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ignisaeri · 3 years ago

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At that time, all Alatus could hear was the howling of the wind, and the screams of the Yakshas as they waged war against their karmic debts.

A blaze of crimson flame splits the night sky as the Pyro Yaksha shrieks, clawing desperately at scarlet locks of hair with bloodied fingernails, trying to rid herself of demons only she can see. Her eyes flash with the light of a thousand stars as she throws her head back, pleading with the darkness in ragged gasps to leave her, to go somewhere where they could not haunt her. She’s still begging as she dies.

The Geo Yaksha rests his foot against the Hydro Yaksha’s abdomen, using her still body as leverage to draw his sharpened blade out from between her ribs. His eyes stare into the distance, unseeing, pupils clouded over with an inky black, fingers twitching as they hold the weapon that had killed one of his oldest friends. The Hydro Yaksha only lays quietly, death caressing her form with its bony fingers, the pool of water beneath them tinged pink from blood.

The Electro Yaksha falls to his knees, gaze finding Alatus’ one last time, seemingly apologizing for leaving the Anemo Yaksha alone for eternity. His slender hands float over the blade embedded in his chest, then collapses onto his side as his last breaths leave him, currents of violet electricity flickering out into nothing. He dies silhouetted against the blackness of The Chasm, as silent as the sun creeping over the horizon, even as the battle rages endlessly around them.

Rex Lapis gazes at Alatus with such pity, such sadness, before smiling hesitantly, gold eyes meeting the Yaksha’s.

‘Sit, Ever Vigilant Yaksha. The archon war is over. Let us share a cup of osmanthus wine.”

“Alatus, I free you from your duty as a Yaksha. In the fables of another world, the name Xiao is that of a spirit who encountered great suffering and hardship. He endured much suffering, as you have. Use this name from now on.”

“Yes, Morax.”

The God of Freedom seeks him out one evening, when he’s resting quietly near the edge of a cliff, feet dangling restlessly off the side, imagining the faces of the lost Yakshas floating through the clouds. Barabatos’ braids glow a gentle forest green, and he inclines his head slightly towards Xiao as he nears.

“Alatus, correct?”

“Xiao,” the adeptus corrects him.

“Xiao,” Barbatos says, “Rex Lapis told me of you.”

“It was you with the flute, was it not?” Xiao tells Barbatos as they watch the workers construct a massive statue in Liyue’s center, honoring the late Tianquan. Ningguang’s placid face smiles down at them as the workers dust the marble, freeing it from dust and grime.

Venti bobs his head, gaze never straying from where Rex Lapis (now Zhongli) stands with arms folded, gaze dark. With Ningguang gone, the last of the Liyue Qixing has perished.

“Yes,” Venti says. “I saved you that day.”

Tonight, they drink, in honor of the dead. Zhongli gingerly holds a glass of osmanthus wine, a glaze lily tucked into his hair. “To Guizhong,” he says. “Havria, Ningguang, and Tartaglia.”

Venti hiccups, face the color of an overripe tomato, the glass of dandelion wine tipping dangerously in his grip. “To the children of Mond,” he choruses. “To the Ragvindr brothers, to Jean, to Lisa, to Noelle. To Klee!”

Baal is here tonight too, and she leans forward restlessly. “To Kujou Sara,” she adds. “To Kitsune, Chiyo, and to Sasayuri.”

Tonight should be solemn, Xiao thinks, as they list the names of their dead companions. Yet, nearly five hundred years after the last of them passed, he feels nothing but contentment.

Xiao raises his own glass. “To the traveler and his sister,” he says. “And to the Yakshas”.

Xiao watches as Venti’s fingers dance, weaving an enticing melody through the hollow sounds of his flute. He’s sitting against a rock, the cool water of the stream lapping at his ankles, washing against the outcropping where Venti stands, a face full of bliss as he plays.

The song is one that Xiao wished to hear, one that he had first heard from the cart of a passing merchant shortly after the end of the Archon War.

The notes seem to float away into the air as he listens, chasing away the darkness in his soul, and he closes his eyes, reveling in this small moment of peace.

Sometimes, when Xiao sleeps, he dreams. He dreams of a woman wreathed in fire, eyes burning tears down her cheeks. He dreams of a not-truly-there man, standing with his blade buried in the chest of a woman floating limp in blood-tinged water. He dreams of purple lightning dying as a man takes his last breaths deep within The Chasm.

He knows, of course, that he cannot run forever. One day, he will become engulfed by his karmic debt, like the Pyro Yaksha, or go mad and disappear, like the Geo Yaksha.

That day comes sooner than he thinks.

Liyue is burning. The city is just as Xiao remembers, a perfect place of beauty. If he concentrates, he can still barely remember the night of the Lantern Rite, thousands of years ago. He closes his eyes and wishes to see the light of a hundred lanterns, instead of the light of fire the buildings shudder and succumb to the roaring flame.

Zhongli stands in front of him, something akin to pain in his gaze, one arm thrown to the side to keep Venti from rushing forwards. The Anemo Archon’s eyes are wide and wild, hat askew and bow grasped in shaking hands. Baal stands straight, weapon drawn, sorrow dotting her gaze.

Fontaine’s archon, the God of Justice, flits around the backdrop of burning flame, hurriedly trying to save as much of Liyue as she can. Her hands wave, spilling waves of water over the temples and buildings, undoing the damage that Xiao caused. The Dendro and Pyro Archons are busy, pulling screaming mortals from the wreckage and destruction.

Three torches and three exploding barrels, compiled with Xiao’s anemo attacks, had set all of Liyue aflame.

There is distant screaming in Xiao’s ears, sounds he knows only he can hear. Deliriously, he recalls the Pyro Yaksha howling at non-existent demons millennia ago and wonders absently if the same will afflict him.

The karmic debt has finally taken over, and it seems to favor the path the Geo Yaksha had taken. Xiao almost laughs as he realizes this, feeling trapped within his skin as he wields his polearm, pointed unwaveringly at the archons.

“I am sorry,” he rasps. There is darkness at the edge of his sight, and the screams only intensify. He can hear individual voices now, hissing and howling and wailing, crying for mercy and death and blood.

“Do not apologize,” Zhongli says. “It is not your fault.”

“What is this?” Venti gasps, the sound echoing in Xiao’s ears. “Xiao, what is happening?”

Baal answers for him. “It is the fate of a Yaksha.” Electricity begins to crackle around her shoulders, eyes darkening to violet as she calls the power of the storm.

Xiao wants to weep at how much she reminds him of the Electro Yaksha.

Maybe, he muses, he will see his fellow Yakshas again. Maybe he’ll meet Aether and Lumine too, in the place that lies after death. He may finally meet those who used to belong to Mond, the ones that Venti talks of so adoringly.

Zhongli finally draws his polearm, an earthen pillar appearing before him, casting protective gold around the archons. Xiao knows why.

He can feel the wind gusting around him, responding to calls he does not remember sending out. Leaves swirl in the gale, and trees rip their way out of the ground. The pain in his head intensifies as the number of screaming voices triple.

Xiao meets Zhongli’s gaze. Sometime, somehow, over the years, the archons had become his closest confidants. Yet, Zhongli was always his oldest companion, so now, Xiao asks Zhongli to do the impossible.

“Morax,” he croaks, using a name that hasn’t been spoken for ages. “You must.”

Zhongli’s gaze is pained, yet resolute, and that is how Xiao knows that Morax will kill him to save the world. Baal seems to sense this too, and lightning strikes the ground not too far away, anxiously awaiting her command.

It is only Venti who has not yet seemed to grasp the situation. He frowns at both archons. “What must you do, Zhongli?”

Zhongli only shakes his head, and Xiao knows it pains him to be the one who will have to kill the last Yaksha. So he answers Venti, limbs shaking as he desperately tries to contain the whirlwind threatening to tear from his chest.

“He must kill me. If he does not, I fear I will destroy Teyvat. I have lost control over my body, Venti.”

Barbatos’ eyes flash green, and Xiao is yet again reminded of the power of the archons. “No,” he says simply. “You cannot die. To live for thousands of years, to drink with us, all this time? You cannot die like this.”

Xiao loses concentration, just a tiny sliver, yet the gust of wind that tears from him shears the top off of a nearby mountain. He groans, harnessing the gale yet again, even as the action forces him to his knees.

“Morax,” he says again. “Please.”

Zhongli looks at him, and the archon’s eyes are glistening in the light of the dancing flames, as wind whips his hair into his face.

“Alatus,” he says, and his voice is full of hurt and resignation. “It has been an honor.”

Yes, Xiao wants to answer back, but he cannot force his mouth to move. He just nods, shaking his head as if he can jar the wailing into silence.

Venti starts towards Zhongli, power thrumming at the edges of his fingers, seemingly ready to resort to battle in order to prevent Xiao’s death, and that is when Baal moves. She slams into Venti, pushing him into the ground, even as wind starts to whirl around them - Venti’s magic, not Xiao’s. Her element locking curse comes a second later, binding itself around Venti, even as he hisses at her in protest.

“Xiao,” Venti cries, twisting as if he can escape the curse. His hat is lost, blown away in the wind, and his hair has come loose from its braids, flying around his face.

“Barbatos,” Xiao whispers. “I never thanked you, for saving me that day.”

Venti pauses, for a second, stunned into silence.

“Thank you,” Xiao says, over the voices in his head. “Thank you.”

Baal only looks at him solemnly, and Xiao stares back at her. They exchange no words, but Baal just nods, once, the simple gesture conveying everything he needs to know.

Xiao holds her gaze for a few more seconds, turning back to find the point of Zhongli’s spear resting above his heart.

Zhongli's face is twisted in grief, yet his blade still hits true, sliding into the hollow space between Xiao's third and fourth ribs.

Xiao chokes, the whirl of wind around him finally dying out. His legs buckle and he falls ungraciously, feeling gentle hands grasping at his clothes as he does.

Somewhere, Venti is screaming his name.

The wailing inside his skull is dissipating, and near the edges of his sight, Xiao can make out swirls of color. At first, he thinks they are the archons, and his failing body cannot see the details of their faces. Then, he recognizes a blue that does not belong to those in the present.

“Rest,” Zhongli whispers, as Xiao fades. “Rest, Alatus.”

And Xiao does, letting himself fall into the embrace of the Yaksha's, who are only becoming clearer, even as Xiao dies.

637 years later, a scholar strolls through the bookshelves of Sumeru's most famous academy, searching for a piece of information that could support her thesis.

She turns into a lane labelled Mondstadt: The City of Freedom, and begins to scan the titles, careful to replace everything exactly where she finds it.

There are two other travelers within the small space between the bookshelves, and they're talking to each other, quite loudly.

The scholar frowns. No matter how foreign these travelers are, the rule of silence in a library should be universal.

The first traveler, a tall man with golden eyes and umber hair that falls to his lower back flips another page in his book, completely ignoring his companion. A jade spear is strapped across his back, and the scholar thinks idly that the weapon looks more like a piece of art, with great wings of green jade shattering outwards from the main spike.

The tall man's companion is quite short, with yellow cat like eyes and evergreen tufts of hair, a pink pearl necklace slung loosely around his throat. His boyish grin seems quite misplaced.

It only takes the scholar a few moments to figure out why.

A few months ago, the scholar had studied ancient folklore of Liyue. Among them was a tale of several Yakshas, the last of whom had supposedly been buried beneath a statue of himself, on the highest peak in Liyue.

The man standing before her looks exactly the same as the grainy photo in the text. However, in the scroll of lore, the last Yaksha had worn a fierce scowl across his features, nothing like the one that stands before her now.

"Come, Zhongli," the should-be-dead Yaksha says, tugging on his friend's sleeve. "Baal is waiting for us."

"Baal can wait a while longer," the taller man says, turning the page of his book a while longer, which the scholar now sees is a copy of The Ruling System of Mondstadt: Grandmasters and Cavalry Captains.

"You said you wanted me to learn more about Mond, didn't you?" the taller man continues. "Besides, I am quite intrigued as to exactly who this 'Kaeya' is, the one you keep referencing."

The yaksha frowns. "Kaeya," he says. "Diluc's brother."

At his companion's blank stare, the yaksha says. "I'll remind you later," he chides. "We really must be going, Zhongli."

The scholar startles, embarrassed that she eavesdropped for so long. However, she still hears what the tall man says back.

"Fine. Let us go, Venti."

#genshin impact #genshin #xiao #alatus #barbatos #xiao genshin #fic #fanfic #genshin zhongli #zhongli #ningguang #venti #baal #raiden shogun #mihoyo #primogems #ao3 #fic rec #yaksha

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100hearteyes · 4 years ago

Note

any more thoughts on 'clarke and lexa make a porno'?

🤔😏

Part 1 Part 2

“Last but not least, worry no more, citizens of Capitola: after a grueling week of searching, our very own superhero Jasper Jordan has finally found his cape. He was wearing it all along.”

“It’s so good to know that he will be able to go on keeping Capitola safe.”

“Yes, what would we do without Jasper Jordan here to protect us? And from now on, you’ll be in Lexa Woods’s hands. Also, such good hands those are. She’s got very long fingers.”

“Oh. Well, I never actually noticed, but I guess they are. Thanks, Clarke. And now, perk your ears for the new hit single from our very own global country star, Harper McIntyre. It’s called Call Me Harp-by. She’s a creative genius!”

Lexa’s first instinct when she hears the studio door open is to hide. She checks her options: Monty is holed up under his desk playing on his GameBoy Color, Octavia has barricaded herself in a corner with actual hand-carved sticks and is roaring at Bellamy in a strange language, and Murphy is probably peeing into a bin behind the pillar on the far side of the room.

She’s too slow to think of a solution in the end and she can’t do anything but flush when Clarke strolls in and heads over to her, smirk plastered on her face. Lexa only has time to save her miniature Baby Yoda from Clarke’s weapon of ass destruction before her coworker sits on the edge of her desk.

“Hey, Lexa.”

