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fortheloveofwonderland · 4 years ago

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Losing So Much Time | Part Nine | S.R

A/N - part nince of LSMT series. Find the series masterlist here. Taglist and Requests are Open.

CW: Vague mentions of Gideon’s death, italics are letters sent between Spencer and the reader. A face from the past rears their ugly head. Some angst, light aggression. This one's light on the smut too. Mostly dirty talk in the form of letters, hinted at masturbation. Some penetrative sex, unprotected sex. Angsty ending.

WC: 4.7K

Salt Lake City, Utah - 2014

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

While that was certainly true, you and Spencer also learnt over the last nine years that absence also makes the sex better.

There’s something so animalistic about your first time. It’s hungry, desperate, raw. It never lasts long, but you try lasting long when you hadn’t had any in a year. And that paired with how fucking perfect Spencer’s dick felt inside you, it was impossible to stave off your orgasm.

It would be almost embarrassing if Spencer wasn’t in the same boat, coming mere seconds behind you.

Afterwards you laid in each other’s arms as you came down from your high.

It was always the same. Every year. You loved the time you spent together but as time went on it just wasn’t enough anymore.

You tried to stem your need for him in any way you could. Work was constant now you were unit chief which helped. You spent almost all your time in the office these days. If Spencer had been in LA you wouldn’t have much time for him anyway.

Over the last year, you had taken to writing letters to each other. Spencer loved putting pen to paper and his prose was like music to your ears. You always found solace in those letters. You hoped he found it in yours too.

***

Y/N,

So here it is, my first letter. I have to be honest with you, I am a little nervous as I sit here at my desk at home and stare over a blank page, pen poised in hand. I want to make sure the words I share with you within these pages are magical. Maybe I’m putting too much pressure on myself. I just want to enrapture you the way your favourite book would.

But I’m no writer, so I’ll just have to hope you like what I have to say.

I want to start by being frank with you, I miss you. It’s only been a month but I yearn for you. My whole body aches for you.

I wonder if you’d like to know that for several nights I have touched myself while I think of you. I try to imagine it’s your own hand wrapped around me, that you're kissing me and looking down on me with those beautiful eyes of yours.

It’s usually over fast, I say your name as I come. It’s not the same though. My hand is far too large and rough to really perfect your delicate strokes.

I am getting hard in my pants thinking of it. I’m using my free hand to rub myself through my slacks and if not careful I may well come just like this.

I wonder, if you were here, what would you do to me? Would you stroke me to completion? Would you wrap your glorious mouth around my shaft until I was coming undone at the seams.

Would you fuck me until I was a complete blithering mess beneath you?

Ok, I am extremely hard now.

I think I may have to bring this letter to a close as I have some...business to attend to now. I’m sure you can imagine what.

So I will leave you with this: just know I am never not thinking about you. I miss you and I am counting down the days until I can see you again.

Yours forever,

Spencer Reid.

***

“What are you thinking about?” Spencer surprised you when he asked.

You shifted in bed so you could look at him.

“I was wondering how many more times we could have sex before the night is through.”

Spencer gave you a look that told you he didn’t believe you.

You sighed and placed a gentle kiss to his lips.

“I was thinking,” you began, “you and I, it’s as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent down to earth together, to see if we know what we were taught.”

“Doctor Zhivago.” He smiled. “I do believe we do know.” He kissed you again.

“Me too.” You agreed.

He ran his fingers through your hair and kissed you again, deeper this time.

You knew what that meant. You rolled yourself on top of him, feeling he was already hard again.

“Ready for round two Doc?” You spoke into his lips.

“I’m always ready.”

***

Spencer,

Believe me when I say I couldn’t make it through your whole letter in one go. The thought of you touching yourself made me wet in an instant so I had some of my own business to attend to.

I read over your words as my hand went inside my panties. Your words were enough to get me there quickly. Not as quickly if it had been your own hands in my underwear mind you. It’s as though you know my body better than I do.

Tell me Doctor, if I were with you, what would you have me do? Would you prefer my hand, my lips or would you prefer it if I just cut to the chase and buried you inside of me?

The marks you left on my body on our last night together have faded but if I close my eyes I can still see them. Next time we meet I hope you mark me the same way. Show me I belong to you with your lips.

At night I find myself trailing my fingers over the places that were once bruised by your lips. I close my eyes and try to imagine your lips sucking the marks into my skin.

Oh how I miss those lips Doc. I miss the way they feel all over my body. I miss your large hands whether they be cupping my breasts or your fingers between my legs. I miss the feel of you inside me and the way you fill me up so perfectly.

I can feel the dampness spreading between my legs as I write. If only you were here to lap me up.

My hand is shaking as I write at the thought so I may have to bring this letter to a close.

Know I am always thinking about you too.

Until we meet again,

Y/N

***

The second time was slower and less frantic. You were on top, riding Spencer as he marvelled at the way your breasts bounced with your movements.

“You are a damn goddess.” He moaned as he spoke.

His fingers found your clit and he massaged you as you continued to fuck him.

Your orgasms came, although not as fast as the first it didn’t take too long.

You knew each other’s bodies too well.

You rode out your orgasm with Spencer still inside of you. Once you were both completely expelled you rolled back down to the mattress.

“We’re supposed to be at the mixer.” Spencer reminded you.

You groaned a little.

“Do we have to go?”

“Hotch insisted I be there.” He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay in bed with you for as long as humanly possible.

“Well as unit chief I give myself the night off.” You grumbled.

“You aren’t my unit chief. I have to go regardless.” He sat up and swung his legs out of bed.

“Why do they organise these things in personal time? Hurry back.”

“Come with me.” He came to your side of the bed and reached for your hand. “I’ll make it worth your while.” His eyes darkened.

“Oh yeah?”

“Of course.” He started tugging you out of bed. “We need to shower though.”

“Shower sex?” You smirked as you allowed him to drag you to the bathroom.

“Just try and stop me.”

***

Y/N,

I’m writing this to you from a hotel room on the outskirts of Arizona. Hotel rooms are never the same without your presence. Sleeping between those sheets alone isn’t the same, I often find myself reaching for you in the night only to be met by cold sheets.

I say that as though I don’t do that when I’m home but I do. No matter where I lay my head at night my subconscious brain always tries to find you in the night. I think my body and mind are constantly just calling out for you.

It’s been five months, to be specific it's been five months one week and two days, which means it's still seven months until I see you again. Not even halfway. I try to not think like that but it’s difficult not to when all that I am yearns for you. My hand alone is not cutting it anymore. Each time it takes me longer and longer to reach my climax despite the images of you in my head.

It’s just not as good as the real thing. You know how to work me better than I do myself. My hand is not as adept at bringing me to orgasm as your own. It’s somewhat frightening when I think about it, I never dreamed there would be someone in this world who would know me better than I know myself.

I think my team has been suspicious recently, honestly it’s amazing I’ve managed to keep this kind of secret from a team of profilers for so many years. JJ saw me reading over one of your letters in the office and I tried telling her it was from my mom but I don’t think she brought it.

Morgan told me I had a “glow” when I came back from New York. His exact words were “hey pretty boy, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were getting some loving.”

I don’t think my flushed cheeks helped subside his suspicions. I changed the subject hurriedly but I don’t think he was buying it. He’s let it go for now but I’m sure it will inevitably come up again. He’s my friend but I don’t want him to know. Is it wrong that I like keeping you as my secret?

It’s been a long day and I am growing weary as I write so I will bring this letter to a close. I’m sure I will dream of you.

I always do.

I hope to hear from you soon my love,

Spencer

***

You tried your hardest to convince Spencer to stay in the room with your lips around his cock as you showered. It almost worked. But he didn’t want to have to explain to Hotch why he didn’t make it to the mixer.

“You still haven’t told me about Gideon.” you spoke as you dried yourself off with a towel. He had been vague in his letter when he spoke about what happened. You had a feeling he didn’t want to talk about it now either.

“You’re trying to bait me.” he replied without looking at you as he buttoned his slacks.

“I’m trying to engage you in conversation.”

He sighed, turning to face you and trying to ignore you were stark naked.

“We’re going to be late and you are doing this deliberately. I don’t want to talk about the events surrounding my mentors death right now.” he grabbed a clean shirt and wrapped it around his shoulders.

“I am sorry you know, he was an impressive man from what I knew of him.”

“I know.” he nodded stiffly, buttoning his shirt. “Please get dressed Y/N.”

You smirked, knowing it really wouldn’t take a lot to get him back into bed with you. But you supposed you didn’t want to get him in trouble with his unit chief.

“Fine.” you laughed, locating your clothes. “But you can’t make me wear panties.”

***

Spencer,

I am so, so sorry to hear what happened to Gideon. It is a tragic loss, he was a great man and I know how much he meant to you.

I’m glad you and your team managed to catch the man that did that to him but I’m sure that provides little comfort.

I’m sure he knew you still thought of him even though you say you’d hadn’t spoken in a long time. I’m sure your relationship meant just as much to him as it did to you.

I wish I had some comforting words for you, something that would help you through a time like this but I don’t. All I can say is I’m sorry and if you ever need to talk I’m here.

I wish I could hold you until all the pain goes away. But I know you Spencer and I know how strong you are. This storm too shall pass.

Don’t feel in a hurry to respond as I know you must have a lot on your plate right now. I’ll be here when you need me.

Until I next hear from you my dear,

Y/N

***

“You have got to be freaking kidding me.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. You were frozen to the spot.

“What?” Spencer frowned at you and followed your gaze across the crowded bar in the conference center.

His eyes landed on what you were staring at and his blood immediately boiled.

“He’s got a nerve.”

“To even call himself an FBI agent is a joke. I’ve got half a mind to-“ you went to storm in his direction but Spencer’s hand around your wrist stopped you.

“Don’t Y/N, he’s not worth it.”

The he Spencer was referring to was none other than Casey Langley.

“He shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.” He tried to calm you. “Trust me Y/N after what he did, trying to force himself on you, I want to kill him. But he’s not worth it.”

He still had his hand circling your wrist, his fingers massaging your pulse point.

“Fucking jackass.” You hissed angrily.

Suddenly you tugged your arm free of Spencer’s grasp and were walking away from him.

“Y/N!” He tried to call after you without actually making too much noise and drawing attention to himself.

He sighed, knowing he had to go after you, he couldn’t leave you alone with him.

He followed hot on your trail.

Once you reached Casey you didn’t even stop to speak, just grabbed him by his large bicep and dragged him with you.

“Y/N what the hell!” He grumbled at you as you dragged him to the nearest exit.

You pulled him outside into the courtyard and let go of him.

“You’ve got a nerve to be here.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow at you. “And why is that? I’m an FBI agent aren’t I? And correct me if I’m wrong but this is an FBI conference is it not?”

Just then Spencer stepped outside looking a little flushed.

“Y/N, just leave it please?” He begged you.

“Oh it’s your nerdy friend. I remember you.” Casey smirked. “Why is he following you around like a lost puppy?”

Spencer pulled a face. Nerdy friend? Lost puppy?

“That’s not what I dragged you out here for.” You growled at Casey. “I cannot believe you would show up here, you knew I’d be here!”

“Darling, I most certainly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t call her that.” Spencer spoke up, trying to hide the fear from his voice.

“Excuse you?” Casey frowned at him. “I’ll call her whatever I like. I can’t see that it’s any of your business.”

“The reason you shouldn’t be here,” Spencer stepped closer to him, squaring his shoulders. “You know full well but let me spell it out for you. The reason you shouldn’t be anywhere near Y/N is because you tried to force yourself on her! What kind of man does that?” Spencer was seething. He had never felt this angry in his life.

“That’s what she told you.” Casey chuckled. “Wow she’s a peach. I’ll have you know, she was begging for me. I told her no because I wasn’t interested but she was desperate for me.”

“That’s a lie!” You spoke up. “That’s not true.”

“Oh darling come on, let’s be honest here.” Casey grinned at you menacingly. “I don’t need to force myself on anyone. You wanted me and you didn’t want to take no for an answer.”

“No.” Spencer shook his head. “Y/N wouldn’t lie to me.”

Casey stepped towards him and placed a large, meaty hand on Spencer’s shoulder.

“Oh I see what’s going on now.” he smirked. “You two are a thing. How cute.” he chuckled dryly. “She lied to you because she didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Sorry pal but she couldn’t keep her hands off of me. The thing you will learn about Y/N is that she just can’t keep it in her pants.”

“That’s not true!” you yelled. “Spencer, you aren’t believing this bullshit are you?” you glared at him wide eyed.

Spencer swallowed looking between you and Casey.

“I...I don’t know.” he confessed. He didn’t want to believe it but he had his doubts in you. After all, you’d been so quick to fall into bed with him when you first met, what’s to say you weren’t always like that?

“Spencer.” you sniffed, feeling tears brim in your eyes. “Casey is a jackass! Don’t believe a word he says. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“You made it clear back then we were casual.” he shrugged. “You got engaged once, what’s to say you didn’t sleep around too.”

“Ouch.” Casey chuckled. “She clearly doesn’t care about you man.”

“Shut up Casey!” You slapped him around the face. “Spencer please don’t listen to this. It’s all lies, he’s trying to fuck with you.”

“I don’t know what to believe right now.” He shook his head, feeling dangerously close to tears. “I need to go.”

“Spence please!” You went to reach for him but he turned his back on you and fled.

You wanted to go after him but not before you gave Casey a piece of your mind.

“You son of a bitch.” You slapped him again. He looked as though he was enjoying it. “Why would you do that?”

He shrugged.

“Couldn’t have you tarnishing my reputation.”

“You tarnished your own reputation you ass hat.” you went to push past him because you couldn’t stand to look at him anymore and suddenly giving him a piece of your mind didn’t matter as much as going after Spencer. But as you pushed passed him, he grabbed you by the waist.

“We aren’t done here.” he growled at you, pulling you towards him.

“Get your hands off of me you motherfucker.” you spat at him. “All it will take is for me to scream and you will be surrounded by feds in seconds. So get your hands off of me.”

Casey looked into your eyes to try and tell if you were bluffing or not. He decided you weren’t and he let go of you.

“We aren’t done here,” he repeated.

“Yes, yes we are.” you spat again and then you shoved him out of your way and this time he let you pass.

You followed the same trail back across the bar you had taken earlier. You needed to find Spencer.

If Casey had ruined things between you and Spencer, you would kill him.

***

Y/N,

I’m sorry it’s been a while since my last letter. After Gideon’s death I sprialled if truth be told. I took some leave from work because I needed to get it all clear in my head. I thought about coming out to see you, but to be honest I just wanted to be alone.

I haven’t seen him for so long and it was only when he died did I really realise that. If I’d known I didn’t have much time would I have made more of an effort to see him?

It didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t fair. I kept trying to replay a chess match with him over and over, so much so I wasn’t sleeping.

I let the grief consume me.

I’m doing better now though, I’m back at work, I’m sleeping better. I think I’m going to be ok.

It’s only a few months now until we meet again and I am back to counting down the days once more. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms Y/N, I so miss the way you fit so perfectly in my arms.

We’re about to leave for Ohio for a new case, wheels up in thirty. But I wanted to get a chance to write to you before we left, so I’m sorry this is a little short.

But it won’t be long until we’re together again.

Until then my love,

Spencer.

***

You could tell he’d been crying when he opened the hotel room door. His eyes were bloodshot and he had tear stains on his cheeks.

“Do you really think I would do that to you?”

“I don’t know what to think Y/N.” he let you in the room and you closed the door behind you.

“You’re still mad at me for getting engaged aren’t you?” it hadn’t been brought up in a while but you could see now Spencer was still upset about it.

“Not mad.” he shook his head. “But I guess it still hurts a little. And if you could do that then what’s to say you wouldn’t make a move on Casey?”

“Casey is a lying jackass. I wouldn’t lie to you Spencer.”

“I know.” He sighed almost in defeat. “Logically I know he’s lying because he is a terrible person. Logically I know you are telling me the truth. But my logic isn’t winning in this situation because all I keep thinking is that I’m going to lose you. That you’re going to abandon me just like my dad, just like...like Gideon did.” He fell back to the bed. “I can’t lose anyone else Y/N, I just can’t.”

“Hey,” you sat next to him and took hold of his hand. “I’m not going anywhere Spence. Casey was trying to get a rise out of me. Out of us and it worked. Don’t let him win. Please.”

“I think I want to be alone tonight.” He sighed pulling his hand free of your grasp.

“Spence please.”

“I just need time to think, please Y/N.” He stood up again, turning his back on you.

You felt your eyes welling with tears as you stood as well.

“Ok Spencer, if that’s what you really want.”

He simply nodded without turning to look at you.

And so with your tail between your legs, you left.

***

Spencer,

I couldn’t sleep tonight so I decided to take a walk. I ended up at the beach.

It’s one am and I’m sitting in the sand listening to the waves lap at the shore and it reminds me of the time you visited and we took that walk in the middle of the night.

All your reasons for hating the beach still play over in my head whenever I’m here. I get it, but I can’t help but love the beach.

I wish you were here with me now. I wish I could reach across the sand and find your hand. I wish I was wrapped in your arms, that we were looking up at the stars together.

Soon. Only one more month until Utah and we’ll be together again. Maybe we can watch the stars together one night.

I can’t wait to see you again, to touch you again. Our three days of bliss, a year's worth of longing crammed into just a few days.

I can hear you as if you were next to me, telling me about all the bacteria that lives in the sand. I would laugh and tell you I don’t care. Nothing beats the feeling of sand between your toes.

Except maybe your touch.

Not long now, let’s make every second we’re together count.

Y/N

***

Spencer kept his distance the next day at the conference and when he didn’t call or text that night you knew better than to go to him.

You barely got any time together as it was and now you were losing precious time. You barely slept that night, wishing you were with Spencer. He was barely a few rooms away but it felt like a bigger distance than LA and DC.

The final day he avoided you again and you were sure that you would have another lonely night in the hotel room.

The more time that passed the more frustrated you were getting. You were annoyed at Spencer. How could he doubt you like that? How could he have believed Casey over you?

It pissed you off to be perfectly honest.

You decided you weren’t going to spend all night in bed alone again so you dragged your sorry ass to the hotel bar.

On your third drink you felt a presence. You looked up from your whiskey to see a rather disheveled Spencer standing over you.

“Can I sit down?” He croaked.

“I guess.” You shrugged. “You look like shit.”

“Charming.” He sighed. “But you probably aren’t wrong.” He sighed again, hard this time. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh are you?” You swirled your drink around your glass.

“Yes I am. Very.”

“You doubted me Spencer. You really thought I’d lie to you.”

“I’m so sorry.” He chewed his lip. “I doubted you for a second, that’s all.”

“It was a second too long.” You downed the whiskey. “If you can’t trust me Spencer, I don’t even know what we’re doing here.”

You pushed your chair back and stood up.

“Y/N please can we just talk about this?” He stood too. “It’s our last night together for a year, I don’t want to waste anymore time.”

You sniffed back any tears that might threaten to fall, shaking your head.

“No Spencer, this isn’t our last night together for a year. This is our last night together period.”

Spencer’s face fell, his eyes full of tears.

“What are you saying Y/N?” He croaked.

“I’m saying it’s over. I’m done.” You chewed your lip. “I’m saying goodbye Spencer.”

“No.” He shook his head as you turned on your heels. “No Y/N don’t do this.”

You walked away.

He clutched the letter in his pocket, the one he’d written the night before travelling to Utah that he hadn’t yet given you.

You ignored his words, the tears in his voice and you carried on walking.

And you didn’t turn back.

***

Y/N,

I know I’m not going to have time to mail this letter as I’m flying to Utah in the morning. Maybe I’ll give this to you when I see you.

I know I’m not going to sleep tonight, the anticipation of seeing you is too much. I feel a little giddy just thinking about it to be honest.

I can’t wait to finally get to hold you in my arms again and kiss you and tell you how much you mean to me.

I can’t wait to look into your eyes and tell you how utterly and entirely in love with you I am. It doesn’t hold the same weight saying it in a letter.

I know you know how I feel about you but trust me when I say I will never stop telling you. I will never stop showing you.

I am certain I fell in love with you the first time we met and that feeling has only grown stronger over time.

One day Y/N, I’m going to marry you I swear. We’ll be so happy together. We will have the most perfect life, and we’ll make up for all the time we lost when we were apart.

Anyway, I guess I’ll have to give you this letter when I see you. Only a matter of hours now my love.

Spencer Reid.

————————————————————

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majwrites · 3 years ago

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Beauty Standards

Don Flack x Reader (Romance)

Summary: Reader gets insecure about their looks and contemplates ending their engagement with Flack.

A/N:This one was requested by @sirishavenigalla. I'm not that experienced with writing romance, so I hope it turned out alright.

Warnings: Reader struggles with their self image, fighting in a relationship, some angst

Something about Don Flack seemed off today. Danny had noticed that his friend wasn't the attentive, focused detective he usually would be. After Flack had snapped at Mac Taylor, didn't eat anything for lunch and left all paperwork unfinished in a messy pile, Danny decided he had to confront his friend about this: "Don, we need to talk". "Why, what is it", right now Flack sounded only sad and tired. "Something is going on with you. It's not only that you are not focused on the case, you're wearing a Stone Temple Pilots shirt to work. It's nothing you'd normally do and I know that this shirt is not yours but (Y/N)s", Danny wasn't only worried about Flack, but also about (Y/N). It was well known that Don Flack and (Y/N) (L/N) had a tendency to make really emotion based decisions. Flack waited for a bit before he started talking: "(Y/N) left me behind". "What do you mean?", Danny was confused, it had always seemed like (Y/N) and Don had a picture perfect relationship. They had met at a concert. Sam had dragged him there and he hadn't really been in the mood for a concert but that had changed once he saw (Y/N) in the crowd. Three years had passed and they had recently gotten engaged. Why should all of this be over now?

Now the answer to this question wasn't an easy one. We live in a society where people get judged by others and feel pressure to meet beauty standards that are often impossible to achieve. (Y/N) was usually aware of the fact that everything they saw in magazines was usually photoshopped to a point where it wouldn't even be possible to fit all important organs into the model, but ever since one of their family members had asked them if they put on more weight, (Y/N) started to feel more and more insecure about their weight. They had suffered with body image issues a lot when they were younger and now they feared that they weren't good enough for Flack. They loved him so much and right now (Y/N) was so convinced that they couldn't make him happy that they made a rushed decision. (Y/N) left the shiny engagement ring on the kitchen table and added a note.

Donnie, I'm very sorry to do this, but I need space to think about something. I'm only doing this for you.

-(Y/N)

And so, (Y/N) left the apartment to spend the day somewhere else.

"Did you try calling them?", all of this seemed very odd to Danny, "you definitely have to talk about this". "They won't pick up the phone and they're very vague in the answers to my texts. I don't know what to do anymore, maybe this is all my fault". "You should go and find them, our case is closed anyway and we have the rest covered", Danny sounded very convincing. "Thanks Danny, I'll go and try to fix this", Flack left the CSI building.

