: I didn’t actually teach you much. You’re quick-witted, and you move fast.

In front of her desk, Anna looks at the time and smiles at me.

Anna: There’s nothing much left for today. Go back early, and I’ll see you tomorrow.

Standing under the office building, I look towards the continuous crowd on the road and let out a long sigh.

During this season, Loveland City is the same as always, filled with water vapour and lush greenery. This normal afternoon is similar to the peacefulness and comfort in my memory.

Everything I've been through before, along with time’s unstoppable passage, causes familiar and foreign faces to continuously overlap.

Clearing my head, I stand at the bus stop. A bus happens to stop, and it displays three numbers: 330.

My heart suddenly skips a beat. I act without thinking, stepping forward like a puppet.

“Ding.”

When I regain my senses, I’m already on the bus that’s travelling in a completely opposite direction from my home.

MC: ...

I can’t help but release a sigh, mocking myself silently in my heart.

There aren’t many passengers on the bus. I sit at the same seat as before - the one against the window.

Outside the bus windows, pedestrians weave around busily. The noon sunlight falls onto the glass, making one feel warm.

However, I can’t help but recall that scene--

The early morning. Empty streets. Everyone feeling anxious in response to the danger...

And that unreasonable person who arrives and leaves whenever he wants to.

It seems like a world away, but it was real.

An inexplicable bitterness arises in my heart, and I rub my eyes.

MC: Where... could you be now?

While I’m mumbling to myself, the bus happens to stop at a familiar crossing. I lift my head subconsciously, staring closely at the entrance, as though anticipating something.

Even after the doors shut, no one boards the bus.

I smile in self-mockery, returning my gaze to the window.

MC: It makes sense. It didn’t happen at this time originally... since he said he wouldn’t be late again, I’ll trust him for once.

With the roar of the engine, the bus continues on the road.

Suddenly, along with the sound of wheels violently scraping the ground, the bus stops.

Losing my balance, I hit the chair in front of me with a dull thud.

MC: Ouch...

Bus driver: Do you want to die! You dare to block a bus!

The driver’s cursing brings me back to my senses. Even though I know I shouldn’t harbour such expectations, I can’t help but lift my head--

Carrying a long black bag, the lavender-haired man walks over.

[Note: Some CN players pointed out that Shaw shouldn’t be carrying a long black bag i.e. guitar bag. He should be carrying a skateboard.]

Under his scattered bangs, his lazy eyes meet mine.

He still has that casual and arrogant look, and doesn’t seem to care about the episode he just caused.

The light casts a faint halo on his messy hair, making every step he takes towards me appear unhurried.

In the next second, he sits down in the seat next to me.

I feel a little confused, as though someone has pressed a “freeze” button on me. I’m so shocked that I can’t move. I can only stare at him.

He puts down his skateboard, placing it upright in between us. He crosses his legs and takes out a black mp4 from his pocket--

Only now does my blood continue to flow. I sense a wave of inexplicable happiness within me, and I blink my slightly swollen eyes slowly.

Noticing my gaze, he turns his head over, eyebrows arched high. One corner of his lips crooks up into a smile.

Shaw: You want to listen?

MC: N-no.

I wave my hands subconsciously. Only after saying this do I realise the familiarity of this conversation.

In the quiet bus, that familiar tune of <<Holiday>> flows from his earpieces, though it isn’t very clear.

The familiar scene is like a replay. My heart feels as though it’s been tapped by something, and it’s difficult to remain calm.

Feeling slightly confused by this coincidental meeting with Shaw, I can’t help but turn and give him a glance, unsure of what to say.

MC: You...

Shaw: You want to ask about this?

Shaw casually sways the black cube in his hand with a half-smile.

Shaw: It’s a music player.

Different from typical music players, it has two extra dials at the bottom. The metal panel looks very shiny and smooth, as though it hasn’t been used for long.

Even though there are many things I want to say to him, I think about the “warning”--

“Your unintentional actions may lead to irretrievable consequences.”

I bite my lip and decide to quell my ideas. I continue.

MC: ...I see.

For some inexplicable reason, a patter of rain suddenly descends on this originally sunny afternoon. Before I can think about it, the bus makes a sudden sharp turn-

MC: Oof!

After getting hit, I cover my forehead with one hand. By the time I steady myself, Shaw’s eyes have already turned into impatient arcs, and he says directly to the driver:

Shaw: Oi, drive slowly!

Bus driver: This is a public...

With disdain in his eyes, Shaw stores away his earlier nonchalance, and says coldly.

Shaw: Drive slowly, do you hear me?

Intimidated by Shaw, the driver quickly nods. Shaw runs his fingers through his hair, and regains his earlier expression in an instant.

The ends of his narrow eyes are slightly raised, and he shoots me a playful look. He curls the corners of his mouth and his smile deepens.

Shaw: You bumped my skateboard.