Lexa forces a polite smile, trying to focus on her outline for the day rather than the butt cheeks planted on her desk, the body attached to them, or the face looking down at her with a sly grin. “Hello, Clarke.”

“What do you think of Harper McIntyre’s new song?”

The topic confuses her, but she trudges on with a brave face. After all, she’s got opinions on Capitola’s Taylor Swift rip-off and if Anya is going to make it a point of leaving the room every time Lexa so much as mentions them, then she’s going to take this opportunity with both hands and pull out all the receipts. “Uninspired. Derivative. Oddly reminiscent of Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen.”

“Yeah...” Clarke nods pensively, letting the subsequent silence drag on for a few more seconds. “I like your fingers.”

Lexa starts at the sudden topic change and struggles to keep her blush under control under the brazen intensity of Clarke’s stare. “Yes, I- I noticed. You mentioned. On the radio, for all of Capitola to hear. Thank you, I guess?”

Clarke hums, before clicking her tongue and hopping off of Lexa’s desk. She roundabouts it until she’s right next to Lexa, thigh brushing Lexa’s arm.

Lexa tries and fails to swallow down the knot in her throat as Clarke sits on her desk again, this time on her side, crossing her legs so her feet touch Lexa’s leg.

“So a little bird told me we’re starring in a porno together.”

Lexa almost yelps, scrambling out of her chair to fasten both hands over Clarke’s mouth. “The whole world doesn’t need to know, Clarke!”

Clarke rolls her eyes, but Lexa can feel her smile under her hands. Their eyes lock, a tacit understanding passing between them. Clarke's eyes are a vivid blue, like a cloudless sky or the color of Lexa's highlighters before Anya dunked them all in a bag of manure, and it's hard not to drown in the depths of them.

"Glad to see you two getting intimate already."

They spring apart as though they were burned. Lexa sits back down on her chair, while Clarke takes a seat at her desk, which to Lexa's chagrin is right next to her own. Anya chuckles as she sinks into her own chair, propping her feet on Lexa's desk, crossed at the ankles.

"Anyway," she slams a hand over a stack of papers, making Clarke and Lexa jump in their seats, "can you guess what this is?"

Clarke and Lexa look at each other with raised eyebrows, then at Anya. Lexa shrugs.

"This is your fucking Bible," Anya says, not waiting for them to guess. "Your Dianetics.Your Loose Canon. Your gospel." At her companions' still expectant stares, Anya heaves a dramatic sigh, throwing her arms up. "It's the goddamn screenplay."

Oh.

It's like the snap of an elastic band. Lexa and Clarke shoot out of their chairs to snatch the script from Anya's desk. Lexa gets there first (going to the gym does pay off after all), dribbling around Clarke, and lets out a triumphant cry before sinking back into her chair, thumbing through the pages of the heavy tome.

She stops on a random page and feels Clarke press closer to read over her shoulder.

INT. BLONDIE'S KITCHEN - TWILIGHT

Enter Lulu. Plumber by day, detective by night. She stops by the island and twirls a lead pipe in her right hand before sheathing it like a cowboy's pistol.

LULU

It seems it's time to read your...

Lulu puts on her shades. ZOOM IN.

LULU (CONT'D)

...Anya rights.

Lexa balks, peeling her eyes from the page to gape at Anya.

"Anya rights? Anya rights? You can't just... Arbitrarily rename the Miranda rights. They have that name for a reason."

Anya rolls her eyes like Lexa just said something obnoxiously stupid. "I didn't just rename them, you dumbass. I fucking changed them. If you'd read the whole thing, you would know that the suspect has the obligation to remain silent. No more fucking cry babies in cuffs."

"This is..." Lexa opens and closes her mouth like a fish, trying to find a thread of logic in the midst of... Whatever fever dream she's living in right now. "I thought we were filming a porno, not a sexy cop movie. Plumber by day, detective by night? That's- it's not even remotely realistic."

"Lexa... Suspend your disbelief."

"I think it's really good stuff," Clarke chimes in, her breasts still firmly pressed to Lexa's shoulder blade.

"Thank you, Clarke!" Anya exclaims, throwing her hands up and letting them fall on her legs with a loud clap. "At least someone appreciates my genius."

Lexa rolls her eyes, but fine. Fine. She will read more; she will give Anya a chance. She opens the book on a new page, several scenes ahead.

INT. BLONDIE'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Blondie rubs her lover's love button like she's scratching at a turn-table, making Lulu scream louder than Saoirse Ronan in Ammonite when Kate Winslet was eating her out with her neck.

LULU

Oh, fuck! You're so good at this! Almost as good as my awesome best friend and mentor Anya, even though I've never had sex with her because that would be totally gross.

Blondie stops her ministrations to look up at Lulu and smirks.

BLONDIE

I know. After all, they don't call me DJ Diddles for nothin'.

Lexa stares incredulously from the two hundred-odd pages to Anya, wondering how grave a sin she must have committed in a past life to deserve this.

"What are you, a sex-deprived straight guy?"

Anya scoffs, yanking the script from Lexa's hands before she can do anything to stop it. "I can assure you there is no deprivation in that department."

"After reading that I am seriously starting to doubt that you've ever even seen a vagina."

"I thought it was good," Clarke pipes in once again. This time, Lexa turns to her with a raised eyebrow.

"Is she paying you to say that?"

Clarke tsks with a smirk. "I'm just smart enough to know better than to get on the lead producer's bad side."

Anya snaps her fingers and points at Clarke approvingly, and Lexa has never regretted a decision so deeply in her life.

"Anyway," Clarke resumes, standing up and grabbing her bag. "This has been fun, but I need to get going. Anya, stay classy. We'll work out the schedule this week. Lexa," she adds, her voice dropping a tone to turn into a seductive purr. She leans down, and it's all Lexa can do not to focus on how her breasts squish together and seem to become fuller and more inviting. She loses the plot when a pair of lips presses to her cheek in a kiss that is chaste, yet way too slow for propriety. "See you tomorrow."

Lexa's throat is dry as a desert as she watches Clarke leave, her hips swaying more than usual. She jumps in place when Anya clears her throat next to her. This time, she can't avoid her friend's shit-eating grin.

"No chemistry, you say?"

"Shut up, Anya," she grumbles, focusing back on her work. She has a full, five-minute newscast to prepare, she can't dawdle and joke around gossiping like some people. But then a thought pops up in her head and she turns to Anya, eyes narrowed. "Is this some elaborate plan to get us together? I refuse to be your little Love, Actually experiment."

Anya's stare is fifty shades of unimpressed. "Lexa. Don't take yourself so seriously. It's a bad look on you."

Lexa buries her face in her hands with a long-suffering sigh. Why is this her life? Why is this her best friend? Why is she hopelessly attracted to the worst, most unprofessional coworker on the planet?

"Why couldn't you find a normal hobby? Something that doesn't include me? Like baking. Baking would have been so much better."

"You know," Anya drawls almost nostalgically, "I actually considered that, but the criminally inclined baker niche was already taken up by Martha Stewart."

"She is surprisingly niche," Lexa says, intrigued.

"Indeed."

"But she's also able to appeal to a larger audience."

"Uh-huh."

"Fascinating."

"I know. It's like Punkya. You'd think a lesbian erotica magazine would only appeal to queer women and depraved straight men, but it's been selling surprisingly well amongst the straight female demographic."

Hm. Are all women secretly queer?

"Interesting," Lexa concedes, before veering the topic back to Anya's passion (and Lexa's torture) project. "So when does principal photography start?"

And there it is again, that nefarious gleam in Anya's eyes. It grows along with her Cheshire cat grin, curling and curling until it's pure, unbridled evil.

"Next week."

#calmap #clarke and lexa make a porno #my fics #clexa #clexa fic #clexa fanfic #clexa fanfiction #mine #ask #anon

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mostlycompetentwriter · 4 years ago

Note

Can I request something for tmt? a one shot tho nothing too long I just love tmt jisung he’s my ideal type 🤧😂

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Han Jisung

Genre: Sequel; Drabble

Warnings: Smut and Language

There were two Jisung’s in my book.

The sweet, adoring version of him that I loved who brought me flowers from the store, or who spent long hours staying up with me late into the night to talk about whatever happened to cross our minds.

Then, there was the Jisung who called himself J.One.

The rapper version of him who commanded the stage with an intoxicating charisma, who winked and rolled his eyes as he moved with Chan and Changbin, gesturing to the crowd and ad-libbing into the microphone in unexpected bursts of energy.

He was impossible to resist, but he was all mine. And I had never felt so lucky in my entire life. Despite our rough start, I wouldn’t trade our relationship for anything in the world, and I had become a mainstay at his concerts.

Tonight’s performance ended with their new song, the one that was rapidly rising in the ranks on SoundCloud and garnering more YouTube videos than the average Among Us collaboration. I could tell that the crowd loved it, cheering and screaming even louder once the familiar bass dropped over the speakers.

In these moments, it was easy to see why Jisung was so enamored with this world of underground music and late-night clubs and bars.

“The one in the middle,” a girl yelled into my ear. “He’s really good!”

She was referring to Changbin and I forced myself to nod. “Yeah, he’s alright.”

As long as you don’t let him seduce you, I wanted to add, but perhaps it was better for the group’s image if I didn’t go into long-winded detail concerning Changbin’s exploits. Chan was no better, but at least he had the decency to feel bad and apologize. It made it easier to see him whenever I visited Jisung at their studio.

Changbin on the other hand? Well, he was still inclined to send me flirty looks and whisper rather inappropriate things that I doubt Jisung would want to hear. But that was an argument for another time.

Tonight was all about Jisung, and I could tell that the girl sitting next to me and her posh group of friends were shocked when Jisung and the rest of his group made their way over to me.

“Baby,” Jisung purred when he was close enough, sliding an arm around my waist before bringing me in for a passionate kiss.

It was enough to steal the breath from my lungs, and I pulled away to send a knowing look in the direction of the girls who were watching us with wide eyes and gaping mouths. “You were amazing!” I told Jisung, offering a friendly nod to Chan and Changbin who were already busy scoping out their exploits for the night.

“I feel amazing,” Jisung admitted, and then his mouth was next to my ear. “They gave me my own backstage room. Wanna see?”

“Of course,” I said, grinning because I knew that Jisung’s intentions extended far beyond merely asking me to admire his dressing room.

“Come on,” he said, taking my hand and waving off Chan and Changbin who weren’t even cognizant that their third wheel was leaving with his girlfriend. Hopefully, to screw her brains out because I desperately needed it.

“Your new song was really popular,” I remarked casually as Jisung weaved us in and out of the crowd.

“Yeah?” he smirked. “We spent weeks working on it. I think Chan was ready to call it quits at one point.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” I said, feeling myself grow more excited as we disappeared behind the curtain partitioning off the rest of the grimy bar.

It was much less crowded in the back, and Jisung’s hand was already squeezing at my ass as he turned the knob on the door labeled with his name written in bright colors on a slab of wood.

But once we were inside, Jisung ensured that the door was locked before pressing me back against it, reclaiming my lips with desperation. “Slow down, baby,” I gasped between kisses, feeling my way down Jisung’s shirt to palm the tight bulge over his gold-colored pants.

They were skin tight on his lithe frame, and I knew that his erection was straining against the tight material. “Can I fuck you, baby?” Jisung asked, and I smiled the familiar shyness in his eyes, listening to him whimper as I continued to add more pressure against his cock.

“How can I say no to you?” I asked, loving that he was still inclined to act the part of the well-mannered boy who used to follow me around with discreet looks aimed in my direction.

“There’s a condom in my bag,” he said, reluctantly moving away to locate his stuff piled high against one of the chairs.

In the meantime, I wandered over to the stuffy gray couch tucked away in the corner, ignoring the smell as I hitched up my dress before bending over the back. “Sungie?”

“Yeah, ba-” he broke off with a stuttered moan, taking in the sight of me bent over for him just the way he liked. “Y/N,” he whispered, eliminating the space between us with three measured steps before his hands were tugging down my panties and squeezing the soft flesh of my ass. “So beautiful,” he said, and I shivered at the sound of him undoing his belt, pushing down his jeans to mid-thigh along with his boxers.

“Are you ready?” I asked, reaching back to press two fingers into the gaping mess of my pussy, clenching and unclenching as I stretched myself out for him.

I was already wet just from hearing Jisung’s voice alone, admiring him dancing across the stage and, at one point, grinding against the floor.

Jisung groaned in reply to my question, ripping open the condom to tug it over himself. The motion was well-rehearsed at this point, even though he had fumbled the rubber a couple of times during the early part of our relationship. But we fit together like two essentials parts of a machine, and I almost knew his body as well as my own.

“I’ve got you,” Jisung said, pulling me out of my thoughts when he rubbed the tip of his cock against the entrance to my wet cunt.

“Please,” I practically begged him, and Jisung knew better than to tease me for longer than was necessary with our foreplay, and he was sliding home with a long, languid thrust of his hips that had me accommodating the size of his erection as my walls held to him tight. “You’ve got to give me more than that, Jisung!”

“More?” Jisung repeated, sounding a little more confident as he placed both hands on my hips.

I nearly screamed when he started a frantic pace, fucking his cock in and out with perfectly timed thrust of his hips, rolling against my ass with every stroke. I could feel each drag of his erection, filling me so well, to the point where it felt like I could already burst from the friction rapidly building inside of me.

I clenched my hands tighter around the cushions in front of me, closing my eyes as my clit brushed against the rough texture of the couch with every penetration. He was stimulating every part of me, hitting my g-spot at the perfect angle, hitching one of my legs further up around his waist so that he could keep going, faster and faster until I started to grow light-headed from the pleasure.

“I’m close, Jisung,” I warned him, clenching down harder around him to ensure that he felt as much pleasure as I did.

His resounding moan was more than enough confirmation that Jisung was feeling every inch of me, and I could just imagine the look on his face: the concentrated scrunch of his nose and the thin bead of sweat that pooled atop his upper lip.