He finally found (Y/N) at a motel, sitting on the chair in front of a mirror. He wanted to go in for a hug immediately but as (Y/N) stood from the chair they pushed him away. "Why did you just leave? I was worried sick about you, is it something I did?", he sounded angry for some reason. "You wouldn't understand it anyways", the last thing (Y/N) wanted was a fight but it just happened. "What do you mean, (Y/N)? Am I not good enough?", even Don Flack gets insecure when it comes to the love of his life. "No, that's the problem, Donnie. You're perfect. You're the best boyfriend anyone could ask for and you deserve so much better than being with me", (Y/N) started crying and they hated it. Flack just stared in confusion as (Y/N) continued: "Just look at me, I'm boring and ugly and as my family never fails to tell me, I've been putting on weight. I don't deserve someone as good as you, in fact I deserve to be alone forever, because no one could ever love me". Flack needed a moment to process everything that (Y/N) had just said. Then he pulled them into a hug and this time they just let it happen. He started to ramble: "(Y/N), please don't think like that. I love you more than anyone else on this planet. Whatever other people say about you doesn't matter. You're perfect to me just the way you are". (Y/N) started crying even harder but Flack just held onto them. He continued: "I love the way you look at me when you get really excited about something, and I love how you sing along to every song and can always tell me what a song is called when I only know three words and the melody. You're the most kind and caring person I know and I love the way you look, you're the most beautiful person to me even when we take a walk at night and the only light comes from a street lamp". "Do you really mean all of this, Donnie?", (Y/N) leaned their head against his shoulder. "Every single word. And what's really impossible for me is to stop loving you, so will you please stay with me?", he looked at them with a pleading expression. "Of course I will. I love you so much. I'm sorry for reacting like this", (Y/N) felt a little embarrassed about it now. "Don't apologize, it's not your fault", Flack fished (Y/N)s engagement ring out of his pocket and slid it back onto their finger.

"Do you want to come back home with me?" "Yeah, let's go", and so they left the motel.

#csi ny #reader insert fanfiction #gender neutral reader #don flack x reader #don flack #csi new york #romance

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chimchimsauce · 4 years ago

Text

XS - II (First Impressions)

“Give me just a little bit MORE”

Being the son of the largest gang in the country, Kim Taehyung might as well be a prince. He is more powerful than any one man should be and is not afraid to get rid of anything - or anyone that gets in his way.

So when a man is unable to pay back the gigantic loan he owes Taehyung, the heir is all too happy to take his life. Moments away from pulling the trigger, a girl more beautiful than he’s ever seen bursts in and offers her life for her father’s. Taehyung knows right away that he wants her.

And Taehyung gets everything he wants.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

When YN wakes up, she's alone. For a moment, everything is okay. Her eyes flutter open and she stares up at the tall ceiling, a crystal chandelier throwing rainbows across her face. She sits up and silk slides down her skin, pooling at her waist.

She blinks, temporary confusion washing over her.

Where is she?

It hits her like a truck. She's been kidnapped. Or, rather, she's traded herself to a trigger happy stranger in exchange for her parents' lives. Her parents. A pit forms in her stomach just thinking about them. She has no real way of knowing if her "fiance" plans to go back on their deal or not. Her parents could be dead right now, bleeding out on their dingy kitchen floor with no one the wiser.

YN feels nauseous. She scrambles out of bed and heads to one of the doors in the opulent room, pulling it open. Unfortunately, it's not a bathroom, so she shuts it immediately, opening another and stumbling inside. She barely makes it to the toilet before spilling her guts, retching over the golden seat until nothing but air comes up. Her fingers tremble against the cold metal and porcelain, barely able to maintain a grip on it.

"Are you done?" a cool voice calls out from the doorframe.

YN would have startled if she wasn't so worn out. The best she can do is lift her head and wipe her mouth, glancing towards the source of the sound. The man staring at her is vaguely familiar, large nosed and sharp jawed, handsome in a way that's hard to pull off. For a second, she can't place her finger on it, and then she looks at his tatted hands and shrinks back.

He was the man who held a knife to her throat.

YN's fear must be evident on her face because this man - what was his name again? - grins sinisterly, tightening his loose hands into fists.

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna hurt ya," he says in direct contrast to his body language, "The boss likes you too much for me to get away with it."

YN swallows, a terrible taste on her tongue. It almost makes her want to puke again, but she doesn't have anything else left in her.

"He wants to see you," he says, "So you better clean yourself up. First impressions are important."

First impressions?

He doesn't give YN any time to ask questions before disappearing just as quickly as he came.

YN stands on shaky feet, stumbling over to the sink. She looks at her expressing, wincing at the face that stares back at her. Her skin is blotchy and discolored, red eyes looking at her sadly. There's blood on her clothes and ugly bruises from where she'd been manhandled. She can only look at her reflection for a few seconds before she has to look away, not wanting to face the reality of her situation.

Still, the body guard's words get her moving, so YN splashes water on her face, grabbing a towel from the rack by the shower and drying off. She takes a whiff of her shirt and cringes. Honestly, she smells terrible, heady with blood, sweat, and tears. Apparently, a quick splash of water will not be enough, especially if she has to make a "good impression".

She's hesitant to strip down in this place, especially since she doesn't even know if this is going to be her room or not. Still, she turns on the water as hot as it can go, watching with begrudging awe as water pounds down from the ceiling like a waterfall.

YN exits the bathroom, taking in the bedroom for the first time. It almost looks like a princess' room, white and gold with decorative molding on the walls. The carpet is soft and plush, YN's feet sinking into it.

She feels so out of place here and it only amplifies her anxiety about this situation. She doesn't know anything about her captors or even where she is. Taking a shuddering breath, YN finds her way back to the room she was in just minutes ago, switching on the light to reveal a closet bigger than her entire childhood bedroom. It's filled to the brim with clothes, shoes, and accessories that tell her with one glance that they're all designer.

YN doesn't know if she is even allowed to touch anything but she doesn't really have any other choices. She picks the least flashy thing she can find and pulls it off of the rack, surprised that it's her size. Does her captor have a sister? Or worse, a girlfriend?

The last thing YN needs right now is enemies, so she closes her eyes and prays that this is just a coincidence.

She stands under the water pressure, watching the water turn pink and her skin grow raw. There's some delicious smelling shower gel that she uses to wash off the memory of what happened as best she can. She washes her hair, taking her time to detangle it with her fingers and message her scalp, trying to let her thoughts float away with the steam. YN knows that she can't stay in here forever, though, and the fear of Tats coming back has her turning off the water and stepping out, wrapping herself in a warm towel.

Once again, she glances in the mirror. She definitely looks better at first glance, but the look in her eyes is vacant, soulless. YN bites her lip, tightening the towel around her.

"You can do this," she whispers to herself, "Everything will be okay."

She doesn't believe it, not at all, but she has nothing to comfort herself but her own words. YN looks away from her reflection and brushes her teeth with an unopened set of brushes and paste she found, rinsing with mouthwash to get rid of that horrid taste in her mouth.

YN pulls the clothing she picked out on, feeling the soft fabric on her skin. She doesn't know what to do with her hair so she pulls one of the many drawers open and manages to find some products. Creepily, they're the exact same ones she normally uses, along with some expensive looking conditioners and sprays she's never heard of.

Before she can begin, the bathroom door swings open, causing YN to knock her head against the underside of the sink. She curses loudly, tears gathering in her eyes.

"Madame! I am so sorry!" A feminine voice calls out, "I didn't mean to startle you. Boss sent me to help you get ready for dinner."

Dinner? Is it so late in the day already? She could have sworn that it was midday based on the light seeping through the windows.

YN pulls her head out from under the sink and looks at the woman. She's rather short and dressed plainly in black slacks and a black polo. Her hair is clipped in a sleek bob, brushing just under her soft jawline. She's rather beautiful.

"Who are you?" YN asks her.

She's already had enough of people barging into the bathroom.

"My name is Yoonji. Boss has assigned me to help get you adjusted to life here. If you need anything at all, call me to help you."

YN sits on the floor, looking at the woman before nodding her head. Might as well.

"Let me get your hair, madame," Yoonji says, rushing over and pulling out hair products.

YN wants to protest but she's tired and Yoonji's touch is feather light, styling it into something more fancy than YN would usually do.

"Is that what you plan on wearing?" Yoongi asks pleasantly.

Even though her tone is nice, YN can tell what she's suggesting.

"Should I change?" YN asks as Yoongi puts the final touches on her hair, adding pretty diamond studded clips.

"Let me grab something for you."

Yoonji leaves and comes back in a flash, holding a midnight blue evening gown.

"This will be more appropriate for dinner with boss and his parents."

"This . . . boss of yours," YN says, choosing her words carefully, "Who is he exactly? What does he do? Why am I here?"

Yoonji smiles at YN again, but YN can tell that it's more forced than before.

"Everything will be revealed in time. Don't worry about it. Boss is a good man."

YN highly doubts that considering he was only moments away from murdering her parents last time she saw him but she swallows and smiles at her, knowing that she doesn't have any allies right now.

Since her hair has been done up so opulently, Yoonji helps YN out of her clothes and slips her into the beautiful dress. She has no energy to feel embarrassed as she stands there in her underwear (thankfully she found some new sets, all still with the tags on) too emotionally worn. Honestly, YN should be more worried about meeting with "Boss" and his parents, especially since she has no idea what they expect from her, but she knows thinking about it too much will just make her sick again.

Yoonji runs off somewhere and collects accessories, turning YN into a sparkling prom queen. She even applies makeup to YN's face, no doubt hiding the stress etched into every inch of her face. By the time someone knocks on the door, YN is starving. SHe hopes she won't have to go through this process every time she has to go eat.

But when Tats comes back into the room, YN finds herself wishing that Yoonji had taken longer.

"Dinner's almost ready and the Boss is getting antsy. She done yet, Yoonji?" he asks.

"Almost," Yoonji replies, picking up a glass bottle of perfume and spritzing some on YN's collarbones, "She is now."

"Great." Tats says, grabbing YN harshly by her wrist and pulling her upwards, dragging her out of the room.

YN looks back at Yoonji who gives her a thumbs up, whispering a "Good luck," in YN's direction.

YN stumbles over the tall heels Yoonji had placed her in, barely able to keep up with Tats and his long legs as they stride through massive black and white hallways.

'Don't fuck up, okay," he says, stopping in front of an incredibly tall set of doors, "Remember, first impressions."

He swings the door open.

Chapter Three

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stubbychaos · 5 years ago

Text

Something I Can Never Have

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3| Part 4

Chapter 5 of Saviin’ika

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x Nurse!Reader

Summary: After days pass without you seeing your blue Mandalorian, you force yourself to make a promise that will ultimately strip you of your happiness, though you find it hard to stay true to your word. In the process, you also meet an unlikely companion that will teach you that not everything on Nevarro is ugly.

Rating: M for darker themes pertaining to abuse, animal neglect/fur trading, unresolved sexual tension.

Word Count: 10,000 (at least there’s finally plot lol)

Warnings: This chapter definitely starts off very dark and has descriptions of intense injuries. There’s pretty graphic descriptions of manipulation and abuse (I tried to keep all actual descriptions of the father actually abusing saviin’ika very non-detailed, but still, please read with caution if such topics make you upset and DM me if you want a safe summary of the chapter <3). There’s also a brief mention of animal neglect, but again, nothing descriptive at all!

A/N will be at end of the chapter!

“You know everything I do is for your own good, right? To make you stronger?”

You force yourself to nod when a crooked finger presses cruelly against the small gash at your hairline and you find yourself desperately missing the much softer touch of your Mandalorian; a few droplets of blood trickle past your brow and into the soft divot of your eyelid.

“Then why do you never learn?”

“I... I don’t know,” You whisper weakly, your body limp and weak against the uncomfortable cot, “I am sorry.”

“I only hurt you because I care about you--because I want you to be better. Do you understand that? If you just did your fucking job and listened to what I say, I wouldn’t have to hurt you all the time,” Your father informs you, though you’re certain he’s trying to rationalize his own actions so he can sleep at night, rather than actually comforting you, “I don’t want you wasting your time on someone who doesn’t care about you, not when you’re needed here and nowhere else. How long has it been since you’ve seen him? Two or three weeks?”

Your chest aches at his cruel words.

Sixteen days.

It’s been sixteen days since you’ve seen him and you’re certain it’s your own fault he stopped showing up without a word as to why.

After your companion had taken you to see the waterfalls, your father had been utterly infuriated upon seeing you with the Beskar-clad warrior, lengthening your shifts from easier twelve hour days to shifts that nearly lasted twenty hours. After finally emerging from the infirmary nearly twenty hours after he’d taken you to watch the sunrise, you had been absolutely heartbroken to find that your blue Mandalorian had not been waiting for you in the wee hours of the morning. After nearly half an hour of standing around, you had shrugged it off and slowly made your way home; you honestly wouldn’t expect anyone to wait for you that long and figured you would see him at some point later.

But then he’s not there the next day when you get off at a somewhat reasonable time--or the night after that.

Thinking that perhaps an emergency had arose in his tribe, you find yourself waiting against his usual spot the following nights when you are finally released from your agonizingly long shifts.

Still, he does not show up and while your faith in the Mandalorian is slightly shaken, it is not completely broken and hope still flickers in your chest like a tiny spark.

“It has been however many fucking days and you think he’s going to come back for an incompetent girl? He’s probably already forgotten about you. Why did the Maker curse me by having you as my last living blood?”

Your eyelids slip shut at the same time a tear trickles along the bridge of your nose and lands somewhere on the stiff cot that you physically cannot lift yourself from; you think you’ve heard him utter those words more times than he’s ever said ‘I love you’ or, ‘I’m proud of you’. You try to think of the last time he’s said something kind or encouraging to you, but your mind is foggy and the room around you is spinning wildly, breaths leaving your lungs in erratic little patterns that you have no control over.

You can’t even remember the last time he attempted a small smile in your direction, let alone a reassuring sentiment.

You’re certain that at least one of your ribs is fractured or broken and you vaguely remember patching up your blue Mandalorian upon your initial meeting, though that moment seems so far away and out of reach. You swear you can still feel how scalding his skin had been underneath your skilled hands and how the muscles in his abdomen had contracted and tensed upon feeling you rubbing that salve against sore ribs.

Your dry throat constricts and you force a sob away when you remember that night he had carried you home and tenderly treated your wounds while you were in and out of sleep, going so far to even take out your braids and massage your tender scalp.

You ponder what he would say or think upon seeing your current state--curled up on your own medical cot, bruised and battered and unable to work. Even if he found you to be pitiful, you’re certain he would manage to make you feel better and you hate that the ache in your chest is worse than the one in your bruised ribs.

“Look at me when I speak to you,” He furiously demands and you reluctantly crack your eyelids open, your head aching from the fluorescent lighting that assaults your sensitive eyes; you think you must be concussed, “You’re wasting your time with the Mandalorian, you know that deep down, don’t you? Do you even realize what they would do to a weak woman like yourself? His people are known to be ruthless and unforgiving towards outsiders. He’s going to turn his back on you or take advantage of--”

You tune him out after that.

Partially because you don’t wish to listen to the lies that he spits like venom and also because the ringing in your ears makes it hard to hear much of anything; you don’t want to hear what kind of torture he believes that the Mandalorians would ever inflict upon people like you when you know it to be false. It actually upsets you to the point of nausea--that another man who has hurt you so badly could attempt to convince you that the only man who’s ever shown you kindness and that you are absolutely infatuated with was against you--that he only wishes to harm you in the cruelest way possible.

Your Mandalorian--cruel?

Impossible.

You think you know your selfless, caring Mandalorian better than you know the back of your own hand and the horrific assumptions your father implies causes a terrible ache to form in the pit of your stomach--a disgusting feeling that makes you want to retaliate, though you force yourself to calm down. You truly do not want to intensify his anger; not when your ribs are aching something awful and the pounding in the back of your skull throbs more achingly the more he spews insults.

Ignoring the anger that quells deep in the pit of your belly, you let your eyes slip shut again and think of blue Beskar instead, or how lovely you think his visor looks in the moonlight, despite not being able to see what he truly looks like underneath his helmet. Though he threatened the life of the very man who hurt you so badly that you currently can’t even move, you think him to have the kindest soul you’ve ever known and you pray that he isn’t too upset when you see him again.

If you see him again.

As your father continues to remind you that you don't deserve the little happy moments that the Mandalorian has gifted you with in such a short amount of time, you try to ignore the fact your companion lied to you. You’re almost certain that it’s not his fault--that something complicated must have developed within his beloved tribe and though you worry for him, you also can’t help but to let your father’s venomous words manipulate your mind into briefly thinking that he’s completely abandoned you.

Usually your injuries are easy to hide with the long sleeves of your dress or longer leggings, but you can feel the contusion that's currently forming around your eye, as well as the blood that's starting to dry and grow crusty at your hairline. You’re only slightly grateful he hasn’t been there for you the past few days, knowing he would absolutely loathe to see what’s become of you and how messy and tangled your usually soft mane has become--

How you haven’t even bothered to decorate your messy braids with vibrant flowers because you no longer feel joy upon wearing them.

You think the skin that's visible must resemble your Mandalorian's dark blue armor and you find the irony of the realization sick and cruel; it’s unfair because you’ve always thought his scuffed up armor to be beautiful, but there’s nothing beautiful about your current state.

If you possessed even a fraction of the Mandalorian’s strength, you would not be in this painful position and you wished you were somewhere so far away where your father's violent nature was nothing more than a distant, faded memory. You think of the planet your Mando had described to you just weeks ago--Felucia--and vibrant flora that towers over the heavy-infantry warrior; you wonder if he had been making the story up to cheer you up, though you know him to be an honest man.

“Maybe one day I will have the chance to take you there, mesh’la.”

The mere thought of traveling among the stars with the warrior is enough to subdue the pain that’s coursing through your bruised body and your lips barely stretch into a tiny smile; you know it’s something that will most likely come to fruition, but perhaps if you get lucky, it will come to you in the form of a lovely dream one night.

“Clean yourself and get up,” Your father grunts upon realizing that you’ve been ignoring his deprecating speech, “You have a long shift today.”

“My head though,” You grimace when his fingers curl into fists, tears burning something fierce in your eyes at the thought of simply moving, let alone working a full shift in your current state, “I--I think I’m concussed.”

“If you have the energy to complain, then you have the energy to work,” He hisses and you let out a pained yelp when he roughly grabs your elbow and yanks you into a sitting position; the room spins around you and bile rises in your esophagus, “You should be thanking me for not breaking anything important, like your hands or legs. You gonna thank me? Or you gonna keep being an ungrateful bitch all the time?”

You clench your jaw and swallow the lump in your throat, feeling absolutely pathetic as you speak through your teeth, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” He spats and you cringe when you smell the alcohol and spice on his breath, “I will not have you disrespecting me when I’ve done so much for you. You’re going to stop seeing the Mandalorian if he shows back up again, okay? I don’t need him filling your head with such foolish fantasies and thoughts, especially when he’s distracting you from your job so much.”

“Father, please,” You beg, no longer caring about sounding so feeble because nothing leaves you feeling more bereft of all hope than the thought of not seeing your kindhearted Mandalorian if he chooses to ever come back “I promise I’ll be better and I’ll stop talking back all the time! Please, don’t make me do this. I’ll be a better daughter if you just--”

“If I just what?” He scoffs, sounding disgusted and you think his next words are probably the most heart-shattering words he’s ever uttered, “There is nothing I could do--nothing you could do--to ever make you be a better daughter.”

Tears trickle down your bruised cheeks as you force yourself not to sob, “Please don’t take him away from me.”

“Your Mandalorian has already given up on you, yet you try to defend him? If he truly cared, he would have been here for you days ago. Your cowardly warrior does not care for you like I do,” Your tears don’t affect him--they never have--and he almost seems amused as he wraps his dirty fingers around your wrist, squeezing until you cry out from the pain, “Don’t make me break your hands, little one,” He warns and you ponder how someone could be so cruel as to rob you of two of the only things that bring you the most joy, “They may bring in a lot of credits for me, but I would not be sad about breaking one or two fingers.”

It hurts to breathe, let alone cry, and you somehow manage to subdue your tears, though you have not felt such devastation in years. The pain in your ribs and the back of your skull is nothing more than a flicker of a thought as you contemplate what it is he wants you to give up. The anger you felt earlier upon hearing him talk so horrifically about your Mandalorian is nothing to the flames that currently dance wildly in your belly, making you feel absolutely feral and resentful towards your only living family.

“Don’t worry,” He coos when you sniffle and struggle to force your sobs away, “It wouldn’t be enough to keep you from doing your job, just enough to get the point across.”

Your body shakes with breathless, silent sobs that cause your ribs burn and throb in absolute agony, though you think your father’s words hurt far worse.

“No, mesh’la,” You remember your companion’s response upon hearing how you insisted that your father was family and didn’t deserve to be harmed, “He is a monster that deserves to feel shame for what he’s done to his own blood.”

“You really are a monster,” You speak the realization out loud, as if all the past abuse hadn’t been a clear indicator of that, “How could you be so cruel to your own daughter?”

He scoffs and finally releases your wrist from his painful grip, “I don’t have a daughter, just an incompetent nurse who can’t properly do her job because she’s too busy daydreaming about a future she’ll never have. Forget the Mandalorian and focus on your job, or else I’ll really make things far more miserable for the two of you and make sure you never help another fucking patient for the rest of your life.”

“You may be able to do this to me, but he would not let you lay a hand on him.”

“I can hurt him in other ways,” The cruel man reassures you, something dark and ruthless glimmering in his dark eyes; you wonder how a man can be filled with so much hatred and disgust towards their only blood, “If he cares for you as much as you think he does, then I think he wouldn’t be too happy if you suddenly disappeared, if he thought you ran away. Shit, perhaps he just wouldn’t care at all.”

You’re certain it’s a threat against your life, but the way he says it so nonchalantly fills you with utter resentment towards him and your chest heaves. You think back to when the infirmary had been robbed a couple months ago and how the bandit threatening your life had held a blaster to your forehead, but that seems like nothing compared to your father’s violent promise. Though you haven’t seen your Mandalorian in over two weeks and there’s a chance that he’s already tired himself of you, the thought of him showing up one night to simply find out that you ‘ran away’--well, you’re certain he wouldn’t believe a word that comes out of your father’s mouth.

He wouldn’t, right?

...Right?

You’re not sure what thought is worse, your Mandalorian feeling betrayed at the thought you would simply take off without a word or his reaction upon finding your lifeless body wherever your father would dump it, should he be the one to discover it.

“He would kill you,” You weakly inform him, though you feel that you have already lost this fight, “He already wants to.”

“I have connections too, little one,” He refutes easily and you know he’s only telling the truth by the way he smirks, “Ones much more powerful than a coward who chooses to live a life hidden in the shadows.”

Your fingers loosely curl into a fist at the insult, but you remain silent when you see his own hands form into much tighter fists.