This brat - he’s still the same as before!

MC: I’m sorry, I’ll apologise to it then.

She recalls the last time she saw him on the roof (Ch 37 of the main storyline, before Season 2) and his casual farewell

She decides that while Shaw has re-entered her life on his own terms, she wouldn’t let him leave casually again

It starts pouring heavily, and the bus driver asks everyone to get off

Shaw refuses to do so

Shaw: You want us to get off just because you say so? Who are you to say this?

MC tells the driver that since they aren’t in a rush, they can wait for the rain to become lighter before continuing the journey

She’s also secretly happy to extend this moment with Shaw

Soon, apart from the driver, only Shaw and I are left on the bus.

I cast sweeping glances at Shaw several times. I clear my throat, about to greet him formally--

Shaw: Oi...

I’m caught off guard when he suddenly turns towards me, his eyes teasing and amused.

Shaw: You’ve looked at me so many times... tell me, what do you want?

Tremendously loud thunder resounds in the sky. Heavy rain splatters against the glass windows, leaving behind smears like those in an oil painting.

I’m caught off guard by his sudden remark.

MC: You really don’t plan to leave the bus?

Shaw: Is there a problem?

MC: It looks like the rain will continue for a long time. Simply waiting seems boring. Why don’t we have a chat?

Shaw doesn’t respond immediately. He narrows his eyes and looks at me, his eyes revealing a meaningful expression.

Realising something, I immediately straighten up and my mind starts whirring.

MC: Actually, I’m an intern producer. I recently participated in a program related to Loveland University. You should be a University student too, right? Are you interested in being interviewed?

Shaw: Not interested.

MC: ...

Even though he rejected me outright, I had already expected it. Taking a deep breath, I try again.

MC: This interview is not a typical interview. It’s even more interesting than you can imagine. It isn’t boring at all. Also, I guarantee there wouldn’t be more than five questions! How about that - are you willing to cooperate?

I widen my eyes, looking at him expectantly.

Shaw tilts his head to the side. After looking me up and down for a few seconds, he closes his eyes and leans back against the seats comfortably.

Shaw: [sighs] Fine, ask away.

I feel refreshed with his agreement, and immediately retrieve a pen and paper from my bag, putting on a serious expression.

MC: May I know what your name is...?

He pouts. After two seconds, he lazily responds.

Shaw: Shaw.

MC: Are you a student from Loveland University?

Shaw releases a lazy “mm” from his nose.

MC: Archaeology?

Once the question leaves my lips, Shaw arches his eyebrows, looking at me playfully.

Shaw: How did you know?

MC: ...based on your temperament and appearance.

Shaw: Oh. Unfortunately, you got it wrong. I just got my research qualifications, so it doesn’t count.

MC: ...

I continue wearing an unfazed expression on my face, but am secretly shocked.

This person is pretty amazing.

MC: ...since you say this, you must really like antiques then?

Shaw: They’re all right.

MC: As a contemporary university student, you definitely have other hobbies apart from your own studies, right? For instance... something band-related?

Shaw widens his eyes and looks at me once he hears my words. Afraid he’d see through me, I squeeze out a professional, business-like smile.

The corners of his lips slowly curl into a teasing smile. Just when I think he’s about to respond, he suddenly snatches away my paper and pen.

MC: Ah!

Shaw: Your handwriting is really ugly.

He sweeps over my notes, then closes the book.

Shaw: Didn’t you say it wouldn’t be boring? Your interview doesn’t seem to match what you guaranteed.

MC: This is just the beginning. I haven’t reached the interesting questions yet!

Shaw: Stop taking notes. Let’s just chat casually. Also, what’s your name?

MC: ...MC.

Shaw: Which production company are you interning at?

MC: I’m the one interviewing you. Why are you the one asking me questions now?

Shaw: You’ve asked more than enough. It’s only fair if it’s reciprocal.

In the midst of conversing with Shaw, we seem to get to know each other again seriously.

The rain has become lighter, and the bus finally reaches the final stop slowly.

Once we leave the bus, he suddenly stuffs a transparent umbrella into my hand, then turns around to leave.

The water kicked up by his black sneakers splash onto his ripped jeans.

Shaw: You’re welcome.

Shaw lifts an arm and waves it. His lazy voice drifts towards me, entering my ears.

Watching his retreating form, I grip the umbrella tightly and bite my lips.

The trajectory of destiny is always deviating, yet seems to meet sometimes. Since meeting him again was destined to happen--

I no longer hesitate, and run in the direction where Shaw left. The water under my feet splashes, but the only thing I’m afraid of is not being able to run fast enough.

Finally, I see him at the intersection in front--

MC: Shaw! Wait for me!!

Shaw doesn’t seem to hear me, and he turns right into a small path. I hurriedly chase after him and enter the corner--

MC: Oof!