There was always something riveting about Jisung when he was fucking me, head tossed back and neck exposed. He always liked to watch the place where his cock was stuck inside, using his fingers to feel just how close were in those moments. Sometimes, he might stick his finger in alongside his erection, and that was enough to make me feel even fuller, like I could literally mold myself to him.

The mental image alone was enough to stoke the flames licking at my loins, and I could feel my impending orgasm growing stronger by the minute, especially in conjunction with the loud squelching sounds of his cock hitting me between his rough grunts.

It was dirty and obscene, and I tried not to think about the fact that anybody could walk by, including Chan and Changbin, and hear just how good Jisung was fucking me.

But it was worth the risk, and there was nothing that could ever bring me closer to Jisung, practically feeling him touching my cervix with how deep he was reaching. Like he was determined to split me in half, using just his cock and fingers to completely break me down.

I moaned at the thought, eyes rolling back into my head when Jisung suddenly wrenched back and slammed forward with a powerful thrust, forcing my back to arch even further as he gripped tighter to my ass. In response, I reached back behind me to catch Jisung’s hand, digging my nails into his palm as I suddenly erupted around him. Experiencing wave after wave of unmitigated desire as he fulfilled my deepest urges, grinding his cock against my ass as he moaned and whined in response.

He rode me through my high carefully, sliding his cock gingerly between my pulsating walls, still chasing his own pleasure while remaining mindful of my oversensitivity. But I wanted to feel him cum more than anything, and I told him as much with an exaggerated moan that sent his hips stuttering twice against mine before I felt his release. Something warm and sticky, even though it was hard to appreciate the sensation with a thin layer of latex keeping him from leaking.

Still, I winced when Jisung pulled out, tossing the used condom into the trash as I reached back down for my panties to pull them back into place before falling onto the couch with a sigh. “Fuck,” Jisung cursed, using shaky hands to readjust himself, stuffing his spent cock back into his boxers and jeans.

“Come here,” I said, holding out my arms and inviting him closer into my embrace, nuzzling at the thin layer of sweat building at the base of his neck, inhaling the musky scent of his cologne.

“So good for me,” Jisung said, turning around so that our noses brushed. “Did you like it?”

I smiled, wondering if there would ever come a day when Jisung didn’t question just how amazing he made me feel. “I always love it,” I told him sincerely, reaching out to push a wayward strand of hair behind his ear before leaning in close to whisper a kiss against the pucker of his addictive lips.

#stray kids fanfic #stray kids smut #han jisung fanfic #han jisung smut #han smut #stray kids han smut #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #han jisung imagines #han jisung scenarios #mostlycompetent

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bangtan-dreamland · 4 years ago

Text

all i wanna do (is grow old with you)

Pairing: ot7 x gn!reader (a drabble for each member)

Word Count: 3430

Warnings: no warnings needed! this is basically just feel good u.u

Rating: pg

Genre: fluff fluff fluff

Summary: a small collection of moments in the domestic bliss you and him held.

AN: dropping this here for no reason other than to say yes I am alive strong power thank you

»»————-　♡　————-««

playfights are something that you always have to be on watch for with seokjin, with how mischievous he is. and at this moment, washing your dog, you are ever more on guard. or maybe not, because while you continue on lathering your dog's dirty fur, you suddenly feel a blob of something wet on your head. your hair, to be specific. you can feel the soap slide down like a boat would fall down a waterfall, you flash a glare at seokjin, who's suddenly looking all too nervous, eyes blinking fast, but the smile on his lips giving him away as the guilty apprehender. 'it was the dog!' he cries out, and you almost lunge at him- while he jumps away from you.

'seokjin! get back here!'

'i'm innocent!'

'no you're not, that was the worst excuse i've ever heard!'

you both end up running around the garden, soap trailing behind your figures and bubbles behind you, laughter ringing out in the air as you try, again and again, to catch him. it's almost infuriating how your lover uses his longer legs to keep a healthy distance between the two of you. when you finally corner him, you're both out of breath, and the water has made your clothes cling on too tight to your bodies, but you haven't grinned or smiled or laughed as hard in a while, and the mirroring look on your lover's face makes you think it's worth it.

'it was an accident,' he insists. 'the dog threw it, not me.'

you can't even refute the ridiculousness of that statement. oh wait. you can. 'jin, the dog doesn't even know how to throw the soap! and definitely not on my hair!'

a look of pure incredulity shows on his face, pout appearing and eyes blinking fast as if it will help give him credibility, the dork. 'well, that's what it wants you to think.' he concurs with a mockingly offended, quite overly dramatic tone, complete with a vivid shaking of the head. 'but i saw differently!'

'don't you believe your husband?'

you burst out laughing, all over again, for some reason you can't even explain, your heart sosososo full of love. 'god, why am i even in love with you?'

(the two of you do clean up the garden afterwards though, the plants and furniture drowned while you weren't looking- not to mention you have to give the dog a bath all over again, as it rolled around in the dirt while the two of you were busy playing tag.

seokjin, for his part, is completely unrepentant. you should be stricter, but...

well. at least he made you cookies afterwards.)

»»————-　♡　————-««

it's an hour after three when yoongi comes home, tired, drowsy figure almost collapsing on the sofa as he yawns. he almost falls asleep when you flick the lights back on, watching with no small amount of glee and (some) frustration as the man startles, almost falling off said furniture.

'you really have got to stop staying up until it's almost daytime,' you chide him, walking over to tug him up and off of the sofa, sighing as you card fingers through his matted locks. he looks up at you with the poutiest expression ever, and you steel yourself to not give in with the sheer amount of cute that has congregated to make the person named min yoongi in your arms. instead you amble with him up the stairs, the two of you making for a pair of sleepy, exhausted lovebirds. you'll have to put in first floor bedrooms when you look for a house together, this happens one too many times already.

when you reach your shared bedroom, you push him into the shower, the water already heated up, while you take out a pair of pajamas.

drying his hair, when the both of you are prone to nodding off, is a herculean chore. still, it's not as if you're okay with wet hair on your pillow, and you know that's an easy way to get sick the next day for him. 'you were in your studio again, weren't you?' you grumble, although you're pretty sure he's fallen asleep already and you're talking to no one. yoongi, for all that he is there to take care of others, is surprisingly receptive to affection when left without a choice. 'i had to,' he surprisingly says, stubborn, but with a sigh, his tone quiet but firm. 'inspiration struck'. and you can't even argue against that, knowing full well how a muse is to her artist. so instead you settle for drawing him close, close, close, muttering softly.

'maybe i should ask if they can add a bedroom to the studio.' you feel him smile against your skin, voice close enough to murmur in your ears.

'you know i'll only ever get to really sleep when i'm beside you.'

you scoff. 'you and i both know that's not true.'

warmth against your skin, an arm over yours, and a leg intertwined, soft hair tickling your cheeks, and you feel as if you could head off as it is, but no. he has the audacity to speak up again.

'you are my most melodious lullaby, the sweetest good morning, the link between my dreams and reality. if you aren't there when i sleep and when i awake, then how do i know you aren't just something i've been dreaming for? that you’re actually real, and right beside me?' he presses a kiss against your skin, and, god, that smooth ass jerk, you refuse to look at him at all.

(you both wake up late that morning, and you find you can't complain in the end anyway. even though he always ends up staying up far too late, at least, you know this, you and him will always be each other’s first view in the morning.

not a dream, indeed.)

»»————-　♡　————-««

'come on, love, dance with me!' you grin widely as you surprise hoseok, holding his hand captive in yours, the feather duster falling from his hands as you slide in front of him, tiptoeing to place a kiss on his cheeks.

he splutters, 'i thought we were supposed to be cleaning,' he raises an eyebrow at you, but you only nuzzle your nose against his, clutching onto him with a pout. there is a standoff with the two of you ending up staring at each other with all the fondness you can feel inside you, one that you end up winning when he places a kiss on the crown of your head.

'dusting can wait,' you insist. 'we're both already filthy anyway!' he feels the laughter bubble up inside him, the helplessly fond smile he has reserved for you and you only showing. but you're not lying, the attic room has been a mess the whole day and one afternoon will not transform it instantly. which is why, rather, standing in the middle of the not-so-crowded-anymore room, the sunlight beaming down from the window and the radio playing out an old love song, you find yourself more inclined to drop what you're supposed to be doing, in favor of spending a few minutes to indulge.

'your parents will get angry,' he points out, and you hum as you place your hand with his, his arm settling across your waist. this is far from what he normally dances, sharp moves and fluid spins becoming slow and sweet, the usual awe-inducing performance making way for intimacy in that private way, where the two of you are in your own world, closed off from the others. in this moment, you think that's not that far off from the truth.

'they won't mind,' you shake your head. 'and we can just take a bath afterwards.' he leads you in a sort of glide, across the room, the melody turning and twirling you around, heart beating in both of your chests in a steady, steady rate, each in time with the music. and when he ends the dance, you in his arms, both of you slightly breathless, staring into each other's eyes, you find yourself wondering not for the first time if your lover is not warmth itself reincarnated, for how else can you explain away the feeling of being awash in sunlight, not a single part of you left untouched?

(what was supposed to take only a few days turns into a week and then some, but you can't feel regret for a single moment as the attic becomes filled up with memories you already cherish, a secret hideaway for the two of you.)

»»————-　♡　————-««

'namjoon, come sit down on the grass with me,' you call out, pout on your face as you beckon your lover to come on over. han river remains sparkling no matter whether daytime or nighttime, the waters reflecting the city's beauty, and you are not the only admirer. still, there is something to be said about the way your lover looks as he falls into his thoughts. the two of you made plans to have a picnic here in the park, as the setting sun made itself known across the sky, but it's less of a romantic escapade than it is a moment of peace, a brief respite in your hectic lives.

'we should have brought a blanket,' he finally says, but you interlace your hand with his, your fingers with his own, tugging him down. he easily complies for all that he complains, and you don't think even he can deny how the grass feels under you. staring up at the dimming sky, blue and red bleeding into gold and purple, the stars beginning to peek through the curtains of night, you find yourself drifting away, the lull of the city dragging you to rest.

'what do you think of the multi-universe theory?' you hear him ask. namjoon is looking up at the sky, and there is a familiar expression on his face that tells you he is thinking about the secrets of the universe yet again, of the human nature and how each and everyone is connected. it's when he looks a little dazed, eyes focused on something beyond, a wistful tone in his voice, and he falls quiet, but when he speaks his thoughts there is always a 'what if?'. 'i wonder if we'd met in other universes too,' he says simply.

you laugh, gently. 'kim namjoon, if you are saying that there is a universe in which i see you and fail to love you, then let me reassure you now.' he looks away, a pout barely surfacing on his face, and you turn towards him, hands clasped together and your hair spread below you, the two of you picture perfect. 'maybe that universe does exist. maybe in another space and time, i wouldn't have the blessing that i have here, to love you as freely, as much as i can. but this isn't that universe, and nothing will stop me from staying by your side.'

by the end of it, your head is turned away with embarrassment, unable to take what might be his reaction. when you hear him huff, quiet, you turn around. what greets you is namjoon, blushing. 'what would i do without you?' he smiles, soft and sheepish and loving, and you roll your eyes, even as you feel yourself become something not unlike putty in this man's hands, a wave of love crashing over the sandcastle that is you. 'let's hope we never find out.'

(you spend hours in that park, talking about everything and anything, and when you go home it must be close to midnight. not that you regret it, though, when the two of you clumsily almost topple over each other, collapsing on your sofa, together, while you order takeout for the nth time because you're both too tired to cook.)

»»————-　♡　————-««

you don't think much of it, stealing jimin's clothes is as normal, as easy as that for you. the two of you practically share the other's now, a constant mismatch between your closet as what is yours and what is his is blurred, the lines toed and crossed over every time that it's simply easier to count your closets as one being rather than two.

still, it makes for a messy, uncoordinated space, and it easily slips from your mind, or his, of the whereabouts of your belongings.

'babe,' you can hear the pout in his voice. 'did you see my hoodie?' 'which hoodie?' 'my favorite one!' 'which favorite one?' at this point you see his head pop out from the doorframe, prominent lips stuck out and eyes searching the room. 'it's the green one, the soft, huge, green hoodie. that one.'

you stifle a rising amount of chuckles as you eventually realize the location of the hoodie in question- on your body, as you stole it from his closet just this morning. you don't think you can be seen as guilty though, not when the hoodie itself seemed to be begging for someone to wear it. impossibly soft, impossibly huge and impossibly sweet-smelling from the laundry softener you used, it was easy to drown in it and comfortably doze off. 'sorry baby, i don't know where it went.' 'okay, but, babe, can you help me...'

you startle as you surprisingly feel the shadow of your lover on your body, handsome face so suddenly, so dangerously close to your own, even if upside down. 'yn, you had it all this time!' you chuckle at the whine in his voice, even as he leans forward to try and tug it off you. 'give it now,' he says, but you shake your head, giggling as jimin tries. 'raise your arms! i can't believe you made me run around looking for this,' he grumbles, but you cross your arms instead, sitting up, turning around to face him, preparing yourself for a fight.

'no way, this is the softest hoodie in the house. i'm not giving it up.'

a moment of silence, and then- jimin attacks you, lunging forward to glomp you. you feel yourself become confused, when you feel his fingers around your sides, and you burst out into laughter, long and loud.

'no, jimin!'

'give it back!'

'no way!'

'then suffer under my wrath!'

(he only stops when tears actually appear at the corner of your eyes from laughing too hard, easily sprawling across your chest, the two of you on the floor and too tired to move. 'we can share,' you hum, choking as your lover narrows his eyes at you, before decidedly burrowing under your hoodie as well. with how big it is, and how not big both of you are, you surprisingly fit with him inside. it's too warm for two people inside, but as jimin lays his head comfortably across your chest, the thumping of your heart lulling him to rest, and he holds you in his arms, neither of you find you can argue against your positions.)