“Forget him,” The cruel man repeats in a hushed growl and you refuse to meet his angry glare, “Or else you will both regret it.”

The words hurt more than his fists and you loathe that your voice cracks when you speak in a broken whisper, “Yes father.”

“Now, get up and get to work--you look like a damn mess.”

You weakly nod and tiredly wipe a hand down your face as your father leaves your office with the slam of a door, making you flinch at the aggressive action. You wince upon feeling the new bruises splayed across your skin and carefully slide off the medical cot, gripping the metal railing with stiff fingers and pressing your other hand to your aching ribs. Wearily, you make your way to the mirror that sits on your desk and squeeze your eyes shut upon seeing purple and blue bruises covering nearly half of your face, along with your neck and jaw.

You think you look just as bad as you feel.

After washing your hands and retrieving your suture kit, you slowly sink into your chair and begin the painful process of cleaning and stitching the gash at your hairline. The pain that comes with the horrific sensation of a long, hooked needle piercing your skin and tugging bloodied skin back together is pretty intense, it’s nothing compared to the agony that threatens to rip you apart when it dawns on you that your father truly expects you to forget the Mandalorian, as though he’s some sort of toy that you’ve outgrown.

“Why me?” You question nobody in particular, or perhaps the Maker that has cruelly elected you to such a painful life, “Stars... why me?”

Even though your vision blurs with tears and the throbbing pain in the back of your skull is damn near incapacitating, you continue to stitch and treat your own wounds, and you grow bitter upon realizing you’re your own patient. This is not what you envisioned when your mother decided to teach you everything she knew, hoping that someday you would have the same skills she possessed, though she was far more of a talented nurse than you could ever hope to be.

You don’t remember much of your mother, nor her soft voice and kindhearted touch, but as you finish tending to your wounds and force yourself to forget the blue Mandalorian that never truly leaves your mind, you focus on the patients that slowly trickle in and out of the infirmary for the next twenty hours or so. You’re far too injured to be working and even though your vision is doubled and speckled by black dots, you force yourself to focus and do your job. Only a few mention your new wounds, but when you insist that you were simply mugged the night before, they promptly drop the subject and you continue with your day as best as you’re physically able to.

As you find yourself thinking of your Mandalorian’s deep baritone and how he would hold you like it was pure instinct, you realize now what the warrior truly meant when he spoke of you feeling homesick for a home you had never even known.

You think the warmth and safety of the blue Mandalorian’s arms are the closest you’ll ever know to having a home and it is the only think that gets you through the most painful shift of your life.

When your shift ends eighteen hours later, black spots dot your vision and you can barely breathe with the intense, agonizing pain in your side.

You only make it a few buildings past the infirmary, nearly passing the dirty cantina you’ve known a few of your scummy regulars to frequent when you hear it.

It starts off as a high-pitched whine that eventually dissolves into pained whimpers that wrack your heart and pique your undying curiosity.

Despite the exhaustion that bleeds into every single one of your senses, the painfully heart wrenching noises of a creature beckoning for you to help it overpowers any other rational thought that your concussed mind can possibly conjure.

You know how absolutely dangerous the village is at this hour, but something about the hopeless whimpers combined with the fluorescent red eyes that seem to reflect underneath the moonlight absolutely haunts you. Though it’s difficult to make out anything in the dark, you’re very much aware of how desperate the strange creature sounds like it’s being tortured and despite the traumatizing events of the day you’ve just experienced, your natural instincts have you making your way to the helpless animal.

As you get closer, it reluctantly emerges from the safety of the dark corner it has been hiding in and you gasp out loud at the strange, yet astonishing sight in front of you.

The ethereal moonlight seems to reflect off of the creature’s gorgeous crystalline coat and you press the back of your hand to your mouth when you realize the poor animal is tied up to a kriffing dumpster on the outside of a disgusting cantina.

How could anyone tether something so absolutely beautiful to something so dirty?

You nearly sob and your heart aches something fierce as you cautiously make your way over to the whimpering creature, it’s bright crimson eyes seeming to glow in the darkness of the night and you hesitate when it lets out a shrill noise as it moves in a way that must cause intense pain.

The tiny cub shakes its beautiful coat and you startle a little when you hear the soft clinking of crystals jangling against one another, its coat seeming to be clad with some sort of stunning, reflective mineral. You’ve never seen something so ghostly or intangible and you raise your brows when the creature politely sits on its hind legs and stares up at you, its front paw lifted off the ground and you realize it must be injured if it refuses to support any weight on the wounded appendage.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” You coo, utterly entranced, but determined to help what seems to be such an innocent, beautiful creature; despite the horrific pain in your own ribs, you slowly sink to your knees and hold a soft hand out for the cute cub to sniff, “I only want to help you.”

The cub tilts its head to the side and you nearly giggle at how big its ears seem compared to its little head; the peaks of the crystalline ears look dangerously sharp and you remind yourself that this is a feral animal that could easily deal some serious damage upon feeling threatened. Keeping that in mind, you slowly reach into the pouch at your hip where you think you still have some sort of sustenance left over from your meek lunch.

Clumsily, the beautiful creature hobbles forward and eagerly accepts the piece of jerky you’re offering. For the first time since parting ways with your Mandalorian sixteen days ago, you find yourself grinning when the fox-like creature makes a hacking noise, as if it expects some sort of luxurious cuisine, rather than dried out meat.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” You murmur, earning a curious tilt of the head from the clearly neglected animal, and your grin melts into a sad frown as you move to untie the thick rope that’s wrapped like a vice around its neck; it flinches severely and you think you understand its fear all too well, “It’s okay, I’m going to get you back to the infirmary and fix up that leg. I only wish to help, I promise.”

Something about the soft determination laced in your quiet voice must resonate with the creature, because it’s soulful, crimson eyes blink slowly up at youas it plops down and heaves a tired sigh. Using the vibroblade the blue Mandalorian had given you over a month ago, you carefully cut through the thick rope and your heart breaks when you realize the pale flesh underneath is absolutely rubbed raw and slightly bloody.

“Shh, it’s okay,” You coo when it lets out a little whine as you inspect the extent of its injuries, though they seem fairly minor, “I’m going to take care of you, I promise. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

You smile sympathetically and lean forward to carefully pick up the cub, marveling at how tiny the creature is and loathing that you can feel its ribs, even underneath its rocky coat. Slowly, you rise with the strange animal cradled cozily in your arms and ignore the pain in your ribs as you gently scratch its rocky chin. You’re met with the pleasant sound of a happy little shriek and you can’t stop yourself from giggling, not even noticing the sound of shuffling from behind you, nor the soft click of a weapon pointed in your direction.

“Drop the vulptex right now.”

You turn around so fast that you nearly knock yourself off balance, gasping when you realize the source of the voice belongs to a Trandoshan that towers over you by more than a foot; you tremble at how terrifying the reptilian species is. He’s pointing a rusty blaster right between your brows and you think that this day can’t possibly get any worse, what with your injuries, your father’s haunting words, and your Mandalorian’s continuous absence.

As if it senses your fear and sadness, along with the severity of the situation, the creature in your arms--the vulptex--whines a little and tucks its wet snout against the crook of your neck.

“Drop the mutt,” The Trandoshan hisses, his Basic a little choppy and slurred as he staggers closer until the cold barrel of his weapon is pressed firmly against your forehead; you’re shocked that you manage to not tear up from fear alone as you stare into his emotionless yellow eyes.

“I would not surrender this abused creature so easily--not when your intentions are cruel,” You whisper, grunting a little when he shoves the blaster against you and urges you backwards into the stone wall, the back of your already aching skull colliding against the unforgiving surface, “Why would you own such a beautiful animal, only to harm it?”

“You think I actually care about the damn noisy thing?” He scoffs, eyes darting down to the shaking creature that you hold so protectively to your chest, “Her coat right now could easily earn me over two thousand credits; I don’t give a shit if she’s hurt or not, I only care about the pretty reward she will bring me.”

You glare fiercely at him, hating that your eyes fill with tears simply from the thought of the precious creature being bred and born for no other purpose than the cruel intentions of a sick man. Unconsciously, you hold the vulptex tighter against you, hating the little squeaks and whimpers she lets out, as though she’s aware of the torture she will endure if she ends up in the hands of this monster.

“Hand it over and I won’t hurt you,” He steps closer until his scaly body is pressed against yours and it all feels wrong and gross and you force your mind to go anywhere else than the wall of a dirty cantina, “Though I don’t think I would mind seeing you with more bruises, little one--seems like I’m not the first one you’ve manage to piss off today.”

For the umpteenth time that day, anger swells like a grave wound in the pit of your stomach and you hate that it only makes your tears burn hotter in your eyes, leaving a trail of scorching fire down your cheek. You cringe when the Trandoshan reaches forward to grab your bruised face and you’re hasty and panicked as you speak up before he can do anymore damage to your already wounded skin.

“Put the blaster down and I’ll give her back, I swear!”

He makes a strange hissing noise and grips your bruised cheeks harder, making you cry out in pain, “This is not a negotiation, little one. Just hand over the fucking mutt and I might let you leave in one piece.”

Though your voice shakes, you somehow steel your nerves and stand your ground, “I will give you your animal once you put down the blaster. How do I know you won’t just shoot me dead as soon as I hand her over?” You question, realizing that the confusion in your voice must affect him severely and when you speak up again, your voice is filled with fury.

“Put. It. Down.”

“Only because your anger is amusing.”

The Trandoshan clicks his tongue angrily at you and lets out the most vicious growl you’ve ever heard, though you must be convincing enough because he finally eases his body off of your much smaller one. Your heart pounds frantically in your chest as you watch him bend down a little to holster the unforgiving weapon and you remember what your Mandalorian had once told you in regards to defending yourself against enemies larger than you.

Without really thinking of the consequences, you promptly bring your knee up into the enormous Trandoshan’s groin, cringing at the loud yelp the man lets out and you further the damage by swinging your calf upwards when he nearly collapses, your ankle colliding with what you’re sure is his most sensitive appendage.

The fox-like creature in your arms whines and squeaks profusely as you take advantage of the situation by sprinting to the end of the alleyway where you know you can make a quick escape into the infirmary that’s just a few buildings away from your current location.

Your feet move before your mind even registers your actions and all that you know is that your cruel attacker is bent down at the waist, nearly on his knees and crying out in pain as you quickly sprint as fast as your aching legs will allow you to. Pain is radiating throughout your entire body, but you ignore it as you focus your entire being on getting out of a dangerous situation in one piece.

You think you’re safe and in the clear when a massive arm wraps tightly around your waist and tugs you close to them, causing you to cry out in pain and desperation as you angrily kick your legs about. In a furious rage, you shriek and thrash against the impossibly tight grasp your new attacker has on you and it fills you with utter fury; it’s the third time today that someone’s hurt you and something about the realization fills you with resentment and grief.

Barely registering the familiar baritone that attempts to calm you in a softer, exasperated tone, you thrash wildly against the arm that holds you to an unyielding chest. It’s familiar, but you’re certain that your mind is playing cruel tricks on you and you are not willing to give in so easily to your captor.

“Let me go!” You shriek, absolutely blinded by fear and terror to register that the one holding you to his chest is your only other companion--the only man you’ve ever trusted. His arm is wrapped around the worst of your bruising and you feel as though you're being crushed so heavily by the weight of your own consequences, more so than his armor.

"Shh, It's me," The familiar voice shushes you and you feel shame that you didn't recognize it earlier, that you didn’t even realize it was Beskar digging into your broken body, "I've got you--you're safe. Please don’t… don’t cry, mesh’la. Shit, please don’t cry--it’s just me."

‘It’s just me.’

He says it like you haven’t been waiting for him every night for weeks and you nearly sob at how unconcerned he sounds when you spent so much time terrified that he had simply abandoned you or had gotten gravely injured.

Before you can even think about weakly asking him why he didn't show up all those nights ago, another voice--a much angrier one--echoes from down the sidewalk. You're not sure whether your shakiness is from fear or adrenaline, but the warrior doesn't lessen his grip and holds your back tightly to his Beskar-clad chest. You’re grateful when he removes his arm from around your tender ribs, deciding that just above your chest seems like a better option and if you weren’t so shaken up, you’d blush upon feeling his fingers gently squeeze your shoulder in a comforting way.

"You fucking little--"

Immediately, your attacker’s angry tone dies down as he realizes that someone new has entered the altercation, immediately spotting the irritated Mandalorian that’s holding you and the ethereal creature securely with one arm, his other stretched past your head as he steadily aims a long blaster in the Trandoshan's direction. Though the intimidating criminal stands just as tall as the blue heavy-infantry warrior, you're certain that he's not nearly as broad or as intimidating.

Definitely not as skilled in his drunken stupor.

Your attacker's eyes widen just a fraction upon realizing who's currently holding you and your breath catches in your throat when he refuses to lower his blaster--would he really be so foolish to challenge someone who was trained from childhood to be a skilled warrior? You feel the Mandalorian fist the material of your dress that covers your shoulder and if you weren't so focused on the tense situation, you would have complained about the burning pain that shoots through your side at how closely he holds you to him to his Beskar chest. Swiftly and not unkindly in the slightest, the warrior gently urges you behind him and you’re quick to let out a deep exhale that you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in since he initially grabbed you.

"I don't want any trouble, Mando," The Trandoshan's voice drops, as though he can sense the anger rolling off of your Mandalorian's Beskar, "I just want the vulptex back--the girl is a thief and I want my reward."

“Thief, huh?” The blue warrior cocks his head to the side, like he's amused by the thought of you committing any sort of crime, "Seems to me like you're the thief. Vulptices only reside on Crait and are protected by law, even in the Outer Rim. I’m sure you already know that though."

“Since when do Mandalorians have morals?”

Your Mandalorian doesn’t say anything in response and you think that his silence is far more fearful than whatever else he could have said in retaliation. His leather-clad hand slowly reaches behind him and your cheeks burn something painfully fierce when you realize he’s reaching out for you, as though he’s worried that you’ve somehow vanished or that your visible injuries are because of the Trandoshan.

Despite the promise you made to your father earlier, you’re unable to resist the urge to reach out for him as well. As your fingers intertwine with his and you give them a gentle squeeze, your father’s words haunt you and tears fill your eyes when you remember you’re going to have to break off the tender relationship you’ve somehow formed with him in such a short amount of time. You thought that nothing would hurt worse than convincing your father that you would simply focus on work, rather than your Mandalorian, but now that he’s actually there and holding your hand like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever held?

You’re absolutely terrified that your heart is going to break into hundreds of piercing shards and somehow hurt him, even with the protection of his precious Beskar armor.

Upon realizing that the heavy-infantry Mandalorian isn’t going to relent, your attacker seems to falter and finally lowers his blaster upon hearing the warrior’s next words.

“I’m sure a fur-trader like yourself would have a pretty big bounty on their head,” A squeeze of your own hand fills you with warmth and reassurance as he argues with the cruel man that holds such ill intentions for such a beautiful creature, "I would not mind handing you over to a bounty hunter and seeing how much I could make off of someone like yourself."

“You really don’t want to do this, Mando,” The Trandoshan hisses and you realize that he’s trying to convince your Mandalorian to hand you and your newest companion over, “They’re not worth it--I promise.”

Thick fingers curl tightly around yours and you hate that your heart skips a little when you realize he’s silently reassuring you that you are worth all this trouble, a notion that’s difficult for you to truly believe after the past few weeks. You want to be upset with him for disappearing without a word, but you’re certain that he must have a reasonable explanation and fear churns in the pit of your belly when you remind yourself of the promise you’d made to your father earlier.

“I think he wouldn’t be too happy if you suddenly disappeared, if he thought you ran away…”

Tears burn painfully in your eyes as the Trandoshan relents with a furious growl, sending you one last glare as he angrily makes his way back into the cantina. The Mandalorian stands deathly still as he continues to stare at the spot where your attacker had previously occupied and you think that he must be collecting his thoughts before he speaks out loud. You’re certain that this isn’t how he expected your reunion to go--you pissing off a Trandoshan that rivals his own strength and having to yank you out of a bad situation--but as he slowly turns to regard you and the creature you cradle so closely to your chest, you think he’s not angry with you.

“Seems like you’ve had quite the day, saviin’ika,” He observes with a cocked helmet, his hand slowly moving to the underside of your jaw so he can tilt your head back to get a better view of your newest injuries; judging by the tension laced in his baritone, along with the way his chest heaves, you must appear as awful as you feel, “Not a good one, at that.”

The weight of his grave words fill your eyes with tears and you squeeze your eyes shut when the cold leather covering his calloused thumb ghosts along the apple of your bruised cheek; it brings you back to when he carried you to your hut and tended to your wounds. Somehow, his touch seems far gentler right now than it had that night, despite him wearing his gloves and it only makes you want to cry harder for the tender warrior.

“Y-You weren’t...” You force yourself not to sob, as you feel you’ve cried far too much for one day, “Where did you go? I-I waited, just like I promised. I know it was so late the first day, but after that I kept waiting and y-you never showed up and I thought you--”

Your voice cracks and you think from the way he slumps forward a little he must feel the pain that’s so prevalent in your broken words; he raises his hands in a pleading gesture as your tears burst like a kriffing dam. You’re certain it’s just the events of the day, combined with being concussed and absolutely exhausted that’’s making you so emotional, but you don’t care anymore and let it all out.

“I… I am sorry I have not been here for you,” He sounds ashamed as he leans down to tenderly press his Beskar-clad forehead against your bare one, taking great care to not bump into your stitches, “There were problems in the tribe that needed to be taken care of. I did not intend for it to last this long.”

You hesitate to open your eyes and peer up at him, though when you do, you find that the sight of his scuffed up helmet and visor bring you more comfort than what you’ve felt since his absence, “Are your people okay? I could help if someone is injured or--”

“No, mesh’la,” He still sounds pained as his fingers graze the edges of the bandage that covers the stitches at your hairline, “Everyone is okay, but thank you for your concern. It was just a dangerous mission that our bounty hunter needed help with and some negotiating with the tribe that I needed to be there for. I did not want to be away from you for this long--it was not my intentions--but I know that one day soon you will understand. Please don’t cry, I’m sorry.”

“No, I just... there is nothing to forgive. Your tribe should always come first,” You shake your head as you viciously wipe the tears from your cheeks, “It’s been a long day and I’m just being... I’m just tired--I’m exhausted and hurt.”

“Then let me take care of you, little nurse.”

“You… you should not be here; you should be with your own people,” You force out in a tiny whisper, though he does not seem afraid by your words in the slightest, “This is--what we have..” You hate that your expression crumbles and your voice breaks, because he immediately tilts his helmet, as though he already sees right through your lies, “It is wrong.”

He scoffs and you’re barely aware of the way he gently curls his fingers around your hip, pushing you up against the infirmary you had somehow made it to in your hysteria. Judging by the way he shakes his helmet at you and easily backs you up until you're pressed to the brick wall of the broken down place you work at, you think he must not believe your words at all. You feel as though you do not have the strength to explain what is going on as he cockily rests a forearm right next to your cheek against the brick wall of the infirmary that he’s successfully trapped you against.

“This is wrong, mesh’la?” He questions softly--desperately--and you think your heart might combust at how gentle his modulated baritone is, “Is it so wrong that I couldn’t stop thinking of your eyes and smile every night I was away from you? Is it wrong that I dream of how soft your hair feels when I take off my gloves or that I only wish to hold you when I am alone in my bed at night? Would you really be so cruel to me after I traveled so long just to see your pretty face?"

“Was it not cruel of you to be away for so long without me knowing why? I thought you might have...” Your gaze lowers to his cuirass in embarrassment and shame, “I thought you were injured or that maybe you just didn’t... you didn’t want me anymore.”

He tenses, back straightening as he makes a strange choking noise, “I always want you--I always will. It pained me to not be able to see you in person, but you were in my dreams whenever I actually managed to get sleep. Do you really not want this anymore? Did I hurt you that badly?” He suddenly sounds fearful and your heart absolutely aches in your chest, “I would get on my knees and ask for forgiveness if that is what you wished for.”

“I would not allow your big ego to take that big of a hit,” You jokingly whisper--a poor attempt to lighten the situation, though it stops him right before he can fall to his knees, “This is--it’s just something that cannot go on any longer.”

“You are making no sense to me, mesh’la.”

You release a small sigh when his fingers drift up to the remnants of dried blood that have crusted into your roots, “I am not a cruel woman, Mandalorian, I am tired and I would not let you feel the same pain I have felt,” You whisper the last part as he gently nudges his forehead against yours, “I would not wish it upon anyone, especially you.”

“You think your father could hurt me?” The Mandalorian’s thumb is rubbing soothing circles into your hip as he tilts his helmet, forehead still pressed to yours and you force your expression not to crumble when you remember your father’s words from earlier, “He wouldn’t be able to lay a finger on me--he wouldn’t be able to even think about it before I’d have him in ashes at your feet.”

“Must you make everything so difficult?” You inquire lips trembling because he does not realize the true extent of the kind of pain your father it able to inflict on the fearless warrior without even laying a finger on him, “You should leave. P-Please, you do not understand what he is--what he can do to you.”

“What did he say to you? Please tell me he did not get inside that pretty head of yours,” He taps the underside of your chin and urges you to peer up at his visor and you fear that he’ll see the despair and agony burning something fierce in your shimmering eyes, “Is that really what you wish for, mesh’la? You gonna break my heart like this?”

“You know what I wish for, yet it is something I can never have, Mandalorian.”

“Don’t do this to me, to us,” He sounds just as devastated as you feel and it only complicates the situation more than you could ever hope to anticipate as he continues to speak in the same tone, “Don’t take this away from me--not when it’s the only good thing we’ve both had in so long and I... please let me help you.”

He sounds so despondent and the graveness of it causes your heart to ache terribly as you shake your head frantically, tears streaming down your cheeks and into the leather covering his fingers.

“Let me take you away from here.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and rest the back of your head against the wall he has you trapped to; all confidence you had in your attempts to break things off with the Mandalorian dissipates the very moment you feel the cool leather of his thumb kiss the corner of your mouth. He cocks his helmet to the side when you turn your head further against his hand and slowly let your eyelids slip shut when your lips meet the palm of his black glove; you long for the warmth of his rough skin instead.

You simultaneously loathe and love that he has this effect on you--that he holds your heart so protectively in his palm--and you know you're playing a dangerous game as your free hand comes up to press against his much bigger one. You trap the cold leather close to your face and don’t care when you force him to apply the tiniest pressure to the blue and purple bruises covering half of your face.

You’re barely aware of the way he raises his fingers, so he causes you no pain.

He lets out a deep, dreamy sigh when you press a firm kiss to his palm and all thoughts pertaining to the promise you’d previously made to your father disappear as he tenderly strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“I have to tend to her wounds, Mandalorian,” You murmur when the vulptex cub lets out an irritated whine and you feel emptier when he reluctantly pulls his hand away from your face, though he keeps your hand trapped firmly in his.