I crash into a sturdy yet warm chest.

Shaw is leaning sideways against the corner of the wall, one hand gently holding onto me, and the other stuffed in his pocket. He has a calm and relaxed expression.

Shaw: What is it? You like my skateboard that much?

I immediately straighten up, and realise that I’ve knocked into his skateboard again.

MC: ...

Shaw: Why did you call out to me? Just to make things clear - the interview is already over. No matter how many questions you ask, I won’t answer.

His familiar expression makes me want to tell him many, many things. Even after opening and closing my mouth a few times, I have no idea where to start. It seems as though no matter what I say, it wouldn’t be appropriate.

After some hesitation, I finally lift up the umbrella in my hand.

MC: I... I’m here to return the umbrella!

As though responding to me, rain starts to patter down around us, and onto Shaw’s hair. It looks like a soft halo.

Slightly surprised, I look towards the inexplicable light rain. I happen to see the imperceptible smile at the corner of Shaw’s mouth.

He seems... to be in a good mood?

MC: Since it’s raining again, here, I’m returning the umbrella!

Shaw stares at me fixedly for two seconds, his smile widening. Finally, he settles on a playful smile.

Shaw: ...quite interesting.

Unable to hear him clearly, I ask “what?”. He doesn’t repeat himself, but takes the umbrella from me.

“Pa.”

The transparent umbrella suddenly opens above me. Rain drops patter continuously on the transparent umbrella.

The pitter patter of rain enters my ears.

MC: Do you feel the rain getting heavier?

Shaw: Want to avoid the rain?

MC: Ah?

Shaw: Let’s go. That place doesn’t look too bad.

He brings her to the Street Art Exhibition House

She starts talking about including this location into her program

Shaw catches her in her lie: Wasn’t her program about university students? Why is she suddenly talking about exhibitions?

MC gives an excuse on how she’s able to multi-task

Shaw: It’s best to be focused during your internship. It’s not good to be distracted.

MC: ...sounds like you have working experience?

Shaw: I don’t. Who says I need to have experience to offer advice?

Shaw: Oi, do you know me?

MC: ...!

My heart leaps, and I instantly deny it in a loud voice.

MC: How is that possible!

Shaw: Really?

MC: Of course!

Shaw: So why did you chase after me?

MC: Didn’t I say it was to return your umbrella...

Shaw: Ohhh...

He deliberately elongates his words, a doubtful expression flashing across his eyes.

MC: If you don’t believe me...

Before I finish speaking, Shaw suddenly steps on the nearby stairs, turning around to face me.

Shaw: I even thought you were here to look for this!

He whips out a key which has a rabbit doll attached to it. He waves it in his hand gently.

MC: Isn’t this...

I hastily lower my head to dig through my bag, then realise my keys are missing.

I reach out, wanting to take the key from him. Before I can say “thanks”, Shaw has already clasped the key in his palm.

Shaw: I picked this up on the bus. It belongs to me now.

MC: ...where does such odd logic come from!

Shaw: You want it? That’s not impossible. What have you prepared in exchange?

Hearing Shaw’s tone, I release a resigned sigh. After offering him a series of items in exchange, he still isn’t satisfied, and wrinkles his eyebrows.

MC: You don’t like this, and you’re not satisfied with that. Why don’t you suggest the item?

Shaw: Oi, give me your phone.

MC: What do you want?

Shaw: Why do you have so many questions?

After saying this, he points at my phone, slightly impatient.

Confused, I hand my phone over to him, and watch as his fingers rapidly tap a series of numbers. In the next second, his own phone ringtone sounds clearly.

Shaw: Done. You owe me. We’ll talk about this next time.

As he says this, he throws the keys to me with a flick of his wrist.

Seeing that he’s about to leave the exhibition house, I lower my head and look at the key in my hands. I ask:

MC: Why did you pick up this key just now?

Shaw pauses in his steps. Then, his lips curl upwards.

Shaw: Who knows... the look of you running over was even more interesting than I thought.

Standing in place, I think about his words while in a trance. Already at the door, Shaw suddenly turns around again.

Shaw: Also, regarding the last question you asked in the interview... come watch my band perform in Live House when you’re free. That’s all.

With these words, Shaw turns and leaves.

A fine curtain of rain interweaves with the doorway he vanished into, just like a flowing background.

And our interweaving... has just begun.

🌸 MOMENTS 🌸

Shaw: The keychain is even bigger than the key. What a bother.

MC: What kind of keychain wouldn’t be considered bothersome then?

Shaw: Why should I tell you?

Shaw: The keychain is even bigger than the key. What a bother.

MC: To thank you for picking up my keys, why don’t I treat you to a meall?

Shaw: It depends on what you plan to treat me with.

Shaw: The keychain is even bigger than the key. What a bother.

MC: You don’t find it cute?

Shaw: No.

Phone Call: here

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc shaw

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