»»————-　♡　————-««

waking up with taehyung in the morning is an ordeal that never fails to make you smile. warmth pooling across the sheets, the warm breeze drafting in from the window, your lover's body wrapped around yours- there is a kind of holy in the way serene mornings like these are, quiet and golden, the world seemingly stopping for a moment, if only for the two of you.

it breaks your heart every time to have to shatter the illusion. 'taehyung', you whisper. there's not even a twitch in his movements, snoring quiet but steady as he continues off to slumber. you, however, can't get out of his hold, not without the man releasing you anyway- you would know, you've tried so many times before and it's always been a moot point. the only way to get out of taehyung's grip, is to wake him up into doing so. still, you find yourself soft and hesitant, every single time. 'taehyung,' you try again, a little louder this time. you shake him, and it takes you a solid minute or two for the man to actually make a sound, a low groan at the back of his throat. when he registers the situation at hand, though, your lover declines to release you, holding you captive with his embrace instead.

'stay in bed with me,' he almost whines, and you press your lips together to stop yourself from bursting into giggles.

'you know i can't do that,' you rebutt. 'i have work in an hour!'

'but i can't sleep without you.'

'you big baby,' you fondly, exasperatedly call him out, and you see him briefly crack his eyes open, if only to look at you with a pout.

you see him struggle whether or not to protest your words, before the sleepy takes over and he lazily agrees, pulling you closer in return. 'mhm, i'm your baby...'

'taehyung...'

'just a few more minutes, i swear,' he presses a light kiss on your forehead, and you know it's not just your imagination that you feel him smile against your skin, when you sigh loudly, relenting to his demands.

'you're incorrigible,' you whine as you bury your head in his chest.

'only because i love you.'

you would call it a laugh if it weren't for the yawn that sneaks in at the end.

and just as easy as that do you both fall off back to sleep, your phone's alarm scaring the hell out of you half an hour later. it was practically a given that you'd end up falling back to sleep with him really, you could say it was a ritual at this point.

(you end up being late to work, as a matter of fact, but you can't even find it in yourself to be angry. after all, there is quite nothing like waking up together in the morning, especially with your lover.

he takes you out on a date to the amusement park that weekend too, so you suppose you can forgive him.)

»»————-　♡　————-««

'jungkook,' you muffle your laughter behind your hand, but there's no denying the bright grin on your face as you feel your lover's arms encircle your waist. bright and early, it's early enough into the morning that the sky is still caught between the hues of red and pink, like a rose slowly blooming from night's embrace. it's what makes your lover's apparent waking state a mystery, when you know how heavy your lover sleeps. there goes your plan to bring him breakfast in bed, huh?

'what are you even doing?' you receive no reply, not one in words anyway, as you hear him mutter something unintelligible into your shoulders. his warmth against your back is addicting, especially in the chill of the morning air, but you're nothing if not determined, and if he's here to drag you back to bed, you're having none of it. 'if you're sleepy,' you start, turning around to hug him properly, jungkook's face nuzzling into your neck afterwards. 'you should go back to bed.' 'but you're not there with me,' you finally hear him say. 'just go back to cooking, i'll just stay here...'

'jungkook, i can't cook while you're wrapped around me!' you almost burst into laughter at that, what more at the earnest expression on your lover. 'why not?' he grumbles, a pout appearing on his face. you don't know whether to shake your head, or what- when your lover uses what he knows is his greatest weapon against you. 'don't give me that look,' you sigh, but your resolve crumbles quickly, and it's obvious that jungkook can see it as well.

'don't blame me if it turns out burnt,' you finally sigh. you feel, rather than hear him chuckle briefly. 'i'm sure it will still be delicious.' 'you say that no matter what i cook,' you mutter under your breath and he stays quiet because you're right. instead, you finally feel him disentangle from your, rather reluctantly, before he gets his own apron and gloves. 'then i guess we should just cook together then,' he declares, bumping shoulders with you. 'can't mess it up then, can we?' he smirks, cocky and familiar, and you roll your eyes even as you feel yourself settle so easily by his side, the two of you finishing breakfast together.

(the food, amazingly enough, does not become burnt, and turns out well instead. of course, he did help you after all. still, sitting at the table, eating together, you smile easy, softly. how can you not? everything about this moment is perfect, and you wouldn't have any qualms about it lasting forever.

judging by the smile on jungkook's face, you aren't the only one to feel this way, too.)

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ashdoesfandomarchieved · 4 years ago

Text

a sound like goodbye

ao3

It begins rather innocently.

Beckett and her three best friends are one of the teams chosen for the initial away mission-which apparently, according to the briefing that she skipped and Boimler had relayed to her later with no small amount of annoyance, entailed scooping out a deserted starship for survivors while the Cerritos solved the mystery behind the situation.

Turns out, there wasn’t much mystery behind it besides some cloning project gone wrong.

“I mean, it makes sense,” Tendi mutters, frowning at her tricorder. “There’s a reason cloning isn’t exactly sanctioned by Starfleet.”

“So, what, the clones turned on everyone and-”

“Started eating them?” Rutherford wrinkles his nose at the weird puddle of suspicious goo his shoe is stuck in. “Seems pretty standard for a Cerritos mission.”

Boimler snorts from where he’s peering over Tendi’s shoulder at her tricorder. “Clones eating people? Isn’t that just... people eating people?”

“Oh it gets worse,” Tendi says cheerfully. “Whatever’s in the air here-”

“Ion cloud-”

“Ion cloud,” Tendi corrects, rolling her eyes, “whatever’s going on here, it seems to be destabilizing the clones' molecular makeup.”

“Which made them go crazy?” Rutherford suggests.

“No, which made them start eating people to absorb the electrons that would otherwise make them...people.”

Beckett and Boimler exchanged a grossed out expression.

“Usually I would think that’s cool-” she begins.

“Wait, how do we know we’re not the clones!” Rutherford interrupts, panicked. “I mean, how would you even know , you would have the same memories, the same-”

“You wouldn’t have your implant,” Beckett cuts in, before he can work himself into too much of a panic. “Or, at least, you would have that exact one that’s programmed to your specific brainwaves.”

“The rest of us could be clones though,” Tendi adds.

Boimler twitches.

Beckett frowns. “Can’t you just run a scan on us and-”

Tendi points her tricorder at Beckett. It makes a little blipping noise. “Yep. One hundred percent Beckett Mariner.”

“Unless you’re also a clone and that’s what your clone brain wants you to think-”

Boimler slaps a hand over his eyes. “That’s not how clones work, Rutherford!”

Tendi turns her tricorder to him, raising an eyebrow when it makes another blipping noise, this time twice in a row.

“Oh, and you’re the clone expert?”

“He did get cloned like three months ago,” Tendi says, distractedly frowning at her tricorder. “Huh.”

Boimler gives her a sharp look .

“Well, good thing the clone isn’t here, or we’d be in trouble,” Beckett mutters, already turning toward the terminal showcasing their location. They’re not too far from the engineering decks of the starship, which is fortunate since that’s where they need to go. It seems to be the starting point of today’s misadventure.

“Actually, no,” Tendi says, ignoring Boimler’s glaring. “While Boimler’s clone would likely destabilize due to the air pressure, he’d be less likely to be inclined toward-”

“Cannibalism?” Rutherford grimances.

Tendi shrugs. “Clone’s been around for three months. He’s had time to adjust.”

“Unlike the fuckheads here,” Beckett sighs, as she steps in a puddle of... god knows what . “I don’t like this mission anymore, I want to go home.”

On cue, something rams against the steel-locked turbolift doors. Loudly.

All four of them exchange uneasy glances.

“Engineering deck, right?” Rutherford offers.

Beckett sighs.

____

Engineering’s a bust.

Whatever chemical compound was making the clones has long since been eradicated, leaving the four with an ominous empathy engineering deck. What’s worse, they get a call about five minutes later from the other away team, who are being picked off, one by one, by the remaining living clones.

“How did anyone think this is a good idea?” Tendi groans.

Rutherford and Boimler exchange grimances.

“I think our best bet is to head back to the shuttlebay,” Boimler offers hesitantly.

Beckett’s not sure how she planned on responding to that, because just as the words are out of his mouth, the red alert system goes off.

“I thought no one was left on the ship?” Tendi shouts, over the noise.

“Unless one of our crewmembers turned it on, in which case-”

“We need to get out of here,” Beckett finishes Boimler’s sentence.

A sound splits through the air. Metal clashing against metal. Like the center of the ship is falling apart.

“You don’t think…” Tendi’s eyes widen.

“Yeeaah, who wants to be the clones are taking a kamikaze approach to their limited lifespan?” Rutherford says.

“They’re attacking the Cerritos ,” Beckett groans, because of fucking course they are. She starts herding her friends toward the turbolift. “We need to get out of here before the Cerritos is forced to fire on us.”

____

They get split up, because of course they do. The place is still, apparently, crawling with dying, mutated clones and there hadn’t been a way to keep their group together without someone falling behind.

Beckett supposes she can count herself lucky that they get paired off in usual formation--Tendi and Rutherford and then Brad and herself. It’s usually a successful team up whenever that happens. Tendi and Rutherford are both geniuses so they’ll most likely find a nonviolent way to get through the ship.

Meanwhile she and Boimler can take their usual approach of Beckett doing dangerous shit while he freaks out in the background.

“Is this really necessary?” he shrieks from somewhere behind her, as she sets off another explosion. “Where did you even get -”

“No time for stupid questions,” she replies airily, grabbing him by the upperarm and dragging him down a couple of halls.

“What’s going on with you anyway?” she asks, when they have a moment to catch their breath. She tries to inject enough casualness into her voice that he can’t detect her worry. “You’ve been-” she gestures vaguely with one hand. “Spacey.”

He shrugs, avoiding her gaze. “I mean...clones, you know?”

“Mutant clones,” she counters. “Which is barely any weirder than anything else we’ve dealt with.”

He sighs. “It’s nothing, Mariner. I just don’t like being trapped on a deathship full of things that want to kill us.”

“That’s literally what happens to us every day .”

Something crashing into a nearby door makes them both jump.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Boimler grits out, eyes darting wildly around them. “Can we just get out of here?”

____

They do eventually collide with Tendi and Rutherford, both of which have already implemented 80% of a plan to get them safely back to the Cerritos , all limbs intact, and with a counterplan to take out the rest of the mutant clones.

Tendi grabs Boimler by the arm and drags him a few feet away to rapidly explain her technobabble infused idea that Beckett can barely track, while Rutherford and her work on barricading the medbay door.

“This is gonna work, right?” she asks.

“Yeah, I mean, we should be able to make our way to our shuttle after Tendi uploads the code to the network.” Rutherford’s voice is nervous.

The door suddenly splits in two, a clawed grey hand peeking through the destroyed metal.

“ Shit ! Okay, new plan,” Tendi shrieks, “let’s just get the fuck out of here.”

“But what about-”

“No time, we’ll come up with a new plan!”

The trek through the hallways has Beckett somewhere between elated and terrified. The clones are mutating at a frequency that is, frankly, scary and they nearly get Rutherford at least twice. The guy just can’t seem to catch a break between one of the clone’s nabbing him in the shoulder and another one getting a good few swipes in on his face.

It’s just his luck that he suddenly gets grabbed by one of them and yanked into one of the deserted conference rooms, much to everyone else’s horror.

“ Fu -” Tendi’s shout is bitten off as another clone makes a wild dash for her that she narrowly avoids.

Beckett turns to shout something to Boimler and-

He’s not there.

She comes to a stop so quickly that Tendi slams into her back, almost toppling her over.

“Wha-”

“Where’s Boimler?” She attempts to sound calm, but can hear the thread of panic in her voice.

Tendi spins around. “Oh- oh fuck .” A look of realization dawns across her face as her eyes widen. “He didn’t,” she breathes.

Beckett pushes her down the hall. “Get Rutherford, I’ll-”

“Mariner, he might not-”

“He’s fine , at least until I get my hands on him,” she snaps. “I’ll meet you in the shuttlebay.”

____

She does not, in fact, meet Tendi in the shuttlebay.

No, about five minutes after she splits up with the perky orion, she comes across her--the Orion having beaten her to finding Boimler, who she’s loudly arguing with. Rutherford, surprisingly, is there too, covered in scrapes and bruises and watching worriedly.

Beckett can’t for the life of her figure out how they managed to fight off a pack of deranged mutated clones, double back to find Boimler and start a fight with him in the time that Beckett had come across them, but she supposes it makes sense. Rutherford and Tendi are just built that way.

“You can’t just-” Tendi is sputtering, fists clenched.

“There isn’t time and besides-”

“Mariner is going to kill you -”

“Damn straight I am!” Beckett cuts in, voice raised over the noise of the starship literally being destroyed. “We’re on a timecrunch here, guys, what the fuck are you three doing ?”

Boimler sighs. “Marin-”

“We think we may have found a way to neutralize the clones,” Tendi blurts out. “I synthesized a noxious gas that’ll run through the airvents and take them out before they destroy the Cerritos -”

“Good! Great! So go ahead and release it so we can-”

The lights turn off.

“Someone has to upload the program that will release it shipwide to the network-” Boimler begins.

Beckett glares at him in the dim light. “If you’re suggesting what I think you are-” She grabs her best friend by the shoulder, attempting to drag him away from the console. With surprising strength, he brushes her off.

“Mariner I-” His face twists into something pained--a usual expression on him, but certainly unwanted at the present moment. “The Cerritos is already on red alert and we have less than ten minutes to-”

Beckett growls, making to grab at him again.

“Right, we have less than five minutes to get to the escape shuttle-”

“Yeaaah, that's kinda the problem?” Tendi cuts in, wilting back at Beckett’s furious glare. “We can’t do it from the shuttle. Someone has to stay behind and manually do it.”

Beckett stops.

“Oh fuck no,” she snarls, glaring at each of her friends. “No one is staying behind-- no , not even you, “she adds, pointing to Boimler, who’d opened his mouth to protest.

“Look-”

“No.”

“Just hear me out! The Cerritos doesn’t stand a chance against--”

“We’ll find a different way--a way that doesn’t include any of my best friends serving themselves up to be eaten by mutants!”