“Then I will tend to yours after, mesh’la.”

“They really aren’t that bad,” You insist, though the ache in your ribs and the throbbing in the back of your skull reminds you otherwise, “They look a lot worse than they feel.”

“You are a terrible liar,” He sighs again and gently squeezes your hand as you lead him into the infirmary, taking great caution to lock the entrance behind you, “I can tell by the way you are breathing that your ribs are injured. Let me--just, please let me take care of you."

You should tell him to leave, your father's threat lingering in the back of your mind, but the temptation of your Mandalorian's bare touch outweighs any rational thought you might have had. So, you relent with hardly any fuss, giving the stubborn man a small nod as you tiredly guide him into your office and turn on the lights.

"I do not want you to see my body like this," You warn him as you tenderly lay the wounded creature in the center of your medical cot, "I am ashamed of my bruises and scars."

You barely glance at the warrior as he lazily removes his heavy cannon, as well as the jetpack that's attached to the huge weapon. He freezes upon hearing your meek words and shakes his helmet as you begin to disinfect your tiny patient’s minor wounds, earning you soft squeaks and whines in the process.

"That shame belongs to him, mesh'la," Your Mandalorian reassures you in a firm tone that makes you think he's upset, "Never feel ashamed for the cruelty of others, especially when you did nothing to deserve any of this. As for the scars, there is nothing embarrassing about the stories that tell your survival."

“Do you have many?” You question, not able to meet his emotionless visor, though something about how terse he sounds makes you think he’s not as stoic as he always tries to appear to be, “I know when I stitched you up a couple of months ago you, I just didn’t see many scars.”

“The armor doesn’t always hold up,” He quietly admits and you finally turn your head to peer up at the dents in his helmet; dread pumps through your veins when you realize the scars on his Beskar must have been a result of a powerful blaster shot and you wonder if the bare skin beneath is scarred as well, “I have many scars as well. Some I’ve gotten from fights I’m not so proud of, but they are still a part of me and tell the story of who I am today.”

You contemplate his words carefully, observing all the scuffs and dents in his dull blue armor before collecting your thoughts, “I am not a warrior like you and I did not get these scars from fighting in battles. There is no honor behind my story--behind learning how to take beatings and keeping my mouth shut so I won’t be hurt worse. This is not a battle, it’s just learning to live with it.”

You turn away from him when you fear that you won’t be able to hold your composure any longer, tensing a little when the Mandalorian speaks in a low, deeper baritone, “Maybe it is not a battle you’re fighting, but that doesn’t make you any less of a warrior, mesh’la. You’re far braver than anyone in this damn village and I’ll keep telling you that until you finally believe it.”

“And what if I never believe it? What will you do then?”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to keep saying it until the day I die.”

You smile sadly and not knowing how to respond, you simply fall into a thoughtful silence as you check the cub for any broken bones or wounds that might not be visible; after confirming nothing is broken, you spin around in your chair to face the Mandalorian. He’s leaning against your desk, wood creaking underneath the weight of his body as he stares right back at you with his bare hands resting on his hips. Just the way he stands when he’s in a relaxed environment screams confidence and power and you think it to be amazing that someone can consistently exude that kind of energy, even to someone like you--someone who’s seen him grow shy and even sometimes vulnerable.

“Would you please hand me the antibacterial cream?” You politely ask as you situate yourself in the most comfortable position that your bruised ribs will allow you to sit, offering him a tiny smile when he nods and turns around to reach up to the top shelf bolted to the wall, “Thank you.”

“Sure,” He hums as he makes his way over to you in two wide strides, seeming to be unbothered by you ordering him around, “All this trouble over a vulptex that looks like a little runt?”

“All creatures matter the same to me, Mandalorian,” You gratefully accept the little jar he holds out for you to take and you scoop out the white cream on two fingers, “No matter how big or small they are, they all deserve basic medical attention.”

“You’re something else, saviin’ika,” He informs you, sounding amused as he holds a hand out for the cub to sniff, though the ethereal creature merely turns its nose away and blinks slowly at you; the Mandalorian shakes his helmet with a grunt and turns his attention to you as he leans against the back of your chair.

“Do you know much of this species?”

The Mandalorian hums as he lazily wraps his fingers around the top of the backrest of your chair, seeming entirely comfortable to be this close to you, “I know they’re native to the planet of Crait, but other than that, I don’t know much else outside of the fur trade and them being smuggled and slaughtered for their crystal coats.”

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach and you hate that tears immediately burn your eyes as you stare at the precious little creature and her soulful crimson eyes, “S-Slaughtered?”

“It is best not to think about it, little nurse, especially when your heart is so soft compared to everyone else’s,” He sighs and he must be mentally kicking himself in the back of his scuffed up blue helmet for exposing you to such terrible news, “You did a good thing--saving this little runt. Her fate would have been… unfavorable, to say the least.”

You swallow the lump in your throat as he gently thumbs your braids that lack their usual vibrant flowers; they had all fallen out upon the beating you’d taken earlier and it felt so wrong to be without them, “Do you think her family--her mother--?”

“I don’t know,” He answers honestly, dutifully stroking the unruly baby hairs away from your forehead as you continue to wonder what kind of trauma this beautiful creature must have gone through, “Like I said, it is best to not think about it.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop thinking about what that man would have done to this poor animal,” You confess in a meek whisper as he smooths a calloused hand over your braids in a comforting manner, “How can people be so…?”

Your question hangs heavily in the air like a dark gray cloud and the Mandalorian makes a small noise in response, wordlessly answering that he doesn’t know why people are capable of acting so cruelly to those who don’t deserve it.

“That Trandoshan… did he do anything to you? I could go back and--”

“Always so ready to fight,” You smile sadly, watching as the cub slowly falls asleep underneath your tender hands and the soothing sensation that your homemade cream bestows upon its burning wounds, “He did not hurt me. If anything, I hurt him.”

You continue when he makes a questioning hum from the back of his throat, “I kind of uh, kicked him between his legs… twice?”

You blush fiercely when he makes a choked sound and reaches out to gently squeeze your nape, he sounds like he’s trying not to laugh when he speaks, “You kicked a man in the balls? A Trandoshan?”

“I was left with no other choice and did what I needed to.”

“You are much braver than you believe,” You think you hear a twinge of admiration in his cool baritone and shake your head a little at the sentiment, refusing to believe his words “I mean it. Not many with no fighting experience would have the courage to take on someone so much bigger to protect something so little, especially when you’re already hurt. You should feel proud.”

“Th-Thank you,” You whisper, shuddering when his hand slowly travels down your neck and settles on the space between your shoulder blades, rubbing the tension away from your aching muscle; your fingers fumble with the roll of gauze as you slowly finish wrapping it around the cub’s raw neck, “You are… you’re distracting me from my work, Mandalorian.”

“I would prefer to distract you in other ways, mesh’la,” That slight cockiness is back in his modulated voice and when you try so desperately to think of some sort of witty comeback, you find that your mind is full of thoughts of what other distractions he could possibly mean. His hand slowly trails up your back and around the slope of your shoulder, eventually stopping at the base of your throat and urging your head backwards so the back of your skull is gently pressed against his armored-clad abdomen and you’re peering up at him with wide, inquisitive eyes. He barely uses any pressure to control you and it’s then that you realize it’s not dominance he seeks, but more so your trust in him, and knowing that he would never harm you with ill intent.

“I have a patient to treat.”

“So do I.”

“I’m still upset with you.”

He releases the gentle, barely-there grip on your throat at your weak words and you exhale a long, deep sigh as you finish wrapping up the vulptex’s sprained paw with a small splint and a tight layer of gauze to keep the bones from shifting. Grabbing the thin pillow from the top of the medical cot, you slowly rise from your chair, fully aware of your Mandalorian’s attention on you as you place the pillow in a safe corner of the room before retrieving a small, metal dish that you would typically use to discard debris into upon treating injured patients. Instead, you fill it with water before placing some dried meat into a smaller dish, just in case your newest companion becomes hungry at some point throughout the night.

Once you settle the healing creature near its water and food bowls, you hesitantly turn to the Mandalorian that now occupies your chair, legs splayed wide, as though he doesn’t give a damn about how much space he takes up in your little office. As you approach him after making sure the cub is sound asleep and comfortable in her cozy corner, you find that you don't mind his hulking stature in the slightest and place a gentle hand on the spot between his pauldron and the lip of his helmet.

“Mesh’la,” He greets you in a quiet huff as you slowly lower yourself onto the cot with a pained expression etched upon your features; his hand moves to your thigh and carefully tugs you closer to him, “Your wounds?"

"I've done all that I can already," You inform him weakly, putting up no fight when he gently guides you into a laying position on your side by placing a firm hand on your shoulder, "I don't have anything for fractured ribs."

"I do," He begins to pull a familiar jar from the pouch at his hip and you shake your head a little upon realizing it's the bacta salve you gave him two months ago, "Please, let me take care of you the same way you take care of everyone else."

“I’m not used to--”You swallow the lump in your throat and eventually nod your consent, melting into the stiff cot when he gently wraps his fingers around your bare calf and you speak in a weak whisper, "Okay, just please be careful, the bruising is--it's pretty bad."

"I would never--" His chest heaves and his head tilts as his visor lands on your face, "I'll always be gentle with you, mesh'la."

You nod and fully relax against the mattress, peering at his scuffed up helmet as his fingers curl into the hem of your dress; you think his hesitation is endearing because most men would not have the same reaction, "It is okay, I'm wearing shorts."

"How unfortunate."

So much for hesitation.

Your face grows so hot that you feel it spread to your earlobes and you shake your head at the man who's determined to be your own nurse. You think it’s ironic that you’re in the same position he had once been in during your initial meeting and you now understand why he had become so tense upon touching his warm skin. He’s barely touched you and your heart is beating harder than a war drum before battle; you briefly wonder if this is what he had in mind when he inquired about treating your wounds and you think he must enjoy watching you squirm a little.

Yet, you know his intentions are pure and he only wishes to help you.

"Do you flirt this way with everyone?"

"No," He sounds utterly amused by your exasperation and shy disposition, "Just pretty nurses who go around picking fights with Trandoshans."

You scoff at that, fully aware of what kind of game he’s playing with you, “It seems as though you are the nurse and I am your patient now, though.”

“I... uh, yes, it does seem that way, mesh’la.”

You roll your eyes at him, though a small smile threatens to break your stoic features, "It is not professional to flirt with your patients, Mandalorian."

He huffs a little, risking a cursory glance at your face before carefully sliding your dress up your thighs and stomach so he can get a good look at your ribs. Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel his calloused knuckles graze the outside of your bare thigh and you force your mind out of the gutter, reminding yourself that he’s doing this to tend to your wounds.

"Oh, saviin'ika," You hear him sigh gravely as he lightly drapes your dress just underneath your bust, exposing your severely bruised skin to him, "He… he did all of this to you? Wh-Why? Maker--how could anyone--?"

You flinch a little when he cautiously lays a warm hand near the darkest of the bruises and he’s astoundingly quick to yank his hand away, as though you’re the one that’s caused him such pain and you shake your head a little. You reach out to grab his warm hand in your colder one and guide it back to your bruised skin, longing to feel any sort of tender touch after the rough, violent week you’ve had.

"He caught me daydreaming instead of working. I should have--"

"Don't you dare blame yourself for this," He breathes, a twinge of devastation clear as day in his crackly voice, "Nobody deserves this kind of torture except for him and him only. I wish you would--" He sounds like he's in even more pain than you and your heart shatters upon realizing you've unintentionally reduced him to such a state, "I wish you would let me kill him for you. I could even make it fast so you wouldn't think me to be as cruel as him. Please, mesh--"

"I want to continue to be a nurse, Mandalorian," You weakly remind him, remembering your father’s threat as your own nurse glides a cautious thumb along your tender skin, remaining diligent in not applying any pressure, “I could not keep helping others if you killed him--the infirmary would close down and I would be left without a job.”

The Mandalorian shakes his head and you watch as his rough fingers collect a generous scoop out of the jar that looks just as filled as the night he’d carried you home and tended to your wounds then. You wonder if it’s simply an instinct for him to take care of others and you give him an encouraging smile when he begins to rub the warm gel against the worst of your bruises with far more tenderness than you’ve ever experienced. You can tell he’s utterly afraid of causing you further pain and you watch as he keeps his visor trained on his massive hand that’s currently soothing your wounds.

“What if you could though? What if there was a way you could continue to help others and not have to fear him?”

You force yourself not to ponder his words too much, knowing such wistful thinking will only end in more pain.

“I would think it to be a fairytale,” You finally murmur, eyes slipping shut as he continues to slowly and carefully soothe your bruises with a ghost of a touch; the bacta salve is pleasantly numbing and you’re suddenly grateful for the unexpected medical attention, “And I have never believed in fairytales, Mandalorian.”

He simply hums and doesn’t say anything else as he finishes rubbing the numbing salve against your tender skin; though the dull ache still lingers, you’re certain the pain will be minimal come morning. You think he’s finished when he kindly fixes your gray dress so the hem is settled against just above your knees once again, but then he’s standing up and you barely lift your head when you hear water running from the small sink that’s adjacent from where you lay. The Mandalorian seems like a man on a mission as he keeps his back to you and goes through a few drawers and cupboards before finding what it is he’s searching for.

You make a small questioning hum as he makes his way over to a little sink that you'd normally wash your hands in, "What are you doing?"

He barely turns his head to you as he harshly wrings out a soaking rag in the sink, "I am cleaning you up. You have blood in your hair."

"You don't--" Your heart swells at the gesture; you hadn't really had much time earlier to thoroughly clean yourself up and had felt the dried up blood crusted into your hairline all day, "Th-Thank you. That's really sweet of you."

He merely grunts as he shuts off the water and makes his way back to the cot you currently occupy and you blink in surprise when he gently slides a hand underneath your head and urges you to sit up just a little. It takes you a second to realize what he's doing and you carefully lean up on an elbow so he can carefully shift himself behind you on the cot and your face grows warm at the thought of him yearning to be so close to you.

As he settles behind you and moves you up into more of a seated position between his splayed thighs, carefully wrapping his thick fingers around your biceps to pull you up further against his chest, you completely forget your father's foreboding threat. Now, you're focused solely on the way he curls himself around you to get a better look at the dried blood matted to your scalp.

"Nurses don't typically treat their patients like this, Mandalorian."

He lets out another grunt and firmly keeps his hand cupped to the underside of your jaw so he can tilt your head backwards, “I just wanted to be close to you after not seeing you for so long. Besides, I don’t hear you complaining at all, mesh’la,” He lowers his helmet a little as he gently dabs at the small section of matted, crusty hair, “Are you going to tell me the real reason why you tried to get me to leave you tonight?”

Your eyelids slip shut as he soothingly rubs your jaw with his thumb and you wish he wasn’t wearing his cuirass so you could melt against him easier, “This is dangerous for both of us."

The scratchy material of the cloth tugs at your skin a little, but it's nowhere near painful as he continues to dutifully clean the blood from your scalp, "What did he say to you?"

Tiredly, you rest your hands on top of his armor-clad thighs and lean further against his chest as you force yourself to lie to the only man you’ve ever admired, “Only the truth--that I need to stop getting distracted so much. I-I have a job to do.”

“That does not mean you shouldn’t be allowed to be happy,” He breathes and you keep your eyes closed when he moves to tend to the bruises; you don’t have the heart to tell him that your happiness would end with your demise, “You can still help people and... and be with me.”

Your brows furrow and your chest heaves as he affectionately rubs the soothing salve against your cheek before dutifully moving to the black and blue skin around your eye. You think of earlier when he spoke of your strength and scars and how you insisted you were no warrior, but as the Mandalorian drops his helmet until the chin of it is resting on your shoulder, you realize you are at war with yourself.

How could you possibly deny this man anything?

Even when the bacta is absorbed into your pleasantly numbed skin, he keeps caressing your cheeks, nose, and lips and you slowly turn your head until your nose bumps against his visor; if he weren’t so close to you, his next words would have been inaudible.

“I wish I could kiss you right now, mesh’la.”

His thumb barely parts your lips and you feel his other hand come up to feel the frenzied pulse at the hollow of your throat, seeming all too content to touch you anywhere you’d allow him to. You feel utterly warm and helpless when his thumb gently pulls at your bottom lip and a desperate noise somehow passes through his modulator.

“The things I would do for you,” He groans upon feeling the warm saliva on the inside of your lip, “The things you do to me...”

You swallow the lump in your throat as you speak, your words a weak promise that he doesn’t realize to be true in that moment, his mind only focused on the way your tongue barely grazes the rough pad of his thumb to register the weight of your statement.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Mandalorian.”

Saviin’ika= Little Violet

Mesh’la= Beautiful

Taglist: @parabatai-winchester @auty-ren @theocatkov @oloreaa @talesfromtheguild @blindedbyyourgrace17 @datmando @dartheldur @miscellaneous-mando @karpasia @ben-is-a-hoe @the-feckless-wonder @whatababeleia @maybege @aeryntheofficial @corrupt-fvcker @lackofhonor @phoenixhalliwell @crazy-kat-in-the-hat @roxypeanut @mandolovian @honestlystop @teaofpeach @macabrefaerie @acynicalcat @spaghetti-666 @readsalot73 @lanatheawesome @absurdthirst (as always, please let me know if I missed anyone!!)

Author’s note: SO I literally say it every single chapter, but you guys are absolutely amazing and I’m so grateful for all the sweet words and support y’all have given me. When I started writing the first chapter, I only intended on it being 3-5 chapters at the most, but I literally adore these two lovebirds and now I’m over here planning out a whole ass novel for them lmao.

Also if I take a long time to reply to your kind replies/reblogs/asks, please forgive me!! My dumb self gets so overwhelmed in such a good way and I never know how to respond :( I definitely see every like, every reply and reblog and ask you guys send me and I adore all of you <3

#paz vizsla x reader #paz vizla x reader #mandalorian x reader #Paz vizsla x you #paz vizla x you #idk if it's vizla or vizsla anymore so im using both to be safe lmao #mandalorian fanfic #my writing #LORD THIS CHAPTER TOOK SO MUCH OUT OF ME #AT FIRST HE WASNT EVEN GONNA BE IN IT AND THEN I JUST COULDNT STOP MYSELF #AGHHH

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yandere-daydreams · 5 years ago

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Title: A Collection.

Commission for an anonymous donor.

Pairing: Yandere!Fyodor/Reader

Synopsis: Fyodor doesn’t want a chase when he comes to claim his prize. He prefers his little mouse docile and contained, as opposed to free-range and feral.

TW: Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Sedation, Dehumanization and Slight Infantilization.

You were vaguely aware that your coffee was probably cold, by now.

You supposed you could check. Your cup was only an arm’s length away, sitting at your feet as you kept yourself tucked into a corner of the protective park-bench, your usual safe-haven from all the concerns and responsibilities you knew you’d have to attend to, eventually. A book laid open on your lap, the spine creased and the pages occasionally fluttering in the breeze, but you made no attempt to close it. Your arms felt like lead, and your legs were dead-weight, unmovable and unattached. It was all you could do to keep your eyes open. Something as effortful as reaching down and sitting up was out of the question.

You wondered if you’d lose the will to breathe. If your body was going to stay this heavy for much longer, that might be preferable.

A hazy blur of black and white crossed your vision, pausing momentarily to pluck the novel from your thigh before falling onto the seat beside you, your paper-back soon tucked into the pocket of a thick coat, much too warm for the summer weather. It was summer, wasn’t it? Your thoughts were beginning to cloud, your recent memories dimming into something distant, something separate. Like you were trying to recall a scene from a movie you’d seen a decade ago, one that hadn’t been good enough to remeber.

You tried not to linger on the subject, instead choosing to focus on the present. You were awake. Your tongue was numb, but it had to be there. You could concentrate. “You’re my stalker.”

“Such an ugly name.” His voice was low, but at ease. A confident drawl that made no attempt to hide its apathy. Gloved fingertips brushed against your skin but didn’t settle. As if he was still trying to decide whether or not he cared enough to touch you. “I’m Fyodor, dear, and the man whose been taking care of you. That’s prettier than ‘stalker’, isn’t it?”

“You’ve been following me,” You countered, weakly, too tired to put any real force behind the words. It came out as more of a hollow admission than the well-earned declaration you’d always imagined you’d give, if you ever met your evasive admirer. “As far as I’m aware, that makes you a stalker. You’re just a creep with a name.”

There was a chuckle, and finally, a hand came to rest on the crook of your arm, the gesture present but non-committal, ready to pull away at the slightest disturbance. A sick satisfaction accompanied the idea that he might be afraid to touch you, or hesitant, at least. It was a consolation prize, but one you chose to take pride in. “You think I’m watching you?” He asked, following the question with a breathy chuckle, one that told you he wasn’t looking for an answer. “Don’t flatter yourself, I’m a very busy man and there’s much to do. This city of yours is… loud, at the best of times.” He paused, narrowing his eyes at nothing in particular, as if the grass and pavement had done him some great, personal injustice. It was a momentary distaste, though, swiftly covered with an expression of manufactured neutrality, his tight smile seamlessly sewing itself in the place of his glare. “I am important, so I paid many less important people to watch you. And this morning, because I am also very generous, I gave a teenage barista far too much to make sure a scentless, tasteless powder found its way into your beverage.”

It was a muted shock. The betrayal was numb - you’d had more than enough time to realize you were drugged, and it wasn’t like you had any trust in Fyodor to be soiled, but there was still something in the way his smile seemed to broaden that made your chest ache, a certain familiarity in the sparse, nervous glances he threw towards you out of the corner of his eye, as if he expected you to be proud. You didn’t know whether you should be angry or afraid, so you let the emotions blend together, forming some dark, rotten discontent, a helplessness you couldn’t do anything but despise. You tried to express your loathing, to prove it to yourself by gritting your teeth or curling your hands into fists, but all you managed as an awkward twitch and a new wave of dizzying nausea, this fresh assault threatening to force you out of consciousness entirely. “What’re you going to do?” You mumbled, forcing yourself to speak and doing your damnedest to sound intimidating. The effort was futile, at best. “Leave me here to suffer? Force me to talk? Kidnap me?”

He pouted, pursing his lips and letting out a small noise of offense. “So many ugly words,” He repeated. “Don’t think of it as kidnapping. I’m taking you somewhere safe, somewhere beautiful, and all I ask for in return is your cooperation. That’s fair, no?” Another question that didn’t warrant a response. Fyodor was quiet for a beat, though, giving you time to scoff before he continued. “You’ve already proved that this is necessary. During my time here, it’s become clear that little mice have no place among the rats. Someone could take advantage of you. Anything could find its way into your blood and leave you powerless.” He sighed, shaking his head and squeezing your forearm playfully before letting his attention drift. An arm draped itself over your shoulders, and tentatively, Fyodor moved closer, pulling you against him. You tried to resist, to keep yourself upright, but the slightest bit of force was enough to render you slack and useless. You fell into his side, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek and tilt your head back, keeping your unfocused eyes centered on him. You had a feeling that would be a theme, while you were in his company. “If I wasn’t so benevolent, I may have let someone less gentle collect you. But, it’d be a shame to let you break this early on.”