“This is the only way!” Boimler throws his hands up in frustration. “We don’t have time to come up with a new idea and I can upload Tendi’s code to the-!”

“Wha-no, why does it have to be you that stays behin-”

“Because the real Boimler is on the Titan !” he bursts out.

Beckett freezes.

She hears Rutherford exhale and can feel Tendi go still. All eyes snap to Boimler in an instant, who wilts under the combined force of their surprise.

“It took me a while to realize it,” Boimler-- Brad admits, “but when Tendi ran that test and I-”

“Boimler,” Tendi whispers. “You don’t have to-I should’ve told you-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rutherford interrupts, shifting nervously. His eyes cut to the ceiling as another squeal of the haul cracking splits through the air. “-clone or no clone, you’re still our friend and we-”

“And someone needs to stay behind and take out the clones or-”

“Which is why I’m going to do it,” Beckett snaps.

“Wha-how is that any different -”

“Mariner, you can’t just-”

“Why do you two have to make killing yourselves a competition?” Rutherford slaps a hand over his eyes and winces when his implant glitches. “How about we all leave and-”

Brad groans. “Someone has to detonate the-”

“We’re not just leaving you-” Beckett all but shrieks.

“You don’t have a choice-”

“Like hell I don’t, if you think I’m just gonna leave you here-”

“There’s another me out there!” Brad shouts, above the noise of the starship being blown apart. His eyes narrow in on Beckett’s, completely ignoring the protests and annoyed mutterings of their two friends.

“Look,” he says, voice quieting so only she can hear him. “I’m a Boimler, but not. Not yours.”

Beckett’s breath catches in her chest. She lets her gaze flick over him--from his meticulously pressed uniform, to the dirt smudges on the side of his face, to the dumb anime hair that surprisingly works for him. His eyes--a light hazel that tricks you into thinking they’re green in the sunlight or brown in the darkness--stare back into hers helplessly.

“You need someone to stay behind and detonate the gas,” he says, after a moment of quiet--save for the countdown being droned out by the AI. “So just please-”

“And you’re a better candidate for staying behind because-because there’s another you? That’s bullshit, Bradward,” she snarls, grabbing his collar and hauling him close.

“There’s two of me and only one of you!” he shouts back, throwing his hands up in the air, but losing the effect the gesture would usually have by slumping in her grip. “And as it stands I’m not even the real-”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!” She lets go of him, throwing her own hands up in the air in a mirror image of him. “Of course you’re the real you! Just because you weren’t here first doesn’t make you not a person-”

“I’m not your me, though,” he cuts in, “And it doesn’t matter anyway, because other me would be doing this whether or not he was the clone so-” He turns back to the terminal, brow furrowed. “Just-just get in the stupid shuttle and-”

“Not without you!”

“Then you’ll die here!”

“ So ?”

Brad types in a series of commands and then shuts the screen down. He turns on his heel and grabs Beckett’s wrist. “Fine,” he grits out, “let’s go.”

____

Surprised at the sudden change in whatever-the-fuck that was, Beckett allows herself to be tugged through the shattering starship--Tendi and Rutherford on their heels. Tendi exchanges a couple of glances with Brad, something passing between them that Beckett-much to her annoyance-can’t read.

The dash to the shuttle bay is hectic, but Beckett barely notices. Her attention keeps being stolen by the furtive glances Brad gives her when he thinks she isn’t looking. Or the warmth of his hand around her wrist that releases whenever she has to do some badass shit to get them out of there, but always comes back when they’re in the clear.

Finally, they’re in the shuttle bay.

“Uh, I’ll get it up and running,” Rutherford says, ducking inside the beaten up shuttle that they’d come in on.

Tendi and Brad look at each other for a moment.

Then, she tosses him her datapadd.

“I also synthesized a memory saver for the clones, because I’m a genius. It might not work,” she says, carefully, ignoring Beckett’s confused sputtering.“None of them deserve to die, so I did my best to give us an option where they don’t... completely . There’s a possibility that your consciousness will upload to the network, but it’s not guaranteed.”

Brad smiles at her, shaky but grateful.

Tendi goes on. “So if it doesn’t, I just want you to know-”

“Yeah,” his grin is more of a grimace now. “I know.”

She nods once, eyes quickly darting over him, before turning and disappearing into the shuttle.

Just Beckett and Brad left.

“Brad-”

“Mari- Beckett -”

“If you think for one second -”

“Someone has to stay!”

“But why you?” she says, crossing her arms and trying to ignore the tears pricking in the corners of her eyes. “All you’ve ever wanted to do is-is explore deep space and nerd out over dumb shit. Not die in the middle of a fucking warzone.”

Brad grabs one of her wrists, pulling her out of her defensive position and sliding his hand into hers. Both of his hands into hers.

His palms are warm and surprisingly soft. She wonders for a second if he moisturizes and then immediately knows the answer is yes because she’s seen the amount of lotion he carries in that dumb manpurse of his on shoreleave.

“I didn’t stabilize right,” he says, voice pitched soft. “That’s why when Tendi ran the tests she-well. I wouldn’t have lasted anyway so-” he sighs, shoulders drooping. “Just let me do this one thing for you guys. Let me make it all count.”

Beckett doesn’t realize she’s full on-crying until a sob heaves out of her. “I can’t leave you.” She shakes her head, trying to get control of herself. Something in her chest is twisting tightly, cutting off her airway. “I can’t.”

Something in Brad's face shifts. He lets go of her hands, much to her dismay, and she’s reaching out, reaching to grab some part of him to keep him from running off, from doing something stupid, something permanent , something that will take this version of him away from her forever-

One hand suddenly cups her neck, thumb tilting her chin upward.

Everything in her world comes to a standstill.

The sound of the base coming down around them, Rutherford and Tendi tersely barking orders to each other and across their comms to the Cerritos , the red alert blaring above them. Even the sparks shooting off around them from broken wiring and the lights wildly flicking on and off seem to slow.

Brad barely leans in before she grabs him by the collar with both hands and drags him down.

It’s desperate. Almost uncomfortably so. For the first few seconds their teeth click against each other and Beckett’s nose is smooshed against his cheek, but then she pulls back a centimeter, breathes in the space between them and dives back in, tilting her head to get the angle right this time.

It’s awful. His lips drag against hers and one hand moves to the small of her back and suddenly he’s pressed up against her, warm and real . One of her own hands makes its way into his stupidly coiffed hair, devastatingly delighted at the fact that he doesn’t upset at her messing it for once.

It’s all consuming and it’s burning and it’s searing and it’s awful , not because it isn’t good. No, it’s awful because Beckett knows what it means.

She knows it’s goodbye.

When she finally lets him pull away, they’re both panting. He rests his forehead on hers for a moment, eyes half lidded.

“You have to tell him,” he finally rasps. “Because he won’t-he’ll never, if you don’t first.”

Beckett squeezes her eyes shut tightly and then quickly opens them again, not wanting to miss a moment of their stolen time. “Brad-”

He shakes his head, pulling away from her. “Tell him.”

“It’s not too late,” she says. “You can still come with us.”

Brad gives her a lopsided grin. “What, one of me isn’t enough for you?”

The AI blaring the countdown hits the last minute. Brad’s face sets. Resigned.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, as he gently--but swiftly--begins herding her toward the shuttle, “I- he -is sorry. About everything. So, when you see him next, just give him a chance, okay?”

She’s inside the shuttle, one hand braced on the side of the door, trying to keep him from shutting it. He puts a hand on her shoulder to keep her from jumping out.

“Brad-” her voice is shaking.

“I know.” He looks over her shoulder, probably at Rutherford or Tendi. Nods to them once. “Just make sure he knows too.”

He pushes her.

She stumbles onto the shuttle floor as the door slams shut with a hiss.

____

Carol gets the report before she hears it from her kid.

The situation hadn’t been ideal from the start. When they’d originally intercepted the distress call, Ransom had muttered something about requesting backup that Carol had strongly considered. Ultimately, they would’ve been unprepared either way.

Either way, two thirds of the teams she sent onto that ship would have died, including her daughter’s best friend.

“Where is she?” she snaps at the ensign that seems to hang around Beckett and her friend group. He’s in medbay, nursing a broken collar bone, but snaps to attention the minute she enters.

“Uh…”

“Storage closet on Deck C,” an Orion, a few beds down, offers tentatively. Carol thinks she recognizes the girl as one of Beckett’s friends, but can’t be sure.

“Tendi!” the other ensign hisses.

“What, it’s her mom !” the Orion--Ensign Tendi--shoots back, but Carol isn’t listening. She’s already halfway out the door, despite the fact that a storage closet on Deck C didn’t narrow her search down by much.

It takes her almost an hour to find her.

The storage closet she’s camping out in is small--mostly likely used for medical supplies, judging by the sharp smell of antestic and alcohol that’s coming from-

Beckett has one hand tightly gripped around a bottle of vodka. She blinks up at her for a moment, comm lying open in her hand.

“Hey kid,” Carol says, trying to go gentle, but it comes across as tentative.

Beckett scowls. “What do you want?” she mumbles, fingers gripping her comm tightly. There are tear tracks staining her cheeks that make Carol’s heart ache.

Carol glances around the storage closet, grimacing at the empty bottles laying scattered around Beckett and the strong smell emitting from them. “Just to talk. Think you come out of here for a minute?”

Beckett raises her comm to her mouth again, muttering something indistinct into it before snapping it closed. She makes to stand up, but can’t quite make it. She seems off-balanced, teetering off the edge of sobriety.

Carol gently grabs Beckett’s wrist and pulls her to her feet. She sways slightly, still very obviously under the influence. With a sigh, Carol tugs her forward.

“Oh kiddo,” she says, when Beckett buries her face in her shoulder and begins crying in earnest.

____

Brad collapsed on his bed, equal parts weary and riding an adrenaline high.

The mission--now completed and never to be brought up again except in his n̸̜͘ḯ̷̹g̸̥̎h̵̬͛ẗ̷̬m̴̦͗a̸͈͂r̶̡͝e̶̢͘s̸̤̒ --was barely notable compared to the previous twelve he’s been dragged on, but he still is riding the high of almost dying . It’s, tragically, becoming his new normal.

And not in a fun Mariner did something cool that almost got us all killed but it’s totally cool because she looked hot while doing it kind of way. It was more of a holy shit I just almost died I didn’t join Starfleet for this what the hell am I doing existential crisis sort of way that has him regretting a lot of things.

Mostly Mariner related things, if he’s being honest.

(He doesn’t regret leaving. He doesn’t)

(He absolutely does.)

So here he is, a few months older, but certainly not wiser, lying in his lonely room, wondering what Mariner’s getting up to these days.

Almost on cue, his padd pings him a voicemail.

3 missed calls from Beckett Mariner.

Brad frowns. It’s been a while--a very very long while--since he’s heard from Mariner. Not that he’s blaming her, because he knows, he knows that he pulled a dick move transferring without telling her and then ghosting her calls.

He just doesn’t know what to say to her.

“Hey dumbass,” the voicemail opens with. It’s what most of them have, but this one has Brad pausing. There’s something monotone--something deadened about the inflection of her voice. It has his breath catching in his chest.

This voicemail is going to be different.

“Just calling to check in, I guess,'' her voice continues.

There’s a pause. So long that Brad wonders if Mariner had forgotten she’d called him. Then, “I don’t know if Tendi or Rutherford have called you yet, but I...look, can you just-”

Static, like she’s pressing her comm against her shoulder. There’s some indistinct murmuring, a deeper voice filtering through that he hesitantly assigns as Captain Freeman’s.

“I gotta go, but.” A shaky breath. “Call me.”

Brad swallows.

“Please.”

The voicemail ends with a click, leaving Brad in the silence of his empty room.

____

It’s been three weeks.

Three weeks since every emotion Beckett was capable of feeling had been shattered into a thousand pieces and dropped into a flaming dumpster fire. Her mom, after dragging her to her ready room and spending the entire day plying her with hot chocolate and hugs--which was weird coming from the woman who once told Beckett to walk a compound fracture off--seemingly decides to give her some space.

Which apparently includes giving her an undetermined amount of leave to deal with her shit.

Beckett doesn’t know what to do with that. What’s she supposed to do, take a vacation right now? Have fun ?

She spends the entire time either holed up in her bunk or exploring whatever dumb planets their missions take them too.

It all comes to a head far too soon.

And by head, Beckett, of course, means that her mom decides to interfere--like she always does--and drag Beckett kicking and screaming into a situation that she 100% would have avoided otherwise.

“Captain wants you in her ready room,” Tendi says, voice tentative in a way that is pissing Beckett off.

She doesn’t need to be tiptoed around goddammit.

The walk to her mom’s ready room is brisk and uninterrupted. Everyone’s giving her a wide berth these days. She’s not sure if it’s because they know or if she just looks unusually scary these days.

Her eyes are red rimmed and her uniform is beyond wrinkled and her hair is unwashed, falling around her shoulders in messy tangles. It’s probably not the latter.

She storms into her mom’s ready room, prepared to pick a fight just to feel something when-

Beckett stops breathing.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Carol says, giving Brad a pat on the shoulder as she passes him.

He’s in the stupid Titan uniform, which look unfairly good on him, Beckett distantly--begrudgingly--thinks. His hair is still in that stupid anime upsweep and his back is ramrod straight as always.

His eyes though are pinched in worry. Lips pulled into a frown.

“Hey.”

Beckett can barely look at him, but taking her eyes off him means she can’t see him and that’s an unacceptable option. She takes a step forward. And then another one. And then another one, until she has to look up every so slightly--because he has that goddam half inch on her--to maintain eye contact.

When she presses a hand to his chest, slightly to the left, just over his heart, he feels warm .

His pulse drums under her fingers, beat picking up rapidly the longer she keeps them there.

“Hey,” she says back. Her voice is cracked to all hell, rubbed raw from equal parts disuse and shouting whenever she’s in a particular mood.

The worried look on his face increases tenfold at the sound of her voice.

One hand reaches up to encircle her wrist. It squeezes tightly for a second before he lets go and takes a step back, putting space between them.

He’ll never, if you don’t first , Brad’s own voice sounds in her mind.

Beckett takes a breath and steps forward, closing the distance once again. She smiles faintly at how his eyes widen, pupils dilating slightly at their close proximity.

“Can we talk?”

____

#marinler #beckett mariner #brad boimler #d'vana tendi #sam rutherford #carol freeman #major character death #my fic #my fanfic #lower decks fanfic #star trek lower decks #star trek lower decks fanfic

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cal-kestis · 4 years ago

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You Come Around And The Armor Falls | Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

(Part II of The Aftermath of Losing Everything)

moodboard/sketch/gifs made by me, please don’t repost :)

Summary: You and Din continue your travels across the galaxy. A trip to Tython reveals your path and a stay in Sorgan breaks down Din's barriers. But red-stained visions will lead you both on a dangerous journey you can only hope to survive. (Set after S2) Rating: M (for reasons that will happen eventually) Word Count: 7105 Warnings/Tags: Soft!Din, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, no use of ‘Y/N’, cuddles, Din tells you more stories about Grogu and gives you a new nickname A/N: This chapter is very soft :’)

[PART I] // [Read on AO3] // [Series Masterlist]

Tython is a mountainous terrain, a landscape of rocky slopes and bumpy hillsides.

From the viewport of the cockpit, you see a small mountain with six protruding pillars arranged in a circle on top. That must be the place.

The Mandalorian — Din — makes a joke about traveling the last stretch with the windows down as he circles around it, chuckling to himself at some secret memory before landing the ship far from the ancient-looking pillars.

When you exit the ship, he turns to you with his arms outstretched. And when he tells you to grab on, you back away immediately, finally understanding his joke.

“We can definitely walk,” you argue, shaking your head and strutting past him.

“That’ll take too long,” he sighs, gently taking hold of your wrist until you stop in your tracks. “It would be dark by the time we got there.”

“I don’t give two bantha ticks. There’s no way in Malachor that I’m letting you dangle me through the air like a kriffing womp rat.”

“You say the strangest things when you’re angry,” Din chuckles.

“Don’t you have another jetpack?” You demand, ignoring his comment.

“Even if I did, you haven’t been trained in the Rising Phoenix.”

“The what?”

“Just hold on,” he mutters and you imagine his eyes rolling, a grin on his lips. He pulls your hands toward him, wrapping them around his neck. One of his arms rests on your lower back and the other scoops you up behind your knees, cradling you against his chest. Flames burst from his jetpack, launching the pair of you off the ground ungracefully as he adjusts to carrying another person. Your grip tightens around him for dear life and he can’t fight the smile on his lips when he feels you bury your face into his neck as he flies high above the mountains toward the pillars.

“We are never doing that again,” you say once your feet finally touch the ground.

“Come on. It’s not that bad,” he says, holding your shoulders as you regain your balance. “The kid loved it.”

You scoff, taking in the scene around you. The pillars look much taller up close, towering above you from all sides and pointing to the middle of the round platform where a smooth mound lies dead center. It’s covered in dirt save for the few shrubs that managed to blossom from the dry ground.

“It’s a rock,” you say, unimpressed as you circle the half sphere.

“Seeing Stone,” he corrects.

“Fine. It’s a stone and I’m seeing it,” you say, turning your gaze on him with your hands on your hips.

It's strangely fitting to look at him and see yourself reflected in the beskar, warped and wavy from the curves of his armor. His hands fall to his hips, mirroring your posture.

“So, what happens next?”

“I don’t know… exactly,” he admits with a long sigh. “There aren’t any controls. I just sat Grogu on the stone and something… happened. Ahsoka said if he reached out through the Force, someone might hear him. So, sit and reach,” he commands, gently nudging you toward the stone.

“Nonsense Jedi bantha crap,” you grumble under your breath, ripping another short chuckle from his chest. You smile, sitting cross-legged on the stone.

“Focus,” he says, hands on either of your shoulders before he backs away, remembering how last time, the energy field had knocked him back more times than he’d care to admit.

You close your eyes, concentrating on something you don’t quite understand. Your eyes screw shut tightly, wrinkling the skin between your brows, and you frown.

“Nothing happened.”

A leather-clad thumb trails a gentle line down the furrow between your brows, smoothing the wrinkles by your eyes with a gentleness that tugs your heart so fiercely, you almost fall off the stone.

“It will,” he says softly — confidently.

You open one eye to peek at him, watching as he steps away again and nods, fingers itching to pull his hands back to your face. A blue butterfly appears in front of your nose out of nowhere, another landing on your knee. You watch as they flutter around you in silent encouragement, take a deep breath, and softly close your eyes once more. One clammy palm presses into the stone beneath and you refocus your thoughts, reaching out for one thing: Din.

Din Djarin, a kind, gracious man hidden beneath impenetrable armor. How can someone who never shows his face be the most beautiful person you’ve ever known? You’ve never seen his smile, but you hear it in the baritone of his laughter and teasing. You’ve never seen his eyes but can feel them — concerned, curious, observant, warm — underneath a tinted visor. He gives you pieces of himself in ways that can’t be seen, but in moments that spread heat to your cheeks and flutters to your belly. And he takes little pieces of your heart in exchange. After years of surviving on your own, you never imagined you could care so deeply for another person.

Suddenly, a beam of energy encircles you in blue transparent waves and Din takes a few extra steps back just in case, a triumphant smile on his face as he whispers under his breath, “Good girl.”

He paces back and forth as you sit atop the Seeing Stone for nearly an hour, your eyes gently twitching, fingers brushing together, locked in a deep trance.

“Then, Grogu may choose his path.” Ahsoka’s words echo in his memory.

He wonders what your path is, if it will continue to weave with his or if it leads you far away. He doesn’t let himself hope, doesn’t let himself imagine — knowing full well how it broke his heart the last time.

Finally, he feels the powerful energy wane, your body collapsing over the stone, and he bolts to your side.

“I’m fine,” you assure him with a hand on the side of his helmet. “Just took a lot out of me.”

He nods, keeping silent despite his eagerness to hear what you found.

“Din,” you whisper, his name sounding like the lullabies of his childhood on your smiling lips. “I heard him.”

Din imagines a hooded figure leading you by your hand, leaving him behind.

“I heard Grogu,” you clarify and Din’s helmet whips toward you so violently, the way it slices through the wind is practically audible.

“You heard… Grogu?” He stutters quietly.

“Yes!” You squeak excitedly, standing on your feet, your hands holding tight onto his arms for balance. “He had quite a lot to say,” you laugh, and Din lets out a half-sob, half-chuckle, remembering the time his boy babbled nonsense the entire way from Nevarro to Corvus.

“How is he?” Din whispers so quietly he’s not sure if he spoke at all.

“His master says he’s getting stronger each day.” You wish you could see the pride in Din’s eyes. You know it’s there. “And he misses you, a lot.”

Din holds his breath, visibly fighting back tears.

“But he said he’ll see you again soon, just like you promised.”

You leave out the answer you gave to an invitation to join his master. And you leave out Grogu’s parting request: “Please take care of my father. He shouldn’t be alone.” But you tell Din everything else.

Tears drip down his cheeks and you see the wet drops slip out of his helmet and land on his cowl.

“Did you tell him that I—”

“Yes,” you say, a hand on the side of his helmet. “I told him.”

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his rapidly beating chest — similar to the way you’d done when he'd allowed you onto his ship.

“Thank you,” he says, helmet pressing against the top of your head, his gratitude rumbling through beskar into your skin.

—

vi.

He doesn’t ask you when you plan to leave him.

You don't give any inclination that you plan to stop traveling the galaxy at his side.

So, you find yourselves together on Sorgan, deciding to lay low for a while.

Sorgan is a swampy, humble planet. Nothing like Tatooine. To you, that makes it all the more beautiful.

Din brings you to a small krill farming village, which only adds to the planet’s enchanting charm. Children run through the fields as their laughter wafts in the air, enveloping you in a soothing balm. Men and women kneel over rivers with woven baskets full of the bouncing blue krill, soft smiles etched into their faces as they work.

When the Mandalorian saunters through the village, the children come bounding up to him in hoards, eager grins and grabby fingers boxing him in until he can’t walk any further. You can’t help but laugh as he visibly sighs before kneeling to greet them, accepting a small pink flower from one of the little girls.

Before you had landed, he’d mentioned visiting this village once or twice before. But it’s clear that he hadn’t just passed through. He’d made an impression. You half expect to find a statue of him in the center of the village after seeing the way the children looked up at him with stars in their eyes.

When the children finally leave to play, you follow several steps behind Din, watching his interactions with curious eyes. A beautiful woman with long, raven hair stops him with a gentle smile, her eyes softening with vast yet familiar constellations reflecting in her irises. It seems like there’s a history between Din and the raven-haired woman — something he’d failed to mention, but you try not to dwell on the uncomfortable way the idea squeezes at your heart.

Whatever Din says to the woman is too quiet to hear from this distance, so you settle for reading his body language. Although he speaks to you far more often now, you find you can understand him even without words.

The woman tilts her chin, a soft smile unwavering on her lips until Din shakes his head, the setting sun reflecting off his helmet as it moves right and left. His shoulders slump and the woman’s smile slips off her face as she reaches a sun-kissed hand toward his elbow and squeezes gently. The woman says something, confidence in her eyes, and Din nods.

Finally, Din glances in your direction and you gravitate toward him without instruction.

“This is Omera,” Din tells you.

The woman — Omera — smiles once again. “Hello. We’re happy to have you both as our guests. I’ll prepare your lodging,” she says, turning on her heel to leave the two of you alone.

“Thank you,” Din says.

When Omera is out of earshot, you can’t keep the tinge of jealousy out of your voice when you say, “She seems nice.”

“She and this village were very kind to us when Grogu and I came here before. We can trust her.”

You nod, more curious to know what he’d just said to the woman.

“Did you tell her about Grogu?” You ask, wondering if you made accurate observations.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Yes.”

You see his shoulders slump again. Reliving the goodbye is never easy for him.

“It’ll be dark soon,” he says, changing the subject and wordlessly handing you the pink flower one of the children had given him earlier. When you don't take it immediately, he decides to tuck it behind your ear as you do with your pencil, sending a wave of heat down your neck. (Later, when you’re alone, you press the flower between the pages of your drawing pad for safekeeping.)

“Looks like they’re pitching a fire. Hope you like krill.”

Dinner moves at a slow, peaceful pace, accompanied by friendly voices of storytelling strangers. They regale you with the fantastical tale of the legendary Mandalorian and the fearless former Rebel shock trooper who saved them from a band of pirates and a destructive Walker that stood tall above the trees — the two heroes who not only restored harmony but showed this village how to be brave and how to fight for themselves. You feel at ease sipping on spotchka, listening to stories honoring your friends.

But as the thought passes through your mind, ‘friend’ suddenly becomes the strangest word. It fits Cara Dune, the courageous marshal who you’d met several times on Nevarro, the woman you’d shared drinks and laughs with at cantinas, the warrior you’d trust with your life and Din’s life. But Din, your ‘friend’? The word seems to fall short.

After dinner, the villagers retire to their beds one after the other — leaving you and Din at the fire.

Din looks around at all the families, watching as one father carries his son on his back and a mother cradles a swaddled infant in her arms. He sees Omera and her daughter, Winta, in the distance — their hands joined and swinging between them as the little girl skips toward their humble home.

He clenches and unclenches his fists, the leather gloves silently screeching as the material sticks and peels away from itself again and again. His brows pinch together as he stares down at empty hands — empty hands that had foolishly allowed themselves to get used to holding someone else.

An image pierces his memory: three tiny green claws wrapped around his yellow-tipped thumb.

He blinks, blurry vision refocusing on his hands. Empty.

You watch him intently, feeling sadness roll off of him in waves, drawing you in until you’re submerged just as deep, crestfallen on his ocean floor.

When the heart breaks, no amount of bacta can heal it. You can’t cauterize the lacerations carved inside of him or stitch the pieces together. But you can let your scarred heart bleed and beat next to his, until the heavy thud, thud, thud, thud evolves into the resilient rhythm of a somber symphony only the two of you know.

He exhales. It’s a weary, crackling sound behind his helmet.

“Sometimes, I wonder if I made the right choice,” he admits quietly like he’s ashamed.

“For him? For Grogu?” You ask.

He nods, the motion almost imperceptible if not for the glint of firelight that flashes off beskar.

“I know you did. Grogu is doing well. He told me himself,” you whisper, opening his clenched fist and molding your fingers between his. “You’re a good man.”

For a moment, the moons and stars disappear at the same time, enveloping you both in inky darkness save for the angry red flames that reflect against his armor. He decides not to speak, not right away, allowing a shivering silence to shroud him as he weighs his next words. The late evening decrescendos into a soft lull of the crackling fire, wind-bristled branches, and a familiar thud, thud, thud, thud.

“Sometimes,” his modulated voice finally rumbles. The dark window of his visor anchors itself on the way your hand completely fills one of his. Then he looks away, beyond the trees, beyond you. “I wonder if that’s true.”

You try to piece the words together yourself, try to make sense of him — how he can’t see what you can see as clearly as the roaring fire.

“What do you mean?”

He sighs, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “I was scared to take you to Tython,” he admits.

“Because of what happened with Grogu the last time? You defeated Gideon. The Dark Troopers are gone, nothing was going to happen—”

“Not because of that,” he interrupts, taking a breath. “Because I… don’t want you to leave. And I feel selfish because you should be able to go — to train.”

Your heart beats faster at his admission, your mind mulling over his words to make sure you heard them right. A shaking hand reaches for his helmet, pulling his visor to face you.

“Di— Mando,” you whisper, taking a quick glance at the empty village. “I already chose my path at the Seeing Stone. I’m not leaving,” you reveal to him for the first time. You do everything you can to make him believe your words, squeezing his hand tighter, attempting to send your feelings through your skin into him.

“It isn’t right. You should train. You’re so powerful,” he says, almost to himself.