“Fucking stalker,” You spat, under your breath, if only because you couldn’t think of another thing to say. Your mind was foggy, your thoughts spiraling, quickly becoming too much of a burden to carry. You were tired, more so than you’d ever been before. You couldn’t move, and all you wanted to do was sleep, even if the only place you had to rest your head was in the palm of your soon-to-be abductor. In a vain attempt to keep yourself awake, you tried to speak, but Fyodor was quick to silence you, hushing you like a fussing, toothless animal.

Like you were a mouse, chewing at the bars of your cage.

“Give in, beloved. Resistance will only end in bad dreams.” There was a kiss to the top of your head, a smile pressed against your scalp, but the sensation was dull, fleeting. You’d already begun to fade by the time he thought to finish.

“I’m only trying to do what’s best for my favorite pet.”

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away-from-anthills · 3 years ago

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chapter ten-

It was clear the russet-furred tom was hiding something.

Currantstar looked just as frantic as he was the prior night- darting around; breath light and shaky. Antstar and Stoatslink had to duck behind ferns and stones as they followed him to ensure he wouldn’t realize he was caught.

Usually, ShadowClan cats liked to keep their claws long- even Currantstar had had long, white claws the last time Antstar noticed them. But as the three cats went over the bridge, Antstar realized that Currantstar’s claws had all been chipped so they wouldn’t click as he went over the bridge’s pale wooden tiles. This was all planned in advance. Whatever Currantstar was doing here, it wasn’t something sudden.

The ruddy-colored tom took a sharp turn left, and the two WindClan cats scrambled to follow him.

“We’re on RiverClan territory,” sharply whispered Stoatslink.

“I know,” Antstar replied. “We can just tell them we’re following him.”

It became harder and harder to track Currantstar through the wetlands of RiverClan. The uneven, soft ground felt alien before Antstar’s feet. He turned towards camp as he and Stoatslink slipped between stones. Quite a few warriors were standing vigil for their fallen Clanmates, and the lights of their eyes looked like freckled, colorful stars from this distance.

“We have to be quiet,” he urged Stoatslink. “They’re all up.”

“You said they’ll go easy on us if we just tell them about Currantstar.”

“Does it look like I want to do that?”

Stoatslink looked suspicious at best. “You really like keeping secrets, don’t you.”

“I- never mind that, he’s getting away!”

They turned to see Currantstar make a sprint across a small, winding Thunderpath, just around where the little farm by RiverClan was. They followed him, picking up speed as they traveled parallel to the Thunderpath, carefully watching over their shoulders to avoid the fate that bad befallen the former deputy Rainleap a scant few moons prior.

Suddenly, the russet ShadowClan tom took a step right, into a little subdivision of Twoleg houses that lay just beyond the territory. He relaxed visibly as he did so, shoulders easing into his fur and his tail unfurling. Antstar and Stoatslink followed him from the shadows of the other side of the winding Thunderpath as he trod upon a little sidewalk. Currantstar’s head bobbed as he went, like he was counting each house he passed by- one green one, one pink one, one white one with a red door and a little birdbath in the front. Without looking at the ground, he leapt over an uneven crack in the sidewalk that could have easily tripped him.

“Does he get food here?” asked Stoatslink, his ears drawn back and the side of his lip curled in a look of disgust. “I guess that’s typical ShadowClan.”

But Antstar noted the excitement in Currantstar’s eyes was giddy, and boyish; far beyond the simple, gluttonous pleasures of Twoleg food.

Suddenly, Currantstar stopped in front of a small, periwinkle-covered house longer than it was tall. It had a garage next to it, where a small, plump olive-green monster slept. Two windows, each with a yellow glow, perched on either side of a darker blue door. Curiously, there was a little cat-sized flap on the base of the door. The house looked lived-in, but certainly much tamer, much more organized, far neater than the forests that greeted them only a short walk away, much more unsettlingly perfect than all Antstar had known.

The ShadowClan leader’s long, straight ears perked up. A small figure of a cat became visible in one of the windows. As soon as it was there, however, it disappeared. A few moments later, the flap on the bottom of the blue door began to shake.

One white foot emerged, then the other- out slid a beautiful dilute calico. She was small, but her short, cashmere fur was so neatly groomed it rounded out her features. Her face had a youthful quality to it- a small, curved nose, big teal-green eyes, and ears that seemed to just ever so slightly be rounded. Around her neck was a silvery collar with a stripe of white lace, decorated with a small, shiny jingle bell. She moved through the freshly-cut grass like water and thrust herself into Currantstar’s side, where he purred warmly and leaned into her.

“Why all the urgency, Calypso?” he teased in his smooth, crimson voice. “It’s only been a quarter moon.”

“It felt like a lifetime to me.” She had one of those voices that was light, but silky, with just enough of a darkness that she didn’t seem naïve. It had a unique accent to it- kittypet accent.

Kittypet accent was one of the things the Clan thought most terrifying about kittypets. Twolegs had a unique quality about them in that everything they were near seemed to turn into them. Kittypet accent didn’t have the gruff twang of ThunderClan, the smooth chirpiness of RiverClan, the dry snicker of ShadowClan, the harsh sharpness of WindClan, the nasally quality of SkyClan. No, kittypet accent sounded like Twolegs, and the more a kittypet was around them, they said, the more and more Twoleg they would sound until they were indistinguishable from the big, spider-pawed creatures.

But Calypso only had enough kittypet accent to be strange, foreign- and, therefore, desirable in the way only true mystery is.

“Currantstar, I must tell you something. About last night.”

Currantstar nodded, suddenly looking a touch uneasy. She stepped back, lifting up his scruffy chin with her tail to keep him interested, before she sat down, turning around gracefully.

“So, you know how last night I told you that I wasn’t sure if I was pregnant or not?”

Currantstar looked more and more uneasy. He already had looked to be in a disarray, but now he looked like an unravelling yarn sweater as he twitched and gripped the dewy earth.

“My Twoleg took me to the Cutter. Don’t worry - nothing happened. But I did learn that I am, indeed, pregnant.”

Currantstar looked to be a tad ill, his green eyes flickering with a mixture of emotions. Antstar turned to address Stoatslink, but Stoatslink’s eyes were too glued to the drama unfolding before them for him to notice.

“You look nervous, darling.”

Finally, Currantstar managed to speak something beyond a vague stutter. “The Warrior Code- my mate-“ “You told me your Clan wouldn’t mind. Isn’t ShadowClan quite accepting of it?” Clearly, the red tom had lied to her. But he couldn’t reveal the truth now- no, he had placed himself upon a house of cards, although Antstar could not tell which card was which.

“You’re right,” he said breathlessly. He fell into her shoulder and she curled around him. “You’re going to be a wonderful father. We can split the kits up both ways- half with me and half with you…”

“Doesn’t Currantstar already have a mate?” asked Stoatslink, his eyes still glued to the two cuddling cats in the same way one can’t look away from roadkill.

“He… he does,” said Antstar. “Sleekpetal, his deputy’s daughter. And she’s- expecting his kits.”

Suddenly, the booing that Currantstar had received at the previous Gathering made too much sense. And Antstar made a horrid realization- if not even Currantstar, the paragon, the one who he had wanted to be, was perfect, if even Currantstar was hated by his Clan, if even Currantstar could be two-faced and adulterous behind the calm, charming mask… what chances did that give him?

The two WindClan cats turned to leave, but as they did so, they caught sight of a pair of blue eyes, blue like hot fires, in the distance. Antstar and Stoatslink hid behind a big, boxy black monster as they watched the little tom approach.

Stoatslink seemed positively giddy with anticipation as the bile fascination twisted upon itself. “It’s Whitestone- his deputy!”

Whitestone was an old cat, definitely one of the older deputies. His deaf ears had been chipped at like weathered stones; lumps had began to develop on his hind legs. His tail had a kink in it and hung loosely behind him, the tip dragging against the pavement. He had a permanently-furrowed brow, and his blue eyes were so weary they had developed a tinge of reddish-purple.

“Currantstar,” he called. At once Currantstar seemed to shrivel inward, and he nudged Calypso’s shoulder, trying to get her to turn away. But the dilute calico simply looked puzzled as she backed away two steps, her ears turning lopsidedly as she stared at the white tom.

Whitestone marched onto the grass, and walked up until he was only a whisker’s length away from his leader. He leaned up; his face pinched with suspicion.

“Mind explaining who this is?” he signed.

“Friend of mine,” Currantstar signed back- although it was difficult for him to keep his paws from shaking so hard that they interrupted his attempts to sign.

“Friend?” Whitestone didn’t look like he’d believed a word of it. “Friend. When everyone knows you’ve been sneaking out nearly every other night. When everyone knows you always smell of one molly or another.” He stepped back, indignance boiling in every inch of his body. “And we both know she isn’t the only one you’re seeing.”

“I can explain!” Currantstar yelled out on instinct. Remembering that his deputy was deaf, however, he signed back: “I can explain! Listen-“

“Explain what?” asked Calypso, trying to understand the signing between the two. The sign language the Clans had developed was not a universal one; although certain gestures were universally understood by all cats; she had been left out of the conversation entirely. At least one thing had worked in Currantstar’s favor here.

“You’re too focused on yourself- how you look, how you act, what mollies are fawning over you- to even consider your own Clan. Half of us can’t even go to Gatherings. Why? Because to you, we’re too ugly! We’re a shame to the other Clans, in your eyes- and for why? Everything you do is a façade, Currantstar, and you damn well know it- including whatever you’re stringing this kittypet along for!”

Currantstar stood still.

“You have no reply? What about your mate- my daughter? What about your unborn kits?”

Currantstar shot Calypso a nervous look. She didn’t understand.

Whitestone stood very still, his furrowed brows pushing themselves together into one as he continued to think. Something began to dawn on him, and he stepped back.

“When you made me deputy,” he began to sign, “back when you first became leader. You were courting my daughter.”

Currantstar nodded, seemingly realizing Whitestone had dawned upon some horrid truth.

“You… you made me deputy because you thought it would make her like you more, didn’t you? That’s all?”

Currantstar, again, stood still. His eyes stared directly at the little white deputy, but his mind was somewhere else, like it had taken an exit to keep itself safe and leaving the body alone in its place.

“ANSWER ME!” signed Whitestone frantically. “Did you make me your deputy just because of that? Because it would make you look better?”

Currantstar stood still for what felt like an hour, and then- slowly, surely- he nodded.

Whitestone drew back with a hiss, winding himself, every muscle coiling, his teeth starting to bear as an adder’s did… The white tom sprang. Currantstar dodged the blur, but just barely, and the white tom dragged him back. The two became a red-and-white tangle as they traded blows, Currantstar clearly trying to disengage as Whitestone’s anger grew hotter and hotter.

“Stop! Stop!” yelled Calypso as she began to drag the white tom away- but as she did so, Whitestone raked his claws across Currantstar’s face, creating a massive, nasty gash that framed the underside of his face and went down across the lip to his chin. In panic, Currantstar tried to hold the wound, to stop it from wrecking his otherwise-perfect face- but a part of him had to already know it was too late.

“You’re telling them, when you get back. You’re telling them why you have that gash. Who you’ve been seeing. And why I’ve chosen to resign as your deputy.” Whitestone grimaced with a sort of parental disgrace. “I’m not going to be your deputy just so you can convince my daughter, when you get back home, that you’re the kind of fellow who cares about her. Fickle bastard, Currantstar, you fickle, fickle bastard…”

Whitestone left, his pelt still red in some places where Currantstar had dealt him blows. Currantstar turned to look at Calypso, the slash in his face beginning to swell as wounds tended to do.

“We have to get you cleaned up!” she said, running up to him and analyzing him to ensure no other big wounds had been cursed to him in the fight. “Who was that, though? You seemed to know him.”

“Just some useless rogue,” Currantstar fibbed. “Trust me, everything’s fine.”

“I think I’ve seen enough,” said Stoatslink. He turned to go home, and Antstar followed, down the winding path out the neighborhood into the distant, whispering forest that lay beyond them and yet was so familiar.

They were silent on the way home, only breaking their contemplation once they crossed into WindClan.

“I mean, I guess Currantstar being like that makes sense,” Stoatslink admitted.

Antstar turned in his tracks. “Makes sense?”

“Yeah.” Stoatslink’s yellow eyes flickered with the light of the stars above them. They were slightly obscured by his large nose bridge, but Antstar could still see the suspicion that hung behind them. “He was too quiet. Too perfect. Too… well, I think all leaders have their dirty secrets. But I knew upon seeing him he had some particularly complicated sets of skeletons under his nest.”

“What do you mean, all leaders?”

“…Well, look! Tatteredstar has killed members of her own Clan, like she did with Rosefire. Tulipstar became leader without being decided on the prior leader or even her Clan; her medicine cat at the time lied to them all because he just happened to like her the most. Pigeonstar has definitely caused the deaths of several cats through needless, petty battle. Currantstar has… well, that. And you.”

Stoatslink’s eyes narrowed into two slits, like he was trying to put a name to something that never had one before.

“I’m sure you’ll have something. If you don’t already have something, that is.”

Antstar had to stop himself from jumping back. Did Stoatslink know? Had he figured it out? Or- even worse- was Antstar a suspect that he was trying to whittle away, slowly, inch-by-inch until he collapsed, like vultures scavenging the dead until the body falls apart entirely?

“Anyway, seeing that all unfold was pretty funny, I must say.” Stoatslink stopped at the entrance of the gorse-flower tunnel into camp. “Just remember what I told you about Sparkthistle.”

It was silent again. Antstar looked up at the stars above him. On a clear night, like this, he could see very far- all the clusters, the entangled shapes the stars made, Silverpelt stretching herself across the sky…

He remembered being a kit, staring up into that deep, wide sky. What was out there? What lay beyond the forest, beyond all he’d ever known?

A part of that magic remained, still, so long as he didn’t think about it too hard, so long as he only looked at it for a short while.

Then, a voice. Pawsteps, light and soft- that of a kittypet’s.

He turned to see Nightblossom. Nightblossom had been one of the cats who were once rogues but had become respectable warriors when Antstar had allowed them in. Her velvety black coat had been disrupted by scratches from the fight earlier that day. Her right ear had been nicked; the notch was still getting torn open, indicating that one day the entire top half of her ear would fall off.

“Can I talk to you about something?”

It had been the first time in a while he had heard her voice. She was quite unlike the other rogues that had been let in: Shrike and Audrey were content in the elders’ den. Juniperfang was a coarse creature who had meshed into the battle perfectly. Lilystone was a strong, silent type, and her ThunderClan-like muscle and stature made her a great fit for the tunnelers. Birchshine was not particularly talented, or intelligent for that matter, but what he lacked in natural gift he made up for in effort and kindness.

But Nightblossom had sunk into the background, like the shadow of a wallflower…

Antstar nodded and let her speak.

“I know I was really excited about joining the Clan with my friends. And… I still think the Clan is great. What it stands for, how everyone works together. But…” She faltered. Her tail slunk to the ground and stood still. “I just… I can’t stand the fighting we did today. And it wasn’t even for us. I don’t want to fight. I… I felt so sick, watching the SkyClan leader and his son…”

Antstar opened his mouth to protest, but already he knew it was too late.

“I want to leave the Clan. I love my friends, and the place, but… I just can’t stand the idea of fighting, let alone for something we really don’t have any part in. I’m not Nightblossom anymore. I’m Stella, like I was before.”

She began to walk away into the black night that bore her former name, her fur peppered with light from the stars above. Already, it was like she was slipping away into nothing.

“I wish you all the best. My friends already know I’m leaving- don’t worry about telling them.”

She walked away, towards the barn, slowly picking up speed like a stone was sliding off her shoulders. She disappeared nearly as soon as she was a strong distance from camp because of her black pelt. A few minutes later, something in Antstar’s heart grew heavy, and that was when he knew she had winked out of the world of the Clans and was gone.

But Antstar’s mind soon turned away from the black and into the white as another matter came to mind.

Stoatslink.

Horror gripped at him with its long, yellow talons. He couldn’t let Stoatslink die. Sparkthistle had nothing to her name, and was not missed- if she was, it was only her shadow and her what-could-have-beens that were mourned. But Stoatslink was a family man. Two daughters, both soon to take their final apprentice assessments, friends both in and outside WindClan…

But something had to be done. Stoatslink was, after all, practically snaking around the truth, around Antstar. And if Antstar was gone, the political implications for WindClan were dark ahead…

Stoatslink was a threat to the Clan. And he would continue to be a threat as long as he was aware, as long as he was on the trail near the gorge where Sparkthistle had been found. As long as he could nose through the lies- or at least as long as he attempted to.

After all, he was telling his Clanmates that he expected a murderer was on the loose. It was a matter of public security- a panicked Clan catches no prey…

Antstar felt his brain coil as it ran ten thousand tail-lengths a minute. Faster and faster it went, faster and faster he felt his paws go beneath him, until he stopped in the open doorway to the medicine den, breath shaky. As soon as he saw Whitetooth’s teal eyes greet him, he managed to gasp out breathlessly:

“We need to do something about Stoatslink!”

#warrior cats #warrior cats ocs #story

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alittlewhump · 3 years ago

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Unbidden - Act 2, chapter 1

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Content warnings: sex work mention, one noncon kiss, minor noncon touch (suggestive but not sexual)

Morgan was deeply uncomfortable. The caravan ride had been entertaining, at least for him. Cain was delighted to have an attentive audience, and after divulging all he knew about the events currently unfolding - Diablo's corruption and influence spreading, the dark wanderer last seen heading east and his possible motives - he had expounded at length on his theories about the forces of Heaven and Hell and what moves they might make next. He also shared tales of the time he'd spent in the desert cities in his younger days, and anything else that happened across his mind. It seemed he had an unlimited capacity for storytelling. Morgan liked it, content to absorb as much knowledge as he could.

However, once they'd reached their destination, they had been almost immediately ushered to the palace by a taciturn guard armed with a very sturdy-looking spear. Cain had already slipped away, ostensibly in pursuit of an old acquaintance, but both Blaise and Morgan found themselves visiting the sultan unexpectedly.

Upon their arrival, the man, who introduced himself as Jerhyn, had actually been quite friendly. He had somehow heard about their defeat of Andariel and was eager to pay for their assistance with problems that had arisen in his city. The mercenary guild was struggling to maintain their ranks in the face of increasing demonic activity. Blaise had agreed to join them readily; working together with a group to combat monsters and demons was well within her comfort zone. Morgan was trying to delicately express his preference to work alone, but the sultan was being insistent and it was proving difficult to argue.

The problem he was experiencing was rooted in the attack the harem guild had sustained weeks earlier, prompting Jerhyn to offer the members shelter within his spacious palace. Priests of Rathma had no particular rules with regards to celibacy, but surrounded as he was now by women and men in various states of undress, Morgan found himself wishing they did. He'd never managed to grasp the allure of intimate relations. He was aware of it as a possible motivation for the actions of others - there was a long list of those - but he'd resigned himself to simply not understanding it. The guild members flocked around Jerhyn, all flashing jewels and rustling silks. It was impossible to look at the man without seeing an astonishing amount of bare flesh. Of course Morgan was familiar with the human body, had helped with preparations for some of the more involved burial rites, but this was different. It felt like an invasion of privacy, despite the fact that the display was clearly intentional. His discomfort was making it difficult to negotiate.

Blaise, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying herself, gazing around with frank admiration. When Jerhyn finally relented, allowing them until the morning to come to a final decision, she grinned wolfishly.

"Does that mean we get to spend the night here?"

Jerhyn smiled indulgently. "Of course, if you wish it. You may stay as long as you like. Any of the companions here can show you to the guest chambers. Please, enjoy yourselves."

Morgan stood and bowed politely before turning to leave. A heavy hand came down on his shoulder.

"Where do you think you're going?" Blaise hissed next to his ear.

"To find an inn," he whispered back. Her grip tightened and he fought the urge to pry her fingers off of him. It would not be wise to make a scene so soon after their introduction, he reminded himself. No matter that he was already uncomfortable to start with, and it was only getting worse.

"You know it's incredibly rude to turn down an invitation like this, right," she pointed out. He... yes, he did know that, now that he thought about it. The overwhelming desire to be anywhere else was impeding his ability to remember all the rules of social interaction. He did not outwardly protest as Blaise steered him back toward the crowd of concubines. "Have a little fun for once," she said at a more normal volume, pushing him into the waiting embrace of a pale, slender young woman before turning away to mingle.

"Nice to meet you, sweetheart," the woman purred, running her hand down his chest. He tried not to shrink away from the contact. "Let me show you to your room. Don't worry, you don't have to be shy with me." She flashed him a dazzling smile.

"Thank you," he managed. She took him by the hand and led him down a staircase and up a corridor while he alternated between looking at his feet and looking at the ceilings. They appeared to be intricately painted tiles, but the details were lost on him.

Morgan heaved a small sigh of relief when she stepped into a room, beckoning him to follow with a wink. Finally, a respite. He opened his mouth to thank her for her guidance, but she muffled him with a kiss, pressing him into the doorway. He froze for a long, panicked second, torn between the desire to push her away and the lack of any adequately clothed spot on her body to push against. As she raised her arms to embrace him, that did it. He reached up to shove against her shoulder, leaning away.

"What are you doing?" he gasped.

"Showing you a good time, sweetie." He was not having a good time. She went to lean in again and he wriggled free, ducking under her arm and backing away into the room.

"Please, don't." He kept his hand raised to ward her off. She pouted.

"What, you don't like me?"

Not especially. The invasion into his personal space had been unexpected and unwelcome. "I'm sure you're... quite lovely," he said haltingly - it was more of a guess than a lie - "but I'm not... interested in... that." He gestured vaguely, hoping to somehow encapsulate the concept of physical intimacy.

A look of understanding dawned on her face, to Morgan's relief. "Oh. Oh! Sorry about that. I can usually guess. Your friend seemed pretty sure down there, doesn't she know...? Oh well, just sit tight, I'll get out of your hair." She flashed him that bright smile again as she left.

Morgan sat wearily on the edge of the bed. New places were exhausting, and he still had to figure out how to convince the sultan that he would gladly help the mercenaries as long as he was permitted to engage with them as little as possible. How best to frame it? He tested a few different scenarios in his head, starting to build a script from the pieces that seemed most compelling. It was laborious enough that he didn't notice the figure at the entrance to the room until it spoke.

"Not a lot of people turn down Meera's company. Perhaps I'll be a little more to your liking."

"Please, I just - um." He'd started to answer before looking up, and found himself wholly unprepared for the vision that greeted him. The most breathtakingly beautiful person he'd ever seen was leaning casually against the doorway. He smiled at Morgan, a flash of pearly teeth bright against the deep umber of his skin, and moved in to perch on the edge of the bed beside him.

"My name is Jemali. What should I call you?" He laid a delicate hand on Morgan's thigh. That broke the spell. Why did these people insist on so much physical contact?

"Morgan," he said, sliding away from the other man. "I don't like being touched," he added.

"You say that," Jemali smiled, edging closer, "but you've never been touched by me. I'd remember a face as handsome as yours." He reached out to caress Morgan's cheek, but he ducked away from the contact, standing and backing away.

"I don't like being lied to, either." The flattery was over the top. A particularly kind and tactful person might go so far as to describe him as distinctive, but that was just a polite way to skirt around the issue. He was ugly. That was an objective fact. There was no point in trying to disguise or deny it.

"Morgan, honey, I'm not - look, I think we got off on the wrong foot here. Let's start over." He patted the bed next to him. Morgan did not move. Jemali sighed. "At least meet me halfway here. I'm trying to please you. If you don't want Meera and you don't want me, what do you want?"

"To rest after a long journey." His patience was wearing thin and he didn't want any sort of company, no matter how lovely they might be to look at. "I just want to be alone."

Jemali arched an eyebrow. "You have a free shot with the finest concubines money can buy, and you don't want to take it?"

"I do not."

"You a eunuch or something?' He cast an appraising glance at Morgan's trousers.

"No."

"Well, now you have me curious." He sprawled across the bed, stretching long limbs to claim the space. "What possible reason could you have to turn both of us down like this? We aren't used to the sting of rejection, you know." He pouted.

"Is it not enough-" he closed his eyes briefly. Irritation was a loss of control, a failure to adhere to the principles that guided him. Plus, raising his voice was starting to hurt his throat. He took a calming breath and tried again. "I don't desire anyone's company. Please just accept that."

"Fine. You don't have to tell me." Jemali rolled over onto his stomach, propping his face up on his hands. "Akarat knows I could use a break anyway. So tell me about yourself, Morgan. Or don't you like talking, either?"

"Not really."

Jemali rolled his eyes. "Of course not. Just my luck, too. Stoic adventurer types are usually right up my alley, but you're going to be a tough nut to crack. I can tell. Don't-" he held up one finger to cut off Morgan's next words before they'd left his mouth, "- don't ask me to leave, because I will, but nobody's going to believe we've finished so quickly. And we're on orders from the sultan to see to you and your friend, so that means I'll have to send in someone else and you'll have to go through this all over again. So just let me sit here for... oh, an hour or so, and then we can both be on our merry ways."

"Fine."

Morgan seated himself in a plush chair opposite the bed, since the other man seemed to be making himself comfortable and he wanted to stay out of his reach. The following silence lasted for nearly a minute before Jemali's voice jolted Morgan out of his thoughts.

"So you must be some sort of wizard." Jemali was studying him, head tilted in what must have been a practiced pose. It was impossible for a person to look so thoroughly statuesque by chance. "You don't have the build to be a fighter. Are you any good? I mean, you must be, or else you wouldn't be here enjoying my company." He stretched languorously. Was he even capable of being still? "Oh, what a story! A strong, silent sorcerer, come to protect us from the clutches of foul demons! This could have been almost romantic, you know. What a waste." He splayed long fingers dramatically across his bare chest, casting his eyes up toward the ceiling.

Ah, yes, the demons. Perhaps he could get some useful information out of this encounter. "Were you there?"

"Was I there when - oh, you want to talk about that." Jemali hugged one knee to his chest, running the edge of a painted fingernail along his bottom lip. "No. No, I was lucky enough to be on a house call. Lost some friends, though." So he could be still after all. Morgan winced. Of course this lively individual had been friends with the victims. Of course the memories would be painful. He hadn't meant to distress him, even though he'd just been hoping for some peace and quiet.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he offered. The other man's lips quirked upward.

"Thanks, honey. That's nice of you to say." He gave a small sigh. "You want to know what you're up against, huh?"

"If I can."

"Smart. Now, we don't make a habit of judging our clientele, but everyone agrees there was a suspicious character who came through just beforehand. Refused to take off his cloak or even pull down his hood. Didn't want anything, just asked a lot of questions and left. Really strange. The demons showed up a few hours later."

Morgan leaned forward. That sounded like it could have been the dark wanderer Cain had described. "Do you know what he asked?"

Jemali shrugged. "Something about old myths, some sort of tomb or something. I don't know."

That would be enough to start with. He could question the sultan in the morning and go from there. Hunting for information was easy enough to justify as an individual task. If the wanderer was looking for something old, that might give him occasion to scour the city archives for information, a pleasantly solitary task. It could also be a justification for working with Deckard Cain, who clearly had some familiarity with the area. The scholar was a useful resource, he reminded himself. It was just a bonus that he liked the old man's company. Things were starting to come together.

Morgan leaned back, satisfied. The action made the collection of small pouches on his belt dig uncomfortably into his side, pushed out of place by the plush stuffing of the chair. He stood to remove them, but of course nothing could go without comment.

"What's all that?"

He considered his options. Ignoring the question seemed unlikely to work, given Jemali's persistence. A vague answer would just lead to more questions, and he didn't particularly want to get into the details of his profession. It might solve the pressing issue of privacy for the moment, but word would inevitably spread, and that could hinder his effectiveness with the sultan. Or get him expelled from the city, depending on the citizens' mood. It wouldn't be the first time. Might as well give a brief explanation.

"Potions. Ingredients for potions. Dried foods. Trinkets." He pointed at each pouch as he named its contents.

Jemali's face lit up. "What kind of trinkets? Like jewels? Oh, can I look at them?"

They were mainly jewellery. Sometimes a skeleton rose with some trappings of its former life still intact - clothes, weapons, baubles. At some point Morgan had started collecting the ones that were particularly appealing to him. The dead generally had no use for possessions. Sometimes he bartered them for supplies, which was useful enough to justify the collection. Sometimes he traded them for other, prettier baubles. To further aid him in his travels, he told himself. Nicer trinkets fetched him more supplies. But he also liked to just look at them sometimes, to appreciate their shapes and the way light played off their surfaces.

He passed the small bag to the courtesan at arm's length. Jemali upended it over the bed in front of him, spreading out the contents to admire them. Morgan, in turn, settled back in his chair and admired Jemali now that his attention was elsewhere. People didn't generally appreciate being stared at, he knew, but everything about the man was arresting. The shape and warm colour of his eyes, the smooth slopes of his skin, the slick, uniform coils of his hair. Even his movements were effortlessly graceful. His voice was easy to listen to, soft and lilting.

"Lost in contemplation of my beauty, hmm?"

Mortifyingly, he was right. "I - I'm sorry. For staring." Morgan averted his eyes. Stupid to have let himself get so distracted. He really did need to rest.

"You don't have to apologize, darling. Clearly you have excellent taste in pretty things," Jemali purred, playing his fingers first over the array of baubles in front of him and then drawing them up to frame his face. He batted his eyelashes. "You sure you don't want a little taste of this?"

"Quite sure." The threat of physical contact was enough to put Morgan back on the defensive. He shifted uncomfortably.

Jemali tilted his head. "You're a funny little puzzle, Morgan. Tell you what, let's make a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"I'll tell the others that you've requested to be my exclusive client. They won't bother you if they know you're mine," he grinned.

It would have been preferable for the guild to ignore him entirely, but he supposed dealing with a single courtesan would be much easier than trying to explain himself over and over. At least this one seemed to understand his request not to be touched.

"And in exchange?"

Jemali reclined fully, wriggling his shoulders into the sheets. "You let me come and go as I please. I don't have a good place here to take a break when I need some alone time. I'll be as quiet as a little mouse, you'll hardly know I'm here."

He considered. It seemed favourable, provided he could count on Jemali to actually be quiet when he needed to concentrate. But would the guild really keep bothering him as long as he stayed here? Or was Jemali overstating the issue to get what he wanted? He eyed the other man warily.

"And I promise I won't lay a finger on you without your permission," he added. That was enough to tip the scales.

"We have a deal."

"Wonderful!" Jemali clapped his hands together and sat up. "Now let's seal it with a kiss, as a matter of tradition... oh, honey, it's all right, I'm just teasing. I said I'll respect your personal space, and honestly I meant it. I'm sorry, Morgan, you don't have to look so scared."

He clenched his jaw. He wasn't scared of being touched, he just didn't want it. Especially not from someone teasing him. Of course, he should have been expecting it. Tiredness and discomfort had interfered with his usual defenses. And if he was honest with himself, so had the peaceful journey, and so had the man's unexpected beauty. He had to remember that he'd earned a measure of respect from his traveling companions, that he couldn't expect the same sort of treatment from a stranger. Especially not such a pretty one, when he was just the opposite. That was just the way the world worked.

"I am going to rest here," he said, closing his eyes and hoping he could take Jemali at his word to leave him be. That ought to end the conversation.

"You can use the bed, you know."

"This is fine."

"All right, suit yourself." True to his word, Jemali was quiet. Morgan could hear the sheets rustle as he made himself comfortable, and shortly afterward his breathing grew slow and deep. Once he was sure the other man was asleep, he finally felt comfortable enough to slip into a light meditation.

It was nearly two hours later by Morgan's count when Jemali gave a soft, almost musical sigh as he awoke and stretched. There were some quiet sounds of fabric and jewellery shifting as he arranged himself, then the soft pat of his feet hitting the floor. "Until next time, darling," he said in a low whisper, and then he let himself out.

Morgan waited a few minutes before relaxing back into a deeper meditation. The chair was actually quite comfortable, much better than the back of the caravan. There was no need to move to the bed. Tomorrow he would meet with the sultan, well rested and hopefully on his own terms. He was cautiously looking forward to it.

#my writing #story: unbidden #sex work tw #noncon kissing tw #noncon touching tw

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prudencepaccard · 3 years ago

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whenever I post about the same old angers I think of this conversation from two years ago with @injygo which was of the most insightful and revelatory dialogues I’ve ever had about my personal psychology

me: my psychiatrist asked me if I loved myself and I was like "I uh...I think I have a lot to offer...and I don't think I'm worthless...and I don't hate myself like I used to" and she was like "dude that's not good enough"

me: I definitely don't love myself

[note: I think I’m starting to now though]

injygo: <:ghosthug:585698760890515503>

me: like I think I'm talented and interesting but I feel deep down like I must be extremely annoying and unlikable and my voice must be grating and I don't know why anyone actually tolerates me

me: I understand why someone might keep me in their collection of eccentrics but not why anyone would want to spend any significant amount of time with me

[note: in early 2020 I was told by someone whose opinion I valued and whom I had wanted to meet for a long time that « the way I take up space is beautiful » which is one of the most validating things anyone could say to me because I have a complex about taking up space wrong/too much/etc.]

me: this in spite of the fact that I am actually extremely loved

me: I'm not *popular* but I'm not at a lack for devoted friends and family

me: but I'm like "okay surely people will come to their senses though"

injygo: does it help to think about how there's lots of different people in the world with different standards, and so there's not really a single scale of likability?

me: a little maybe

me: anyway my self-compassion is garbage and I knew that

me: I know I'm really harsh on myself and keep letting myself down

me: but I hadn't thought about it in those specific terms till she asked

me: like oh no I don't think I love myself, no

me: my loved ones don't love themselves either

me: I don't hate myself as much as I used to but I'm just extremely rigorous and harsh and impatient

me: I really have very very little compassion for myself at all

me: I don't even feel sorry for myself, usually

[linking thought redacted for interlocutor’s privacy]

me: whereas I tend to double down

me: like "yes so fuck everything, let's stay in bed and not eat"

injygo: you do feel sorry for yourself, but you can't usually "get to" it, if you get my meaning

me: what do you mean by get to it?

injygo: like you tell people stories about shitty things that have happened to you, hoping that something they say will reveal how you can forgive yourself for having been harmed and comfort yourself

injygo: like, you're going "hmm, that feels bad, i bet anyone would feel bad for me and try to comfort me, let's test that out" trying to get a response like "that sucks and shouldn't have happened", not because you deep down want other people to comfort you, but because you deep down want to comfort yourself and don't know how except with other people's words and reactions

me: it's possible

injygo: you stay in situations you hate long after you should, because you don't feel like your preferences matter or that you deserve good things, but you *want* to leave, and can't get to the point of saying "yeah, i shouldn't have to suffer this any longer"

injygo: like you're not a masochist, you're not suicidal, there's not a drive to punish yourself for the sake of punishment, it's just that you don't feel like you have the right to avoid bad things and seek good things, or to be comforted, or to have things be easy for you

me: yeah this is probably true

injygo: so you can easily get trapped in depressive spirals where you don't feel like you deserve to eat, or you don't feel like it matters if you're sad

injygo: but when you feel like you *do* deserve things, you're motivated to pursue them and you get mad at people who get in your way

injygo: which is honestly pretty enviable

me: thanks

me: I'm not 100% sure

>forgive yourself for having been harmed

is apt

me: but the rest is pretty accurate

injygo: yeah, i'm not quite sure what's up with your like, quasi-trauma-processing thing

me: "you shouldn't have to suffer like this" is really, really hard to grok when it's an OCD spiral

me: it feels baked in, like if X then Y

me: >yeah, i'm not quite sure what's up with your like, quasi-trauma-processing thing

elaborate?

me: god I just fucking

injygo: but there's definitely a thing where, uh, it's like if you painted a picture and you thought it was really good, but you can't say to yourself "yep this picture is good" until you've shown it to your friends and they've been like "hey, that's good!"

me: I know something really messed with me but I don't have any idea what's going on

me: I don't model myself as traumatized per se

injygo: like, you don't trust your own judgment about whether something hurt you, whether it was your fault, whether it's okay to feel bad about it

me: I also feel like my suffering doesn't matter because everyone else is worse off and/or deserved it less

me: so these anecdotes keep cropping up to you, because you feel like they're unresolved, but what you actually want, rather than being told that it sucked and shouldn't have happened, is for you to be able to say to yourself that it sucked and shouldn't have happened

me: probably yeah

injygo: you don't trust your ability to tell if the painting is good

me: this is definitely true

me: I'm very insecure like that

me: I undersell and undervalue myself

me: from only charging $40/hr [for one hour/week French tutoring that involved me coming to him from pretty far away and lesson planning and making exercises and where the guy I was tutoring balked at paying me that much and tried to bargain me down to $30 even though he had a ton of money and mentioned taking tennis lessons and how much you wanna bet the tennis instructor was making a whole lot more than $40 an hour]

me: to like

me: going "ugh it's true but why'd you have to say it" if someone calls me ugly

injygo: like this is not the bpd thing where you're constantly seeking validation -- borderlines feel good when they're validated, and it like, satisfies them completely (for a short time) when people are like "i like you and you matter"

injygo: they get "hungry" again, and they have to learn to provide it for themselves, but it's this feeling of desperation like "i will Literally Die if someone doesn't pay attention to me Right Now"

injygo: but with you it's more like, being faced with a door you don't know how to open, a feeling of bafflement and a vague sense that something can be done that isn't being done

injygo: like, you know how a dog acts when they're injured, and they come up to you holding their paw up, asking you to fix it

injygo: but a cat will be like "there is a thing that's wrong! help, human" but you don't know what thing it is, and they keep meowing at you and asking you to fix it, but you can't really figure out what to fix

me: and I'm the cat right

injygo: yeah

injygo: like "i'm pretty sure it shouldn't hurt to jump, but i don't see any way to fix it, so i guess i'll just deal"

me: mood

injygo: you're like "problem?" and people are like "yep, problem" and you're like "oh" and then "problem?" because you need *you* to tell yourself the things

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craftypeaceturtle · 4 years ago

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Bewitching

Summary: Roman and his trusted friend, Logan, embark on a journey to visit their local witch.

Note: I was inspired by a post that described this like exact concept. This is just a small fic that struck me! I have no idea why I am only capable of writing rare pair fics but hey ho! At least I’m writing. Analogical and Royality.

“Do you even understand where we’re supposed to be going?” Logan muttered as he tried to massage away his upcoming headache. Unfortunately his headache bounded into his side with a wide smirk.

“Of course! It’s only a simple path through Sanders Woods,” Roman announced as he continued marching through the castle with proud wide steps.

“Do I even need to deconstruct how vague those directions truly are?”

“Pfft! I’m not an idiot Logan. I do have a map. You just follow through the main path through Sanders Woods but then at some specific stump or something stupid, you turn and then boom! Witches!” Roman wiggled the paper in his face but even that movement didn’t hide that it was just some rushed notes on a napkin from his father. It looked like just simple lines and labels. There wasn’t even an compass pointing north!

“Ah I stand corrected then, your majesty. Truly you must be a true scholar in the geologies,” Logan sighed and Roman checked his shoulder.

They were being sent on the incredibly (vague, according to Logan) journey to go track down the kingdom’s local witch to re-establish their trade. A journey that sounded very important and essential so when Logan first heard it, of course he immediately offered his service. The warning sign should have been that Roman was conducting the journey. Another warning sign (as there were many), was the fact that to re-establish their trade, they were trading a kitten and were expecting to get cookies in return. It all painted the very obvious picture that the king wanted his son to do his chores and so asked his friend to ensure the task got done. But then again, Logan prided himself as a man of honour and he wouldn’t refuse to conduct on this journey. He was nobler than this pettiness. He was more serious than any one of the royal family members. He would take great pride in this stupid task.

“Logan!” Roman shouted, Logan whipped round to face him, “Do you mind leaving the kitten alone for at least one second and help me pick out an outfit?”

“Pick an outfit?” Logan squealed indignantly, ignoring his own burning blush as he followed Roman into his room, leaving the poor mewing kitten to sprawl around its basket, “What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?”

He was wearing his typical outfit which was his full princely attire. A pristine white tunic with gold embellishments that all highlighted the strong red of the emblem on his sleeves. He would usually wear a bright red sash across his chest but instead he was flinging it about like a child first trying to learn ballet. But now he blushed bright enough to match the emblem. “We’re meeting new people. Of course a prince should always present their best foot forward.”

“Oh all princes?”

“Okay, don’t pretend that’s fair! We all know that Remus is an octopus dressed as a prince. He shouldn’t be considered along with all other princes!”

“An octopus?” Logan chuckled.

“Dad got at me for constantly calling him a rat so I’m calling him an octopus. Just as ugly but this time dad thinks it’s just some weird nickname,” Roman said way too proudly for someone who was in his twenties and definitely above sibling squabbles. Then again this was indeed Roman.

“Ah, you are just so charming and intelligent, your majesty,” Logan smirked before he also bumped their shoulders, “But don’t think that will distract me. Please promise me that you will not flirt with the witch.”

“It’s not flirting! It’s called being friendly, not that you would know that Intronerd!”

“It’s definitely flirting. And it definitely taints any and all official communication. Do I even need to retell the event with Janus?”

“Right! I’m all ready to go, are you?” Roman bellowed, rushing past him with a satchel of bare essentials. Logan simply sighed and carefully cradled the basket with the kitten.

It was just after midday and they were finally on their way, the guards around the castle grounds waved with barely hidden laughs. Roman frowned at them and clutched Logan to his side. He was well aware of his reputation around the castle. Foolish and way too optimistic. It stung each time but then Roman knew himself better than any guard could. Plus he could always sick Remus on them! But he also knew Logan was quickly getting mixed in with that reputation. A truly genuine travesty to this world. Logan was a bold, determined and so quietly compassionate but he was only regarded as dumb and easily flustered. And Roman could get it! Like yeah, seeing this emotionless guy walk out of the grounds cradling a kitten was funny, but he knew Logan well enough to laugh at how lovey he was really. They just laughed at the ditzy dumb consort who pretended to be cold and collected. Yet Logan always remained oblivious and Roman would risk his life to ensure it would remain that way.

He wished he could say it was a beautiful summer’s morn with the birds chirping their victory as they headed into the deep mysterious forest. But instead the sky was a striking grey with a wind that was just the wrong side of cold. Reports stated it would rain in the afternoon and he was unfortunately momentarily defeated by the allure of sleeping in so he couldn’t leave early enough. Meh, he was pretty sure Logan appreciated the extra hours to sit around doing nothing! He waved the famous royal wave to a bunch of children who scattered at their approach with amazed giggles while Logan did his usual Logan thing of keeping his eyes forward and walking away before they could talk. Perhaps it was for the best, they had to focus.

Well... ‘focus’. The journey was important and all but also this tiny little ginger kitten snuggling into Logan’s muscly bulky arms was very distracting.

The path into the woods was very simple. It was a worn away path in the grass that become wider and wider each time he saw it. It was pretty much a very wonky lane straight through the forest and the map clearly presented an equally wonky line to a blackened tree stump that “they could not miss”. Then turn left and, as he eloquently put it, boom! Witch. In all honesty, the journey was the very last thing on his mind currently. Sanders Woods was big but it was so close to the kingdom that there was never anything too dangerous in there- people travelled through it every day. But, Roman prided himself on his studies into the kingdom’s history and all the fables and stories that it inspired. It didn’t take a genius to know that witches meant trouble. Witches cursed and violently lashed out at any hero that came their way.

He stared up at Logan out of the corner of his eye. Logan looked the part certainly with his official royal uniform and he was fairly built. But Roman also knew Logan. While he could look intimidating, he was anything but. At the first sign of conflict he would freeze, and even if he didn’t, he was in no way trained for battle. He looked built but his muscle purely came from grabbing heavy books from high shelves. He wouldn’t last a second against a witch in a physical battle.

“How have your studies been going?” Roman innocently asked innocently.

“As expected, why?”

“What do you mean why! I can be interested in your studies! What are you learning about now? It was magic right?” Roman kept his focus on his light marching steps. Logan huffed a chuckle.

“Magic is such a broad term I don’t even know how to go about correcting you. Yes, I have largely been studying magic. It is...” Logan scrunched his face up, “going, to put realistically. I’m struggling to fully grip the module I am currently on. But overall, my study of magic is going better than I first thought. How are your studies? Are you studying anything right now?” Logan raised an eyebrow.

“Not really. I finished the whole economics junk and I have a bit of a break before I launch back into studies. Trying to make the most of it,” Roman answered honestly but he kept his gaze straight ahead, “Anyway, what kind of magic are you doing? Like any... cool spells?”

“Cool... spells...” Logan said, stopping completely in his path, “Why are you so interested?”

“As I said! I can be interested in what my friend is doing!”

“You haven’t ever before taken interest in my, how did you put it, ‘nerdy junk’!”

“Well!” Roman snarked back but he could feel Logan looking right through him, “It’s just important to know what kind of magic you can do. Just in case we ever n-”

“You think this is dangerous don’t you!” Logan gasped, feeling panic slam into his chest.

“What?” Roman nervously laughed off, “No...”

“You do!” Logan dramatically pointed at him, “Oh we don’t have nearly the right supplies for any kind of conflict! We’re carrying around a cat!”

“It won’t be dangerous!” Roman tried to soothe while panickily pacing.

“I asked you! I asked you! I asked and you said that it was a simple trade. That we are practically just acting as postmen!” Logan threw his head back.