“No, I’m staying with you. And I know it’s right,” you declare, staring into the T-shaped visor where his eyes are. “You said Grogu knew where he was meant to be when he was young. He trained even before he met you. Letting him continue was the right thing to do for him. You did the right thing,” you argue. “But I didn’t go to some fancy Jedi temple. When I was a kid, all I wanted was... to not be alone anymore. And now, I’m not. This is where I’m meant to be.”

You watch as flames dance across his helmet, his body still as he stays silent. Then, suddenly, your body feels warmer than the crackling fire, encircled in his tight embrace. You stay wrapped together like that for several minutes, limbs wound around each other like vines. You almost fall asleep on his shoulder from the peaceful sound of his breath so close to your ear.

“Come on,” he says, the crown of his helmet now resting against your forehead. He gently detaches you from his body as he stands, extending his hand for you to take once again. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

With your hands joined, gently swinging between your bodies, the two of you walk side by side to your shared lodging.

The hut is small and quaint, sparse in decoration but plentiful in necessity. A bed for two sits nestled in the corner of the single room, the soft orange glow of a lamplight casting hazy, billowing shadows against the wall. Din stands on the threshold, shifting his weight between his feet as you explore the room, your fingers gliding across the soft fabric on the bed.

“All clear, Mando. The bed doesn’t bite,” you tease him, his head shaking — probably rolling his eyes — as he closes the door behind him.

“I’ll take the floor,” he says, removing his cape and laying it on the ground.

“That’s ridiculous,” you argue, rolling your eyes this time. “We came to Sorgan to relax. You can’t sleep on the floor.”

“I’ve done worse,” he shrugs. You don’t doubt it.

“I don’t care. There’s plenty of space for both of us. If you don’t sleep on the bed, neither will I,” you resolve, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Who’s being ridiculous now?” He says, a hand on his hip as he stares you down. When you don’t relent, he sighs. “Fine.”

You practically bounce with delight, removing your socks and dusting off your clothes before diving under the plush covers. A breathy moan escapes your lips as your body sinks into the mattress and it freezes him in place on the other side of the room.

“Oh, stars. This is heaven,” you hum.

Din approaches the bed like it’s a rancor crouching in wait to devour him whole. His knee hardly touches the top of the mattress before you’re sitting up with another accusatory glare.

“You’re going to sleep in your armor?” You question incredulously.

He doesn’t want to argue in circles with you again, worried the other villagers may be able to hear, so he sits on the edge of the bed and removes each plate of beskar one by one, save for his helmet. He’s left in a long-sleeved top, dark pants, and woolen socks — his hands the only skin on display after removing his gloves.

He turns on the mattress, his feet resting beside yours as he lays his helmet down on a squishy pillow, facing your curious gaze once more.

“When was the last time someone saw your face?” You whisper.

“Not long ago,” he answers truthfully. “The child.”

“And your Creed?”

“He meant more.”

You nod, understanding full well that the love for another being can easily outweigh any rule or law or virtue or doctrine or belief or obligation.

You tuck your hand beneath your pillow, squinting your eyes as if trying to see through the panes of his helmet. You wonder, not for the first time, what he looks like when he rolls his eyes or laughs or smirks. You wonder if his eyes soften when he looks at you the way you know your eyes do whenever he’s near... if a dimple appears in his cheek just for you. Your knees bend slightly, touching his legs.

“What happens if you take off your helmet?”

He doesn’t respond right away, as if looking for the correct answer.

“I used to think I could never put it back on,” he says, pain in his voice as the word ‘traitor’ echoes in his mind. “But now, I’m not so sure.”

You hum in acknowledgment, submerging the room into a long gap of silence, your eyes flitting across his covered face, your own features reflected in the silver steel. He watches as you close your eyes and wonders for a moment if you’ve decided to finally sleep. But then, your hand reaches in the direction of the open flame across the room, and with a flick of your wrist, the lamplight extinguishes, enveloping the room in complete darkness.

“You’re good at that,” he comments, a hint of a smile in his voice.

“It comes in handy,” you say, the fabric beneath your shoulder rustling as you shrug.

The room is quiet again, the steady sound of soft breathing filling the small space between your bodies.

“Din?” You whisper.

His eyes close at the sound of his name spoken so delicately by your lips. “Hmm.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he answers, not missing a beat.

“I won’t look, I promise. I can’t even see. I just,” you pant as if speaking alone has made you breathless. “I can’t imagine sleeping with a helmet on is all that comfortable. You can take it off. You can trust me.”

Your hand trembles as it blindly reaches for the side of his helmet but his hand immediately traps you there against the beskar. You fear you’ve taken it too far when he pushes your hand back toward your side of the bed.

But then you hear it, the sound of air releasing, a puff of unrestrained breath, metal gently hitting the floor. And then his hand is holding yours again and placing it on his cheek, touching his skin for the first time. His eyelashes flutter against the side of your fingers, closing shut as your other hand tentatively explores the rest of his face.

He’s warm. Soft and rough at the same time. His entire weight leans into your palm and you think, this must be what it feels like to hold the entire universe.

“I never thought—” he suddenly whispers, a jagged inhale, a shaky exhale, his breath touching your lips. “After I lost the kid,” he continues, his thumb caressing your hand on his cheek. “I never thought I’d feel this again.”

You wonder what he means by ‘this.’ Touch? Tenderness? Warmth? Care? Or something much, much deeper?

You desperately wish you could see how he looks in this moment, feeling another person’s skin against his own after depriving himself for so long. Your fingers run across wrinkles and scars and you wonder, not for the first time, how long he’s had to carry these marks and stories all on his own. Your thumb finds the bridge of his nose, trailing down the strong curve until below it, a dense smattering of hair scratches at your skin.

“A mustache?” You ask, amused.

You hear his smile widen when he chuckles. “My father had one.”

It makes your heart ache, remembering the story he told you about his home planet, how his parents had sacrificed their lives to keep him safe. How the siege built his distrust of droids and redirected his faith to the Mandalorians who lifted him out of devastating danger. As you trace his mustache with reverence, you wonder what parts of his mother he wears like armor.

Below that, your thumb drags along the plush outline of his lower lip, from one corner to the other. You swear they’re lifted — at least just slightly. As you move your fingers across his cheeks, you find the shallow dip of a dimple and you smile so big he must be able to see it. His jaw is sharp and prickly, freshly shaved probably the day before.

As he leans heavily into your hand, you think to yourself how much you want to help carry this weight for him.

“Can you say something?” You ask quietly, your hands still touching his skin, careful not to disturb the bubble you’re in.

“What do you want me to say?” He whispers.

“Hmm,” you respond, enjoying the feeling of his voice rumbling through your hand. “Anything. I just like the way you sound.”

For a second, you think you feel his lips press against your palm.

“Cuyan,” he says, the foreign word tickling your skin.

“What language is that?”

“It’s the tongue of my people: Mando’a,” he explains, his cheek stretching upward under your hand. “It’s not spoken much anymore.”

“It sounds beautiful. What does ‘cuyan’ mean?”

His hand falls into your hair, brushing the strands with his fingers. “It means survivor.”

“Like you,” you smile.

“And you.”

You smile wider.

“Stars, please keep talking,” you plead, despite the peaceful yawn slipping from your lips. Your hand on his face wraps around his back instead, holding him like a pillow. Nestling your head over his heart, you feel the strong thud, thud, thud, thud against your ear — your own heartbeat starting to synchronize with his. His hand continues combing through your hair, his chest rumbling with a gentle chuckle.

“Kotep means brave,” he whispers, his voice weaving through the hairs at the crown of your head. “I remember the time I introduced you to Cara Dune. We were in a rush but she was taking her time pummeling someone into the dirt. And you rolled your eyes, took the blaster from her belt, set it to stun, and shot him. Then, you smiled, shook Cara’s hand, and said ‘Nice to meet you.’”

“Kotep,” you mumble, half-awake. “Maybe more stupid than kotep.”

“Sometimes, they’re one and the same,” he chuckles, making your entangled bodies shake. “Mirdala means clever. Like when you snuck onto my ship and convinced me to let you join my crew even though I wasn't looking for one. Or when you rewired the jammers so that our ship could scramble Imperial and New Republic codes.”

“Kotyc means strong. When you saved me from that rancor, I was terrified,” he whispers. He tilts his head down, his lips pressing against your hair as he listens to your slow breathing. You’re fast asleep, arms still wound loosely around him, cheek pressed against his chest. But he keeps talking. “Not of the rancor or even of you. You’re so strong, so powerful, just like the kid. I was terrified I’d have to let you go too. Then, you said you want to stay. And I felt so guilty because I was so relieved. But I want you to stay too, truly, for as long as you want, ner kar’ta. Ner kar’ta means my heart.”

He places a gentle kiss on the top of your head.

“Before I met the kid... before I met you, ner kar’ta… I never thought I’d get to have this, whatever this is,” he whispers into your skin. “That was a past life. This is heaven.”

—

vii.

The few nights you stay in Sorgan give you ample time to study his features in the dark, etching them into your mind the way you would on paper.

Every night after the first, he whispers words like cuyan, kotep, mirdala, and kotyc as you fall asleep — some you remember and some you don’t.

When you leave Sorgan, you notice he wears his helmet less. Not outside of the safety of darkness and certainly not outside of the ship. But in quiet, shadowy moments and dim corners of your metal home — he feels comfortable enough to be without it.

He’s giving you a portion of what he knows he can’t fully give to you... not yet. But it’s like he’s inviting you, waiting for your hand to find its place on his cheek once again.

When you retire to your quarters each night, he powers off the lights and whispers, “Good night, ner kar’ta,” faint enough to make you wonder if he means for you to hear it. Ner kar’ta. It’s a beautiful phrase, one from his people’s language. He’d shared it with you that first night he let you know him, feel his skin with its scars and soft expanses. But for the life of you, you can’t remember if he taught you what ner kar’ta means. (You curse that comfortable bed and his warm arms for tempting you to sleep so easily.) The way he says ner kar’ta each time is like a sanctified prayer and you desperately want to know what Divinity has that he wants.

Sleep had never come easy to you before. Not in your years of lonely nights surrounded by danger on Tatooine. Before you met Din, nightmares had been enemies you kept close like friends. Not by your own will, of course.

But nightmares quickly became scarce foes. Living with Din made you feel safe. He’s a protector, but more than that — he shows you the strength you have inside you like a mirror, his bravery reflected in your eyes. Kotep means brave. You remember that.

But as you feel yourself growing more connected to your powers, the Force, your dreams seem more vivid, more rooted in reality, peculiar prophecies. And nightmares feel like omens.

You have a recurring horror story that plays in your mind in fragmented flashes, pieces you’re too scared to dwell on in the clear light of day for fear they may form a mosaic of your own image, cast away in the vast expanse of space. Alone. Again.

Tonight, the nightmare visits you and bathes your thoughts in red. You don't recognize the dreamscape from your travels with your Mandalorian, you only see the way it paints everything in a bloody tint and sets your skin on fire. Then, you see Din — hear him yell in agony under the attack of an invisible enemy. But you’re rooted to the ground, your limbs morphing into distorted vines and branches, dry screams ripping through your throat until you can’t make a sound.

“Din!” You gasp, waking up in a cold sweat in your darkened quarters, the desperate sound of your voice echoing through the ship.

“What’s wrong?” Din sprints in, panting as he skids to a stop. He turns on the lights to reveal himself in only his underclothes and helmet, head snapping back and forth as he examines the scene. When nothing seems out of place, his shoulders relax. “Are you okay?”

Your chest heaves as you attempt to steady your breath, not realizing tears are rolling down your face until he comes forward to wipe one from your cheek.

“It was just a dream,” you say, not fully believing your words. “But it felt so real.”

The edge of your thin mattress sinks at the same time you feel his bare hand brush a sweat-slicked strand of hair out of your face. His fingers comb through your hair and settle at the base of your head before he pulls your face into his soft chest. The steady beating of his heart under your cheek immediately helps yours slow down.

“I’m here. You’re safe,” he says, and all you can do is fist your hand in his shirt and hold onto him, anchor yourself in his solid body because it’s not you that you worry about. Not this time. But you don't tell him about the nightmare or the fragments that have been haunting you the past few days. You just listen to the way he breathes in through his nose and sighs through his lips.

“Scoot over,” he whispers, untangling himself from your arms. You sniffle and do as he asks, giving him room to settle under your covers and wrap his arm around your back so you can use his chest as a pillow. “Do you mind getting the lights?”

You chuckle, closing your eyes and levitating the pencil on your drawing pad until it hits the controls for the lights and blankets the room in darkness. Almost immediately, you hear the hiss of Din’s helmet and the light thud of it hitting the floor before you feel his soft hair touching the top of your head.

He holds you, his thumb stroking the skin on your arm, his breaths coming out as warm puffs against your hair. And like those nights in Sorgan, you let your fingers draw smooth shapes into his skin and rest over his heart.

“Do you want to hear about the time I took Grogu to school?” He asks quietly, indulging you with the deep rumble of his rich voice.

You tilt your face upward and try to see his smile in the pitch black, nodding your head so his shirt beneath your cheek rubs against his chest. You want to hear every story about his past as long as he says it with his voice and his hands on your skin.

“I was on Nevarro, just passing through for repairs. And of course, I ended up on a mission at an Imperial base,” he chuckles, sending vibrations through you.

“Of course,” you laugh with him.

“I couldn’t take the kid with me. Karga and Dune brought me to a school, so I left him there for a while.” Your hand raises to his cheek so you can feel that pull of his smile under your fingers. “Mid-mission, I have to bolt from the base, grab my ship, and pick up the kid on the way. I’m in a rush and the educator droid tries to keep me, saying my son stole some poor boy’s snacks. I don’t have any time for the droid to explain more and just mumble sorry and grab the kid. He’s got little blue crumbs all over his cloak and a silver packet of cookies. He ate so much he got sick on the ship when I flew back to help the others near the base.”

You feel Din shake his head, laughing at the memory.