“I’m sorry!” Roman gasped.

“You’ve got your sword. Plus, I really don’t think your dad would send us on some dangerous journey without at least some back up. I think you just got into your head with worry. There’s lots of rumours about witches despite those spreading them having never met a witch, we should be fine,” Logan answered softly. There was no use having them both panicking when they were already significantly through the woods. But then again maybe they could turn back now before they truly prove themselves to be idiots.

“Yeah!” Roman lit up and snapped up straight with an obnoxious smile, “C’mon, we’ll be fine!”

Logan simply ran through his warning signs he listed earlier about how this task was a stupid chore. His hand found the kitten’s fuzzy little forehead and he gave some scritches before following in Roman’s footsteps.

It was another hour where each minute felt more and more uncomfortable. They were a decent way through the woods but they had yet to see anything resembling a tree stump. Even Roman was now flicking his gaze behind him, checking to see if they had perhaps passed it without realising. Logan was practically chanting about how King Thomas wouldn’t send his idiot of a son on a difficult journey without a proper map. But then again both of his sons were idiots so maybe he just chose Roman as the lesser of two evils? Maybe the wobbly scrawled line on the map was just longer than expected. This was why people added scales and a compass! Eventually they paused at a blackened tree. They didn’t even talk or notice the other had paused as well.

“Maybe by stump they more meant a stumpy tree?” Roman cautiously looked around.

“Did your father not describe it any more than that?” Logan asked, still not convinced.

“I mean he even drew it in black!” Roman yelled out in what was supposed to be confidence. Logan winced as Roman marched slowly forward into the treeline.

“That cannot be where the line is. That map should never be considered as accurate or, or- just slow down Roman. We have no idea if this is the right direction!”

“Yeah well, we literally just go left into the trees. If it turns out to be wrong then we know which direction we went and just go back.”

Logan sighed at the legitimate logic the illogical prince presented, “It’s going to rain soon.”

“Well hurry up then!” Roman had already started running into the woods and Logan grumbled out some swears before reluctantly trudging after him.

Now underneath the thick canopy of the woods, it was quite dark and moody. Roman tried to lighten the mood by pointing out every single squirrel that skittered away when they passed but even that didn’t fix the tension. The ideas of danger were swirling uncomfortably through them. The kitten was now restless and was mewing very pathetically. Logan winced at each quiet mew and Roman knew that it was a matter of seconds before Logan demand they go back and get the kitten to safety. And he was about to agree until he saw a tiny mushroom on a tree.

It softly glowed, and if that wasn’t a strong enough indicator of magic and witches, it was illuminous purple. It almost seemed transparent as black smoke billowed underneath it’s surface but it still somehow glowed brightly.

“Logan, I think we’re almost there,” Roman muttered and tugged him forward.

“Roman.” Logan stopped them dead in the path. He was shifting and looking away but his back was straight and his posture screamed listen. Roman, of course, stopped in his tracks. “What if they use the cat... like... what if they kill the cat?”

Roman paused. That... would be very in character for witches. The kitten was frumpily stomping around and of course released an adorable mew as if it very well knew they were talking about it. “We’ve got to establish trade routes... Maybe we could be the ones to persuade them to see the light and understand cuteness and love for all living things!”

“Hmm.” Logan took the lead and stepped forward.

They had walked for another ten minutes but yet the woods felt unrecognisable. The woods went from very stereotypical brown and green woods that seemed to stretch onwards forever. Now the mushrooms were everywhere and they couldn’t see the trunks of the trees anymore. The forest was filled with an overwhelming nauseating swirls of colours. Now they were seeing flashes of deer and groans from toads under their feet. The sun was completely blocked from the trees and it was almost like walking inside a building.

It wasn’t long until they stumbled finally into a cottage looking house. A thatched roof and everything. It almost blended in, blackened charred wood with no windows or even sign of anyone living there. Dead leaves were still swamped up again its sides like it was still autumn. Logan cradled the kitten tighter and Roman couldn’t exactly blame him.

It seemed straight out of a storybook.

When the main characters stumble into the villain’s lair.

Roman gulped and latched on arm on to Logan’s shoulder, which Logan happily sank into. They approached the door in timid steps. The wind harshly ripped through the forest, whipping around the wet clumps of leaves around the sunken door. The rain finally arrived and a few drops pattered on the ceiling of leaves. Logan stuttered in his steps but Roman winced and guided him forward.

As they were a few metres from the door, it slammed open.

“AAAH!” They both shrieked.

A witch stood there... kinda proudly. He had a wide stance and the hood hid his face. But also his arms were crossed and he was hunched over to look extra small. He probably reached Roman’s shoulder standing straight... he looked like the wind around his house would knock him over. But also the billowing black cloak and clenched fists also spoke for themselves. “What are you doing here!” A whiny voice broke through their panic.

Logan was clearly frozen and his mind only screaming about the kitten in his arms. It took a few moments for Roman to realise he wasn’t going to snap out and talk. He stuttered out, “Oh ah... hello there. We are fr- We come from the kingdom of Sanders to present a trading opportunity. I understand you have been in discussion with our king to re-establish our long ancient trading with you, Witch.”

The witch frowned, “Oh I’m not a witch. That’s Patton you’re looking for.”

He pointed over his shoulder to a cottage past his house. Now this looked like the idyllic cottage countryside house. Thatched roof, pristine pastel pink house and a beautiful neat line of wild bluebells. Roman found himself drawing near it without realising. It looked beautiful and the house straight out of his dreams. “Oh sorry sir! C’mon Logan, we’ll sort this out!” Roman tugged his arm but Logan remained statue still. “Uh, Logan?”

Logan was completely trapped under the gaze of the random civilian that stumbled into. His chest glowed along with his bright red face. The man had very strong features and was clearly much more awkward than anything dangerous. It took a minute before he realised that words were needed if he was just going to stare, “Oh H-hi, I’m Lo...” He winced but tried to battle through, “Y-you’re not a witch?”

“Nah, I’m... I guess you’d call it emo and just hate people,” The guy awkwardly chuckled as he stepped out from his doorway. Logan allowed himself to smile and only just remembered Roman’s advice to puff out his chest and show himself off. Right, time to sweep this handsome man off his feet.

“Ah I understand that sentiment. People can be so frustrating and exhausting.” The man walked forward before he awkwardly looked away.

“Uh can I?” The man asked with his hand out stretched towards his chest. Logan burst into a childish smile. Maybe Roman was right and he is handsome! All that heavy book lifting did pay off if cute emos then wanted to feel up his chest! Maybe he can sweep someone off their feet. Maybe he should work out more!

“Sure!” He squeaked.

The man smiled in thanks before grabbing the kitten from his arms and pressing loud sappy kissies to his fuzzy little forehead. His croaky foreboding voice snapped to a squealing happy coo.

Roman laughed at how ridiculous he was and went down to the next house. He’s never seen Logan so useless! He was never going to let me live this down- after all that teasing he’s been putting up with for flirting with Janus. Now he had some fuel to fight back.

He knocked on the door with a new found confidence as the rain finally started to slip through the leaves and actually start to slowly soak him. Humming to himself, he looked back at Logan still failing to flirt with the random scary guy. He’d never be that useless. The door opened, “Hello there. Are you the witch that lives in these wooooo-”

A young man opened the door with a cheery smile, ginger curls flying about his head with wire frame glasses. Freckles absolutely everywhere. He was a little taller than even him! He was of course wearing a pink frilly apron with a blue soft chunky knit jumper. Everything about him looked soft. “Oh hello there. What’s your name!”

“Uhhhhhhh... Ro?” Roman awkwardly drawled out while trying to pick his jaw off the floor. He looked back at Logan who was now walking over with the other man.

“Hey Pat. We need a talk.” He growled out while Patton awkwardly laughed. Instinctually, Roman stepped forward to protect this marshmallow from this emo.

“Y-yeah Virge?”

“Did you really organise for the king to sneak you a kitten?”

“Maaaybe!” Patton squeaked before launching forward and spinning him in tight excited circles. Logan was now carrying the kitten, he looked very confused and flustered as he kept his gaze firmly on the kitten.

“Don’t distract me! You’re allergic!”

“Well are you going to make these nice young men walk all the way back with the heavy basket and wiggly little itty bitty kitty!”

The man, Virgil, frowned with a look. “Okay. I will take the kitten and you can have visiting rights. But! Those visiting rights can be revoked at any time!”

“Yippee!” Patton laughed with all of himself. His arms flailing into a hug for himself, his belly bursting and moving with the genuine happy laughter. Roman was thoroughly star struck.

“Can’t believe you’re the witch of us...” Virgil groaned with his own fond smile, to which Logan was also star struck.

They both paused as a fat raindrop slapped against Patton’s forehead. The rain must have been truly heavy if it was still dripping through the thick canopy. They turned and faced the two men and only now noticed that they were fairly wet with their hair plastered against their foreheads. They did look pretty pathetic.

Patton smiled, “Hey, Ro was it? Would you like to come in? Just to wait for the rain. Sorry, uhh,”

“Logan,” Logan introduced.

“Logan, the house is fairly small but I’m sure Virgil would love to show you around his little place!” Patton smirked innocently.

All three of them gulped with bright blushes... but of course they all nodded along to that plan.

#sanders sides #My writing #logan sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #patton sanders #analogical #royality #fluff #the boys being useless gays #fanfic

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i-mybrunettelady · 4 years ago

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Not a Mordrem

Slight preface: This has very much been sitting in my head for a few days now, and after all the El asks I’ve done these past few days, a general desire to write and conversations with a guildie of mine, I’ve decided to actually write this down.

This is not a happy fic, but it ended up having a sorta happy end. You’ve been warned. It’s HoT and HoT is very sad. Elandrin, I’m so sorry in advance. Also warnings for (albeit not graphic) violence, a dollop of racism against the sylvari and curses. Also vague HoF spoilers.

It starts as a headache, not a particularly pleasant one but again, few headaches ever are, and El has dealt with a lot of them so it’s usually easy to ignore it till it passes. Except this one doesn’t, but he tries anyway, checking his battle knives high in the air as Vengeance Rising glides through it.

“Brother,” a voice says. El jerks to look around, but he’s alone in the cabin. He’s hardly slept the night before out of jitters so maybe it’s his exhaustion speaking. He rises from the chair to open the door but finds nobody there. His head throbs a little more strongly and he feels the pull to go to the main deck and watch the people - he doesn’t necessarily fancy seeing charr snouts and asura claws but it gnaws at him and he’s unable to resist the temptation to see why.

The sylvari all appear to have identical frowns upon their faces when he arrives. The others keep staring at them, wondering why, and really, why are they all frowning, like their heads hurt really badly? And there’s a tense atmosphere, as if something is about to snap, as if-

Then the vines come and El, in his shock, forgets to thank the Pale Tree he didn’t bring his dagger with him.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Is anyone alive?” a female voice shouts.

It takes him a moment to gain a sense of his surroundings. He’s laying in mud, beside a heavy piece of metal that only missed an inch away from his head, his side throbs and everything around him is green.

“Over here!” he shouts back, groans as he rises to his feet, but a firm grip of a hand keeps him down.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now!” the woman yells.

“Because I’m not the enemy,” he quips sharply, “do they not teach you to differentiate between friend and foe in your mindless little Vig-” His head flies back at the force of the hit. He groans again.

“Why on Tyria are you hitting me?” he squints at Tactian Julianna as she prepares her hammer.

“Julianna, stop! Don’t you think he’d have attacked us already if he were Mordremoth’s?” another voice adds.

“Thank you, Gean,” El sighs in disappointment. “What exactly happened?”

“You twiggies all turned rabid and started attacking everyone,” Julianna bites. “Fucking sylvari.”

He doesn’t remember any violence. He remembers the vines and some strange urge and falling down rapidly, but not any actual violence.

“Do you feel yourself, Arcanist?” Gean asks. Priory, El recalls. Novice. Sieran’s new student.

“Where are we?” he asks instead.

“Dunno,” Julianna shrugs. Her hammer is still in her hands. “Last chance to answer him, twiggy.”

“For fuck’s sake, Julianna, I’m not going to attack you! By the Pale Tree, if you attack me, I’ll defend myself and you know what magic can do against your little hammer!”

That makes her put the weapon down. Thank fuck, El thinks, when a strange ache infects his head again.

“My son,” it says.

“I’m not Mordrem, Tactitian,” he growls and stands. “Now get us to the nearest Pact camp. I think I’m hurt.”

“I’m not taking orders from a sylvari,” she threatens. “You listen to me or I swear to Balthazar’s sacred hounds, you’ll be a pile of sap on the floor.”

El bites his lip. He doesn’t wish to be sap on the floor.

“My son,” the voice calls again. He barely calms the air in his lungs. He hopes Trahearne and Sieran are safe. He hopes to whomever will listen that Alysannyra trips on something on that chase of hers and hits her head hard enough to remember she’s needed in Maguuma.

“Fine, Tactitian,” he hisses at last. “Lead the fucking not-Mordrem. Here I am.”

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There’s a Mordrem skirmish a few days later. Weaponless, El is forced to grab a piece of wood and channel his magic through that; he never thought the smell of burning wood would be pleasing, yet one never knows when they’d meet Mordrem. Julianna’s hammer also stars in the performance, smashing the villains left and right.

Unfortunately, Gean’s body does too. The norn was hit in the chest by a Mordrem sword. At least the death is quick, El thinks, not unkindly. He knows why Sieran liked him. He was attentive, gentle and didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of a Mordrem blade.

Pale Tree protect us all.

“You attract them,” Julianna declares. “Did you hear what one of them said?”

“I’m not its brother,” El yells, hands shaking. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Common sense isn’t wrong with me!” She shouts back. “This is the third Mordrem skirmish we’ve faced since trying to find a medic for your precious plant ribs! The Mordrem know one of their own!”

“Would you say that to the Marshal’s face? Would you say that if the Commander were around?” He stares at Gean’s body. Could he animate it to swallow this bitch’s soul?

“Marshal is a stronger man than you’ll ever be,” Julianna says, “I bet he’s fighting Mordrem as we speak and the Commander is, too. She doesn’t abandon her own, like some of us are tempted to do.”

“She’s the enemy,” the voice says and it sounds like his own. El gives a lopsided grin. Julianna has wanted him dead for days now. He may have been taunting her with magic before, but if she lands a hit, he’s done for.

But with Mordremoth’s strength-

A broken laughter tears from his throat. “I am not a Mordrem!” he shouts at the sky, fingers digging into the leaves on his head. “Trahearne is not a Mordrem! Get off that fucking ley-line already!”

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He runs away that night.

In hindsight, it’s not the smartest idea. But Mordremoth kept whispering, and he was tempted to borrow a little of the dragon’s strength to bash her head in. Then he remembered that he wasn’t a Mordrem and just left her at the mercy of the incoming enemy force.

In hindsight, it makes the whispers turn into shouts that make him sob and stumble against a tree and reach for his magic just to get his mind away from the invading power. He can’t really tell spells apart but he manages to find a healing one and apply it to his rib, desperately trying to remember the anatomy lessons.

He’s since pulled most of his foliage off, leaving behind a few ugly leaves that were once a beautiful night-dark shade. He thinks of Trahearne’s green leaves and Sieran’s red ones, even of the strands of that norn he’s taken to bed once, but Mordremoth doesn’t relent.

“Not-a-Mordrem,” he grunts out. “I am not a Mordrem!”

“You’ll obey,” Mordremoth says and El breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn’t know how much time he has until it strikes again, so he straightens up and walks in the direction of the noise he heard earlier.

Or thought he heard...

------------------------------------------------------------------------

He cries tears of relief when he sees people. A lot of them. All races. He’s half-convinced he’s imagining it, but he sobs out happily either way. He’s half-convinced he’s gone mad and this is a happy place where all little sylvari go to escape Mordremoth.

“-attack being launched from here, we’re really close,” he hears a clear, familiar voice and he’s never been happier to see Alysannyra in his life.

“Not-a-Mordrem,” he whispers, so close yet so far away, and his legs have never felt heavier.

Heavy enough to make a thud when he crashes into the ground, heavy enough to make her turn and run towards him. El’s smile is desperate, he’s sure there’s sap everywhere on his face, and she comes into view.

Her eyes are a wrong colour. But she sounds like Alysannyra. But her eyes are wrong. She doesn’t sound like Mordremoth.

“Not-a-Mordrem,” he mutters weakly.

“No, you’re not,” she says gently. “Medic, we need a medic over here! It’s Arcanist Elandrin!” There’s a wash of magic and he feels his body sag even further. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” she repeats.

“Trahearne,” he croaks.

Her wrong eyes freeze. “We’ll find him,” she says and her voice breaks. “He’s out there. You rest now, medics are coming.”

“Not-a-Mordrem,” he says and pride swells in his chest.

Not a Mordrem

The world goes black.

#gw2 #guild wars 2 #elandrin aien #sylvari #gw2 sylvari #inspo birb has come to town #im so sorry el #also very vague alysannyra #alysannyra #i needed to get this out #fanfic #heart of thorns #in my headcanon nyra's eyes changed colour when she became Champion #julianna we dont like you #*sharpens knives for julianna*#writing

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aj-writes-here · 4 years ago

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Couldn’t help it and I ended up writing this in the middle of a class

Birthday Gift

It was December 23th, and you've been thinking since November about what the hell give Levi. It was not only Christmas, but it was also his birthday and you still haven't come up with something to give to him. You tried to look for clues, glimpses of things that he might like, but every time you tried to ask a subtle question his answer was the same, I don't want anything, so don't stress yourself.

But you were stubborn, and he was your boyfriend. And it was a very important date and you wanted to make it special. Snowflakes were falling as you walked through the market, looking for different alternatives, or trying to get ideas. Some shop owners knew you, either because you were a popular Squad Leader or because you always visited them, but not even in that way you could think about something to give to him. You saw a small tea shop, and you stood in front of it thinking, maybe a new blend of tea? No, I bought him one last week. A set of cups? These are all ugly. What about a pot? There are plenty of those. Damn it.

You knew he loved tea, and even once in a late night conversation where every honest word came out, he had confessed to you that he would like to have his own tea shop. Maybe one day, but it was just a thought he had.

And then it hit you.

You walked away the tea shop, knowing the things that you were going to buy.

The rest of the day was spent away from Levi, he couldn't find out what you were doing or planning on giving him, so you had asked Erwin to use his office for a couple of minutes, promising to left it cleaner than already was, and he agreed with a calm smile.

And in this way, the night before the 25th arrived. The dining hall was full, smiley cadets were sitting in front of different things to eat, and some of them were exchanging gifts that very same night.

You smiled looking at how Eren and Jean were arguing again on who was going to give their gift first to Mikasa, too excited to way for morning next, and she was just looking at them with a vague smile, Armin was trying to calm them down as Connie was trying to control Sasha, the girl had already eaten three potatoes in less than five minutes. Hanji sat next to you, and both of you agreed that the place was looking happy, with the ornaments, laughs, food, and colors. No one was planning on sleeping earlier, in the end, it was winter and the day next was free for everyone, so a snowball fight was coming quicker than anticipated. Levi arrived next to Erwin, and they joined you and the rest of the vets on the table, certainly it was a good atmosphere, but Levi was looking bored as usual.

It was impossible for Hanji not to throw a comment about his birthday approaching, and he just answered back with a shitty comment, making the rest laugh. They knew him, and they didn't put pressure on him.

The night kept that way, shiny and happy among the darkness that it was usually faced. A few hours later, Levi and you decided that it was time to leave, and saying goodbye you made your way to the bedroom you both shared.

After a few minutes, the clock stroke midnight and at the dining hall Hanji stood up rapidly, but Erwin's voice stopped her.

''Where are you going, Hanji?'' The blonde man asked taking a sip of his beverage.

''It's shorty's birthday already! I'm not letting him escape my congratulations this time''

''I'm sure you can wait until tomorrow, let the love birds have a bit of space, they hardly ever have time for themselves.'' He said calmly and the rest of the vets agreed with his comment.

She sat down and grabbed a cookie, Erwin was right, she was going to wait until tomorrow morning, and maybe she could greet him with a snowball, that was a better plan, definitely.

Meanwhile, at the bedroom, Levi had change into his nightwear and as he was washing his teeth you took out the small bag you had hidden very good, because with his cleaning skills he would have found it and ruined the surprise.

To you, the gift was a wonderful idea and you were sure he was going to like it. But that was when you were all hyped in the making process, now every single insecurity was taking over. Maybe it was a shitty thing, and he was not going to like it, but you had to give it a try, and it was no time to think about it again because you heard the water stop running. Placing the bag over the bed, you went back to the office and smiled when Levi was finally out of the bathroom, looking at him with sparkling eyes.

''Oi, what's wrong, why do you have that idiotic fac-'' He couldn't continue because you hug him tight against your body, he hesitated at the first second but then his hands were on your back.

''Happy birthday'' You answer against his chest, lifting your eyes to him. ''It is 00:07, so it is 25th already.'' his expression softened just a bit.

''Thank you, brat'' Levi's voice was low, and he answered to your kiss, he couldn't resist to them.

''Now come here, I have something for you.'' You grabbed his hand and dragged him to the bedroom.

''Tch, I told you not to buy anything.'' He said furrowing his expression, but then looking with curiosity at the bag with a blue ornament.

''And you know I was not going to listen to you. It is Christmas, and your birthday, so shut up and open it,'' You laughed and he huffed, lifting the bag, and it was heavier than it looked ''Careful.'' You said, nervousness in your voice.

He looked at you quickly and then his attention was on the bag again, and when he put his hand to take out the object, he had no idea of what it could be. At first, he thought it was a watch, or maybe even a new cravat but it was to heavy for that, and it felt... Like wood. Wood? He thought to himself, pulling out the object. His eyes opening and his jaw dropping a bit when he saw what it was. No shitty comments, no questions, just silence.

''I... I didn't know what to get you, but once you mentioned that... That you wanted to get your own tea shop. I don't have the money enough to buy and actual building, but... This one can help you not to forget this sort of dream you have,'' You smiled shyly ''I'm sorry if it's ugly, I'm terrible at doing crafts, you can tell me if you hate it tho, I won't die''

You smiled at your own words, but he didn't seem to listen. His eyes were still placed on the object, you saw his adam apple when he swallowed, he was getting many emotions that he was controlling. No one ever had given him something that meaningful, something you had made with your own hands, even splintering and cutting your fingers in the process. It was a tiny tea shop, made it out of wood and painting, it was on a wooden based and it even had a very small chair and a table, it was not a professional work, that's true, but the idea was beyond clear and beautiful. It had details such as windows, doors, a hanging sign painted with your handwriting, even a very detailed roof.

Levi's eyes didn't leave the figure for a second, but then all you could feel was his strong hand on your nape, abruptly pulling you towards his body. You opened your eyes wide in surprise because of his reaction.

''Don't be an idiot. It's perfect.'' He mumbled against your hair. ''I don't even have words.'' You allowed yourself to stay in his embrace for a while longer, feeling at home when you were trapped in his arms.

''So did you like it?'' you asked looking back at him.

''I did,'' He caressed your cheek and then looked at the mini tea shop in his other hand ''No one ever had done something like this for me, thank you brat.'' His hand stopped and cupped your cheek, kissing you slowly.

''I'm glad you did,'' no one could erase the smile from your face at that point ''Happy birthday and Merry Christmas'' you finished kissing him again.

''Speaking of which, I have something for you too. But you'll need to wait until tomorrow'' He stated.

''Why is that?''

''Because I say so.'' You laughed and slapped him playfully on his shoulder.

He left a caress on your cheek, and moved back to the office. Following him, you saw that the put the tiny tea shop on the desk, carefully and away from the edges to keep it free from falling. 'I won't let you have not even a speck of dust.' He said to himself, looking at it for another while.

''It's perfect.'' Levi said ''Now I'm ashamed of my shitty gift.'' You laughed and hugged him by his torso.

''Maybe If I see it I could judge''

''Sure thing. But you'll judge tomorrow.''

''I hate you so much'' You mumbled against his lips

''I doubt it'' He replied, his lips moving softly against yours, and you noticed he was thanking you again for your gift. That's how he showed his feelings, through actions.

''Now, I have something else for you'' You said with a teasing voice, lifting an eyebrow.

''I thought you hated me'' He replied, looking at you with daring eyes.

''Just at times'' Finishing with a laugh, you kissed him again. But then, you heard some rapid steps, someone was running? You didn't care and kept kissing him, but then the steps got louder.

''Oi, are you lis-'' He asked pulling away, but got interrupted ''You've got to be kidding me.'' Levi walked to the door, maybe if he was fast enough he could lock it.

But it was too late.

''SHOOOOOOOOOORTYYYYYYY'' And then you knew it. The door was open loudly and Hanji entered running and screaming with joy. ''HAPPY BIRTHDAY!'' She hugged and he whined, you laughed when you saw the bottle she had in her hands.

''I'm sorry, I tried to stop her but then she just disappeared from my sight.'' Erwin said, looking at the scene from outside the door.

''Let me go now, shitty four eyes. Or else you'll meet the interiors of a titan''

''Come in, Erwin.'' You invited him and he entered with a funny smile on his face. When Levi was free from Hanji, you grabbed some glasses and set them on the table. ''Guess you will have to wait until tomorrow for your gift, Levi'' you laughed, and sat down, inviting Hanji next to you.

''You're all so damn rowdy.''

Giving up, he sat down in front of Erwin and grabbed a drink, he looked as if he wanted to kill them, but the truth was that he was happy he could spend part of that date with the people he cared about the most.

However, Levi couldn't stop thinking about the small tea shop you had given him, because for him that was by far the best gift he'd ever received, and most importantly it was done by the woman he loved the most.

#attack on titan #attack on titan imagine #levi ackerman #levi ackerman imagines #levi ackerman headcanons #levi x reader

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lovelystarlings · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter Five - Neville’s Very Clumsy

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The next morning was, eventful, to say the least. Camille had always been an early riser, her parents had insisted on her and sisters waking up at 5 am on the dot every morning, they had said it was to prepare them for when they themselves had families to wake up for but Camille knew it was just to torture them more then her parents already did. So when she woke up the next morning, wrapped in the velvety covers that they were provided, she felt a sense of tranquillity wash over her. There was no nagging mum leaning over her, no crying Gabrielle in the bed next to her and no annoying perfect Fleur singing in the shower for everyone to hear. It was quiet.

Just how she liked it.

Spinning her legs over the edge carefully, trying not to wake up the sleeping Hermione next to her, Camille walked over to the bathroom door that was left open on the opposite side of the strangely large dormitory.

Picking up her uniform on the way, Camille entered the bathroom quietly, looking around in awe at the extravagant manner of the simple room. On the wall facing the door stood four separate sinks, each having a mirror on the wall above and a small chest of drawers underneath them. Seeing as no one had claimed one yet, Camille chose the one closest to the shower, for once getting first choice of something. Placing her wash bag next to the sink, she carefully hung her uniform over the railing by the shower, not wanting to crease it straight away.

Grabbing her hairbrush out of her bag, she began to run it through her hair gently. Having slept with it in plaits had done her a huge favour, the usual straight and thick mess had been tamed into ringlets that now sat elegantly on her shoulders. Pinning her hair back with a clip, leaving the bottom layer down, Camille felt at peace with how she looked today. Sure, she wasn't as beautiful, after all she was only young, but she wasn't necessarily ugly (dear god did she hate that word), and that was enough.

Hearing movement from the room next her, and the familiarity of the other girls voices, she quickly pulled her shirt over her head and her skirt quickly over her hips, Camille turned to the door smiling at Hermione, who seemed shocked that someone was up before her.

"How are you up so early?" She spoke, her hand running through the bundle of curls that sat on top of her head. She walked over to the sink beside the French girl, placing her own stuff down gently.

"You know what they say," spoke Camille, brushing past Hermione with a smirk. "The early bird gets the worm."

There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to jump. Then there were doors that wouldn't open unless you asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren't really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. It was also very hard to remember where anything was, because it all seemed to move around a lot. It also didn't help that Camille knew where none of her classes were. And neither did Hermione, Or Ron. Or Harry.

Though after fumbling about the school for a long time they had managed to find most of their classes. And Camille had discovered a lot about her teachers.

They had to study the night skies through their telescopes every Wednesday at midnight and learn the names of different stars and the movements of the planets. Three times a week they went out to the greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology, with a dumpy little witch called Professor Sprout, where they learned how to take care of all the strange plants and fungi, and found out what they were used for. Camille had noticed that Neville particularly enjoyed this one.

Easily the most boring class was History of Magic, which was the only one taught by a ghost. Professor Binns had been very old indeed when he had fallen asleep in front of the staff room fire and got up next morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. Binns droned on and on while they scribbled down names and dates and got Emetic the Evil and Uric the Oddball mixed up, which didn't help Camille in the slightest considering she had no idea who either of them were.

Professor McGonagall had to be Camille's favourite, however. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking-to the moment they sat down in her first class.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. They were all very impressed and couldn't wait to get started, but soon realized they weren't going to be changing the furniture into animals for a long time. After taking a lot of complicated notes, they were each given a match and started trying to turn it into a needle. By the end of the lesson, only Hermione and Camille had made any difference to their match; Professor McGonagall showed the class how it had gone all silver and pointy and gave Hermione and Camille a rare smile, both girls giving each other a proud look as they linked arms and skipped off to the next lesson , leaving the boys and their matches far behind.

The class everyone had really been looking forward to was Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Quirrell's lessons turned out to be a bit of a joke. His classroom smelled strongly of garlic, which everyone said was to ward off a vampire he'd met in Romania and was afraid would be coming back to get him one of these days. Camille vaguely remembered her father telling Fleur (and Fleur told her) about an encounter he had with a vampire once, a very lovely vampire he had told her. His name was Carlisle, and he was a doctor. Camille had been shocked that a vampire could be a doctor, but her father had never lied to Fleur once.

Professor Quirrell's turban, he told them, had been given to him by an African prince as a thank you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie, but they weren't sure they believed this story.

For one thing, when Seamus Finnigan asked eagerly to hear how Quirrell had fought off the zombie, Quirrell went pink and started talking about the weather; for another, they had noticed that a funny smell hung around the turban, and the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed full of garlic as well, so that Quirrell was protected wherever he went. Camille had befriended the Weasley Twins then and there, she thought they were charming and funny, and rather attractive if she was honest. They could well be veela, she thought, despite knowing that they were pure blood. She wondered what their mother and father looked like.

Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder there than up in the main castle and would have been quite creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls. Camille and Hermione had been lucky enough to grab seats at the front, neither girls wanting to miss a thing. However, if Camille had known who their Professor was, she would've sat at the back, or even better out of the classroom.

His name was Professor Snape, and he was a tall man, who always seemed to be dressed in a black coat that billowed behind him like the wind itself followed him. His hair was pitch black and greasy, like it hadn't been watched in months, years even.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word, Hermione scribbling down most of it, the sound of her quill annoying Camille slightly, though she didn't say anything. She'd hate to insult the girl. Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort.

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses.... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death -- if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

"Potter!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Hermione's hand had shot into the air.

"I don't know, sit," said Harry.

Snape's lips curled into a sneer.

"Tut, tut -- fame clearly isn't everything."

He ignored Hermione's hand.

"Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without her leaving her seat. Camille heard a loud noise behind her, and turned round to see Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, shaking with laughter, and she had to hide a snicker herself. The three looked like utter pillocks.

"I don't know, sir."

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching toward the dungeon ceiling, despite Camille's attempts to calm her down, not wanting her friend to embarrass herself more than she had. She had the feeling someone was gonna snap, whether it be Harry or Snape.

"I don't know," said Harry quietly. "I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?"

Camille laughed harmoniously at the sass Harry held in his voice, drawing the attention of the class to her. She had forgotten that most of them had probably never heard veela laugh before, and hers probably had a strange effect on the bunch, considering the majority of them were pre-pubescent teenage boys.

"Sorry," she squeaked, and slumped down in her chair. Hermione patting her head patronisingly. Though she too felt strange at the heavenly sound that had escaped the French girl's mouth.

"Sit down and be quiet," he snapped at Camille. "For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment, though Camille had already been making her notes during the commotion. Over the noise, Snape said, "And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter." Idiote, thought Camille. The poor boy had been living with muggles his whole life, how could Snape thing he'd know the simplest thing about potions. Idiote, she repeated.

Things didn't improve for the Gryffindors as the Potions lesson continued. Snape put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticizing almost everyone except Malfoy and Camille who had been paired with the blonde boy, the only two whom he seemed to like. He was just telling everyone to look at the perfect way Malfoy had stewed his horned slugs when clouds of acid green smoke and a loud hissing filled the dungeon. Neville had somehow managed to melt Seamus's cauldron into a twisted blob, and their potion was seeping across the stone floor, burning holes in people's shoes.

Within seconds, the whole class was standing on their stools while Neville, who had been drenched in the potion when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs. Camille flinched, seeing the hurt look on the poor boy's face, unlike Malfoy, or rather Draco as he had asked her to call him, who had laughed.

"Idiot boy!" snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion away with one wave of his wand. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"

Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose.

"Take him up to the hospital wing," Snape spat at Seamus. Then he rounded on Harry and Ron, who had been working next to Neville.

Camille and Hermione left the dungeon as soon as they could, both wanting to avoid the catastrophe of cleaning up the spilled potion.

#harry #harry potter #harry potter x reader #hermione #hermione granger #hermione granger x reader #fluff #hogwarts #veela #fleur delacour

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silke-doomflare · 4 years ago

Text

Rock Bottom

It had been a few hours since Iris had left the estate. There was a huge gap in her night she couldn’t remember anything of, so she suspected she had passed out. After she had awakened she had headed into The Forgotten Knight, bought a new bottle and staggered on the silent streets while sipping. Iris could no longer remember why, but she had got into a fight with some people. She had been overpowered and someone had had the nerve to steal her bottle. Iris wasn’t been sure had she just spent all of her gil or had she also been robbed during the conflict. Either way, she had no place to go or enough gil to leave Ishgard. Then a sudden realization had struck her: she actually did have a place to go. The one final place. After a long while that had felt like an eternity Iris found her way to Silke’s doorstep. She lived in a block of flats with four floors. Silke’s apartment was located on the third floor, in the second one of the three outdoor stairways. The place was cheap and Iris had often noticed it - among other things - from thin wooden walls and random noise coming sometimes from upstairs, sometimes from downstairs or the apartments next door. If there was one person in the whole world who understood her, it would definitely be Silke. She was Iris’ lighthouse in this cursed sea of pitch black shite. Iris leaned on the doorpost for a moment, trying to pull herself together. Finally she knocked the door. “Si… Silke!” she yelled. “Open the door, it’s mi!”

It took a while for Silke to get to the door. She cracked it a bit, looking tired. Iris saw a very unfashionable combination of a poison green morning gown and pink moogle slippers from the narrow gap. Silke hadn’t even tried to tame her long, black hair, which was hanging loose, partly in front of her face and all around her shoulders. The tiny shiba inu earring she had bought from a fair earlier this year was dangling in her left ear. Iris hadn’t seen her ever taking it off. “Lareine?” Silke asked in a sleepy voice. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” Then she noticed the blood and the smell and seemed to wake up. “Oh dear gods, what the heck? Come in”, she urged and opened the door. Iris stepped in, struggling her way towards the sofa and fell onto it. She was probably quite a sight: covered in blood and puke and the corner of her left eye was purplish blue and swollen. Though she was too tired to care about what she smelled or looked like. “The focker threw mi out… Like I was a damn dish rag he had just used… to wipe his failures off the floor…”, she explained vaguely. It wasn’t necessary to say anything about herself actually wanting to leave the estate. Silke didn’t need to know. The only important part of the story was how she had been thrown out. Silke closed the door and followed Iris to the living room. For a moment she was unable to do anything but stare. “What happened?” she uttered finally. “Have you fought with someone? How much have you drunk?” She was eyeing at her all over. “Oi… do you need a bathroom? How about some tea? Or can you keep it in?” Silke was fussing about like she had never seen anyone in such a state before. Iris leaned on the sofa. She could’ve just listened and looked at Silke forever. She always looked so nice, fancily dressed or not. She also smelled nice. Mostly her scent was ink and old parchment, at times some mild, floral perfume, and sometimes something that resembled awfully lots of gunpowder. “N-no… I kinda… used a bathroom already… Kinda… Might have been yer neighbor’s bush…” Iris wasn’t completely sure. The memories were hazy. “Ya… happen to have anythin’? Some fockin’ ugly pig stole… my bottle.” Silke’s eyes widened the more the farther Iris got in her story. She opened and closed her mouth for a couple of times, trying to come up with something to say.

“Uh, you should know I’m so impulsive I can’t keep any booze in my apartment. Just so that I wouldn’t depend on it on bad days”, she explained while giving an awkward laugh. “And even if I did have something, I definitely wouldn’t give it to you. You’re in need of the damn tea… and maybe at least a bit of food?” Iris could almost feel something snapping inside her head. She turned around to see better Silke standing behind her. “Oh fock yer damn tea… Ya really think some leftover leaves floating in hot water will help mi in ani way?” In some twisted way Silke’s baffled expression made Iris feel good. Silke used such a huge chunk of her time in either school, library or her apartment, that it had probably been ages since someone had roiled her boring and dull life a bit. “Ya know.. Maybe ya should keep somethin’ here”, Iris continued. Now that she had started, she could as well mention about some other things as well that had been more or less bothering her. “Maybe if… Maybe if ya did take a shot or two on a bad day, ya wouldn’t… be so fockin’ boring! Why not take those dirty old books of yer and stuck them up to yer ass?” Okay, maybe that had been a bit too much. What she had said was true, Iris thought, but people were so damn sensitive nowadays and got mad if someone spoke aloud some uncomfortable truths about them. Perhaps she could still save the situation somehow. “Could ya… go to yer sissy’s place and… get some more booze for mi?” Iris asked in as soft voice as she possibly could. Silke had apparently forgotten herself to stare at Iris for a moment again. Her jaw was hanging wide open. Then she finally blinked like she would’ve snapped out of some kind of trance. She inhaled deeply and started to gabble: “Well excuse me, princess! Water would actually help you, since obviously you’ve gotten yourself a big fat alcohol poisoning. It ain’t some rocket science, so even a bunny-eared potato like you should understand such a concept…” She tossed her bangs and some longer locks away from her face, but the bunch of hair only fell immediately back to where it had been. “And I’m sure you know where The Second Circle is located. If you want your damn drinks so badly you can scurry there by your own little feets. Do I look like some damn maid to you? Geez…” Iris couldn’t do anything but to blink as well. For a moment she wasn’t sure what to say. She had hardly ever seen her friend like this. She got up and started to walk towards her, supporting herself by leaning into the couch. Suddenly she noticed a book laying on it, and for a reason yet unknown, decided to pick it up. The cover said something about aether currents, but Iris didn’t care enough to focus more on the thing. She turned back to Silke, waving the book in her hand. “Dat whut I am to ya, sweetheart? A potato?” she asked. “Well, dis explains quite a lot of things! Ya never even see mi! Ya fockin’ ignore mi! Ya have any idea how much I want ya!? And yer just playin’ with mi! And now I know why! Dis damn piece of crap matters to you more than I ever do!” She gave one final look at the book before flipping it into the fireplace behind her back. “But ye know whut? Yer wrong! Ya should be BLISSFUL for someone actually showing interest in ya! No wonder they peck ya at dat school of yer.” Silke just stared in horror as the book flew into the fire. Apparently it took a moment for her brain to process of what was happening. She leapt over the sofa, crouched next to the fireplace and tried to save the tome, but it was too far on the other side of the flames and she quickly yanked her hand away with a sharp “Shiteberries!” Iris followed her struggle, smirking slyly. “…Point proven…” Silke watched the book burning for a while, her back turned to Iris. “Do you have any idea how much those things cost?” she asked quietly after a while. “As a student my income is quite crappy…” She slowly stood up and turned to look at Iris, who could see a hint of red on her pale cheeks. “What the fock is the matter with ya, Lareine?!” Silke started to scream. “I don’t give a damn what you’ve drunk or taken or what kind of stupid drama you have with others but for gods’ sake don’t take it out on me! Oh, and mebbe if YOU drank a bit less and wouldn’t be such a rectum people wouldn’t be throwing you out of places! And you know, I’m rather just by myself and keep sticking my tomes up to my asshole than hang out with a nut job POTATO like you.” Her right hand seemed to be very tensed up and her fingers were frozen into a position like the hand would’ve been cramping. Iris noticed a small flicker of fire in her palm before she squeezed her hand shut, extinguishing the fledgling fireball. “I think you should go”, Silke said numbly. At first Iris was about to turn and leave. Then she changed her mind. She wouldn’t let anyone who had reviled her this gravely go so easily. She walked up to Silke, raising her chin with her finger. Iris was more than aware of her breath smelling like last night, and maybe even the night before. “Dat’s what ya want? Mi to leave?” she asked in a hoarse voice. “And… here I thought you of all people would understand. But it seems I was wrong. Yer no better than the rest of dem… No one in dis fockin’ world gets mi… But how could they? We could have been somethin’ beautiful… If ya did not focking fall asleep on mi!” Iris leaned forward, slipping her hand below Silke’s hair to hold her head in place and kissed her violently on the lips. Silke shivered in disgust, pushed Iris away from her and took a long leap backwards. Suddenly a small, turquoise creature appeared next to her from thin air. Iris didn’t know much about magic, but she had seen them around. It was an emerald carbuncle, the first creature beginner summoners learned to call forth from the other side of the rift. Except that this one was half smaller than they usually were. The tiny thing was barely bigger than Silke’s moogle slippers. Silke glanced at it confused, like summoning it wouldn’t even have been a conscious thing to do. Then she turned back to Iris, her gaze full of disbelief and disgust. Laurence had also appeared from somewhere and flashed his teeth and growled at Iris from behind the couch so that only his head was showing. He had tucked his ears back so tightly into his neck hair they had disappeared from sight, which made him look like an orange, bloodthirsty seal. “You’ll either walk away from here by yourself or you’ll be taken out on a stretcher carried by medics, princess~!” Silke proclaimed. She was smiling like a lunatic, eyes full of tears. Iris glared at the shiba inu staring back at her with a demonic grimace and an ugly, low growl. Even the damn dog who usually lay on her lap on his back, all paws pointing in different directions while she was petting his tummy, had turned against her. Iris turned back to Silke, full of rage just waiting to be released, but once she noticed tears in Silke’s eyes, all of her anger just dispersed. This woman never cried. Never. Or did she? “S… Silke?” Iris whispered, taking just one step closer, rising her hand towards Silke. “Don’t touch me”, Silke said, her voice forced calm. “Do not ever touch me again. Get the fock out and don’t show your face around here anymore!” She strode next to her big bookshelf, started to pull tomes out of the tight rows and throwing them at Iris. “You wanna burn my stuff? Here, take it! And this one? And mebbe this one too?” She giggled mindlessly. Iris gasped as the first book flew through the air. She ducked under it, dodging it barely, only to see more to come. The second and third barely missed her, but the fourth, a large brown one with leather covers hit her on shoulder. She lost her already questionable balance and fell onto the floor. She couldn’t recall the last occasion recently she would’ve been so terrified. “Silke… Silke!” Iris tried to call her. “Sweetie…! Silke, stop it!” Silke kept throwing more tomes at her but she quickly became exhausted. That didn’t stop her, though. “Out! OUT!” she yelled and pointed towards Iris. The tiny carbuncle twirled like trying to perform some sort of attack, but it only managed to create a light breeze that didn’t do basically anything. Silke let out a frustrated sound and started marching towards Iris. She grabbed a broomstick laying on the floor and started blindly whacking Iris with it. “OUT, OUT, OUT!” she screamed. “I’m not your focking sweetie!” Iris crawled backwards on the floor while being pummeled. She tried her best to cover her head, but a couple of swings found their mark. “P-please, Silke!” tears started running freely down Iris’ cheeks, as she curled up under the swings, too exhausted to move any longer. “S… Silke, I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…” Iris held her head, crying inconsolably, like all the grief gathered during her drunken night would’ve been breaking out at once, her tears washing away her anger. But where Iris had just reached the end of her fury, Silke’s had just ignited. She let out a scornful laugh. “That shite has gotten old already, honey, there’s no point to try it out on me anymore”, she hissed. When Iris stopped moving, Silke threw the broom away and marched to the door. She swung it wide open, returned to Iris and started to drag her along the floor and over the doorstep, grunting and groaning on the way. When Iris was completely on the other side of the door, Silke stepped gracefully over her. “There’s a drunk tank close by, only two blocks straight ahead when you step out of the main door”, she stated coolly. Iris forced herself to look up and was able see the last glimpse of Silke’s teary eyes, before the door was slammed shut in front of her and locked. Million things raced through her mind at the same time. Her head had started to clear up. She saw little Tora, weeping in front of her, covered in her own blood, her beautiful yukata ripped to pieces. She saw Mori, sitting in a corner, cradling what was left of her beloved music stand. And lastly, she saw Silke’s face when she had backed out from her kiss. Tears on her beloved friend’s face. All of her friends. What was she even thinking? Iris looked down at her hands, still covered in blood and who knows what. She got up, and with her legs feeling heavy and her mind even heavier, she started to slouch away from Silke’s door. Not towards the bar, nor the drunk tank. But towards the small cafe in the Jeweled Crozier. She would get a cup of tea, clear her head, and then… She did not know. She would try to fix things. Or at least some of it.

But was it all beyond saving? --- With @iris-ymir :3

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #rp #viera #silke doomflare #iris ymir #veena #repost from the old blog #stories

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