“I had to let him wear one of my tunics while I washed up his clothes. I even tried sewing up the bottom so it would protect his feet better,” he snickers. “Not the best stitching job I’ve done.”

You don't think your heart has ever felt so full and large and ready to burst. You love listening to him talk about Grogu, the fondness in his voice tugging you impossibly closer to him until the two of you blend into one.

“He whined for hours when he finished those cookies.” He muses, lifting one of your hands and drawing lines on your palm with the tip of his finger. “Such a little womp rat.”

“Wonder where he got it from,” you tease, your voice still scratchy from tears but laughing in genuine amusement.

He scoffs, the mirth never leaving his honeyed voice. “I only ever taught him strength, honor, and loyalty.”

“Oh, I’m sure. This is the Way,” you say, attempting to imitate his deep baritone.

“You really like to give me a hard time, don’t you?” He teases.

“Ah,” you grin. “The Jawa calls the Ewok short.”

He stills before bursting into a full-bodied laugh. “I’ve never heard that one before,” he gasps between wheezes.

You laugh with him, your shaking bodies gradually calming into a slow vibration of charged energy. You can’t see it but you feel his eyes looking into yours when his breaths settle down, his thumb now tracing over the slope of your lip.

“Sleep, ner kar’ta,” he says, stroking his fingers over your hair once more. And you desperately want to ask what it means, why he calls you this beautiful phrase. But soon enough, your eyes are closed and he kisses your head before letting sleep take him as well.

When he wakes in the early hours of the morning, your quarters still mostly covered in the ship’s shadows, he gently slides himself out of your hold and tucks you deeper under the covers, before putting his helmet back on and walking to the fresher.

On his way out of your room, he notices a sliver of light peeking through the doorway and a splash of pink catches his eyes. He looks down to find your open drawing pad sitting on your dresser, the pink flower he gave you on Sorgan pressed and dried onto one page.

And on the page beside it is a rough charcoal portrait of a man that looks vaguely like him. The sketched face shares the hooked curve of his nose, a mustache below it covering his lips, and wavy locks atop his head. But the other features are empty, blanks waiting patiently to be filled in once you fully grasp the picture.

Beside the off-white space where his eyes should be, he sees a note in your scribbled handwriting that reads:

Eye color?

He takes the pencil lying between the stitched binding of the booklet and gives you another piece of himself, writing below your question:

Brown.

—

viii.

When you wake, you half expect to find your cheek still pressed to a warm, beating chest, strong arms wrapped around your body, perhaps even a charming snore blowing the hair at the top of your head. Instead, when you open your eyes, the space beside you is cold and empty, and you wonder if it had all been a fantasy you’d conjured to erase the nightmare that had plagued you moments before.

But when you slip out of bed and pad over to your door, you spot your drawing pad which you’d left open. And below the question you’d scrawled across the page, you find his answer and can finally put a color to his eyes — a rich, warm, melting hue that fits his gaze so perfectly you think there must be a Maker putting these pieces into motion.

You grab the pencil from the booklet, place it behind your ear, and go to find him.

Leaving your quarters, the ship feels unusually frigid and you hold your arms tightly to retain the residual warmth from the bed covers.

When you walk into the cockpit, you half expect to find Din in his plainclothes again, giving you a chance to wrap your arms around his waist and whisper “good morning” into the soft planes of his chest without his beskar blocking the way. Instead, you find him fully-armored, crouched over with his elbows on his knees, helmet hung low and held between gloved hands. In front of him, a holoprojector loops a message from a pale, uniformed woman.

“Din Djarin,” the grave voice addresses him by his full name, sending shivers down your spine. “Yes, I know exactly who you are. If you don’t want the entire galaxy to put a name to your face, you will help me devise a plan to release Moff Gideon from the New Republic detainment facility. We will send you coordinates to an Imperial base shortly.”

The blue projection vanishes briefly before starting again in a haunting cycle.

“Din,” you whisper, startling him out of his stupor, his helmet whipping around as if ready to take aim and fire. You walk toward him slowly, kneel in front of him with a gentle hand on his knee, and face the holoprojector. “Who is that? How do they know your name?”

He sighs, his helmet falling into his hands once more.

“When Gideon took the kid, I had to make a choice,” he says, voice rough and ragged despite the hours of restful sleep he got the night before. “I snuck into an Imperial rhydonium refinery on Morak to get Gideon’s coordinates from a data terminal. But the terminal required a facial scan.”

“They have your face in Imperial data archives,” you gasp, the understanding poisoning your veins and causing your heart to drop into your stomach.

“They have everything in the archives,” he corrects, his modulated voice distant and detached. “And they’re about to take it all away.”

“No,” you whisper. Standing up suddenly, anger washes over you at his quick defeat. “No! I won’t let them. There must be something we can do.”

“I won’t free Gideon,” Din says, stern and almost frightening in his resolve.

“I’m not saying we break him out,” you respond, hands up in defense. “But there’s always more than one way to skin a womp rat.”

Your heavy footsteps echo in the small space of the cockpit as you pace back and forth. Din’s helmet follows you slowly as you walk in circles and he sees the gears turning in your mind. You pull the pencil behind your ear towards your lips and gnaw at it with your teeth, an action he quickly learned meant not to talk to you lest your brewing idea slips from your skull. The holoprojector repeats its threat over and over, the voice grating against the metal walls until it begins to sound like an endless shriek. And with a roar of frustration, your clenched fist comes flying down onto the holoprojector until the image fizzles away.

“I’ve got it.”

The plan goes as follows: Send the Mandalorian to the Imperial base under the guise of full cooperation and stall the holoprojector Imp for as long as possible. This will give you enough time to sneak in through an air vent (“Or… something.” “Or something?” “Yes, Mando. Whatever’s convenient at that moment!”), find a terminal, and hack the system, wiping every Imperial archive of Din Djarin.

“That’s a horrible plan,” he says.

“It’s not ‘horrible,’” you argue.

“It’s dangerous.”

“You got something better?” You challenge.

His long sigh is enough of an answer.

“So, we’re doing it then,” you say, suddenly a million times more nervous than when you’d laid out your blueprint for him. “Punch in those coordinates. Let’s go pay a visit to some Imps.” [READ PART III]

End Notes: Please support this story with a reblog or comment in the replies! I’d love to know what you think of it so far. :) (Also, I know the Seeing Stone is more of a beacon but let's just say you can talk to other force-sensitives if you meditate deep enough.) Btw, zoom into the moodboard to see the sketch of Din. Should I upload the full size? Mando’a Glossary: Cuyan = survivor [koo-YAHN] Kotep = brave [KOH-tehp] Mirdala = clever [MEER-dah-lah] Kotyc = strong [koh-TEESH] Ner kar’ta = My heart (kar’ta = heart [kah-ROH-ta]; ner = my [nair]) Star Wars slang: The Jawa calls the Ewok short = When somebody comments on or accuses someone else of a fault which the accuser shares.

#star wars #the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #taole #mine*

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saikagerights · 4 years ago

Text

Lay Me Down to Rest - Entry for Day of MirSan 2021

Hello there! And welcome to my first Inuyasha fanfiction, as apart of the @dayofmirsan event.

I initially was planning to be an observer of the event, but sudden inspiration struck at 1am during my nightly routine of falling asleep to Inuyasha. Rewatching the Monkey Sprite episode is interesting for many reasons. For one, there was an unhealthy amount of filler added into the anime adaptation of this story-line, which gave hit-or-miss comedy. But the most important thing is that Miroku and Sango are mostly unaccounted for in this story-line, which gives shippers like me an opportunity to write some “off-screen development” for them. And though the anime does give us an idea, I’m afraid that Miroku’s indifference and frustrated edge in the scene feels a bit off, so I decided to add a bit of a bit of context. Consider this a bit of a fusion between the anime in manga, though the scene is based off of the anime. Also I was very liberal with my use of English/Japanese dub terminology. I watched the anime in English, but switched over to the manga to replace the Final Act, so it’s a bit inconsistent.

I’ve been observing this fandom from afar ever since I started getting into Inuyasha back in December, and though I wanted to try and engage with it, it seemed very daunting given this fandom’s age and organization. But I’m very grateful that I was given the chance to participate in this event, and lucky that inspiration struck me at the right time. I’ve really been looking forward to seeing the works that come out of this event, and I hope you enjoy my contribution.

And thanks for the mods for allowing me to share my work with you fellow fans

InuYasha and it’s properties are owned by creator Rumiko Takahashi and Sunrise

Read on AO3

Sango tailed the monk as he led their investigation. The villagers they had asked so far had no knowledge of the wicked demon, only of the pestering monkeys that were ravaging their fields. Her companion simply nodded, thanking them for their time and promising that the Inugami would save their village. They soon found themselves at the outskirts of the village on an empty patch of land outside the forest, save for one tall tree. Sango found his behavior during their search to be strange, especially as he now paused at the tree, leaving his Shakujo leaning against its trunk.

Was he just as stumped as she was? Would this reprieve be a chance for them to rethink their approach?

“Why have we stopped here, Miroku?” She questioned. “Aren’t we supposed to search for Naraku’s whereabouts?”

Her befuddlement heightened as he laid his body to rest in the grass underneath the shade of the tree with a sigh, both hands pillowing his head. His intentions then became clear at the sight of his eyelids slipping shut.

“How might we do that when we have neither Inuyasha’s nose or Kagome’s detection?” His tone reflected his relaxed poise. “I merely said that so that Inuyasha would be more inclined to help those villagers.”

Her head tilted downward towards the monk’s resting face. “I understand wanting to help, but do you honestly think that Inuyasha dealing with those monkeys will get us any closer to finding him?

“Not particularly.” He punctuated the off-handed remark with a yawn, overstating his disinterest. “But enough of that... Why don’t you join me here?”

She stood awestruck at his bold request. He lays there while their friends were helping this poor village and now he asks her to do the same? If Inuyahsa were to find out, he’d surely have more pressing things to worry about than the food security of the village.

“I don’t think it would be wise, considering your flippant lies.”

The man remained still, no sign of concern disrupting his posture.

“If you changed back into your battle attire before our return, they’d never suspect a thing.” He ignored her statement, a peaceful smile casually appearing on his face. She instantly recognized this move. He was fully convinced he would get his way, the sleazy crook. “Besides, I’m sure sleep has been as kind to you as it has been to me as of late.”

Although it was usually hard to detect amongst his manner of speaking, the monk’s sarcasm was not missed by the slayer. She knew very well that Naraku’s sudden disappearance had their whole group on edge, including herself. And while sleep had become its own battle, the desperate investigations of their enemy have left her distracted from everything else. Sleep meant the rest needed to fight again, but it also meant time alone with one’s most intimate thoughts. What always plagued her mind nowadays were things she’d rather not willingly engage. Finding Naraku should be her biggest concern now, but she indulged her companion despite what she would consider was her better judgement.

The monk had a particular talent for steering her away from rationality.

“Knowing your pervy ways, I’m sure you’d try and sneak a peek at me”

The monk could’ve never noticed the sneer on her face behind his still-closed eyes. The same smile was plastered on his face as well, despite her accusation. He really did enjoy giving her grief, didn’t he...

“Trust me, my dear. I have no intention of moving from this spot for a while. Or at least until Inuyasha comes for my head.”

“Then I guess you wouldn’t mind if I left Kilala here to guard this spot until I returned.”

He chuckled at that. “I don’t mind at all. I’m sure she’d love to watch me lie here, right Kilala?”

Sango looked to the nekomata, who merely chuffed in response. She was wary of Kilala’s strange trust in the monk at times, but she was sure that the demon would keep an eye on him in case he tried something funny.

Miroku took this as the perfect time to reveal his indigo eyes to her.

“Please, my intentions are more honorable than what they seem, believe me.”

There it was, that gentle voice of his used to convince her of his authenticity. The same breathy tones that sent her heart racing and her stomach in somersaults. She knew Miroku was confident in his charms, but she also liked to think that he was fully aware of this game they played. She only came to grips with it recently, but there was something going on.

They’d fight, they’d talk it through, and just when she thought he would try to make a move, that damn hand of his would find the wrong place to caress. Or it would be when she found herself grieving once more, and he could comfort her with his words alone. How did he always know what to say that made everything clear and could heal every fiber of her being, but also had a hand that never failed to do the exact opposite? He was a truly frustrating man, but he was the only one she ever considered more than just that.

But did he really know? That was a puzzle Sango couldn’t solve. It wasn’t as if anything meaningful resulted from these escapades. Afterwards, they would act as if nothing happened, and he would return to his typical flirtatious ways with any woman that entered his line of sight. So Sango liked to think that Miroku fully knew that he was toying with her feelings. That way it made it easier to lower her expectations and resent them despite Kagome’s not-so-subtle prodding.

When she became abruptly aware that her eyes had been locked on him for too long, she made her hasty retreat, hoping he didn’t catch her bright red flush in the shade of the tree.

“This man will be the death of me,” she softly cursed herself as soon as she knew she left his earshot.

_______________________________________________________________

Upon her return to their little “spot,” she was greeted by an alert Miroku. His body was now fully upright and turned towards her approaching form.

“You’ve accepted my invitation, I see”

“I thought you were trying to sleep”

“I still am, but I’d figured it would help if I got a quick glimpse of your beauty before-hand.”

She rolled her eyes at his shameless attempt. “You really are troublesome, you know that?”

“You wound me, dear Sango!” He unceremoniously flopped back into his previous position, his left hand patting the spot next to him. “You are free to lie beside me if you wish.”

Without the need for consideration, she silently opted to sit against Kilala’s curled form, stretching her legs in front of her. He managed to convince her to relax alongside him, but she had no intention of allowing herself to get too comfortable around him in the likely case the monk’s wandering hands wandered once more. He sighed audibly at her decision, but allowed his eyes to close again without any further word. He could act like a child all he wanted, but she would not budge.

She watched the man for a while, observing his state of rest. She could tell as much that he hadn’t fallen asleep just yet by all of his idle noises and the way he kept trying to steal a glance in her direction.

“Can’t sleep?”

She hadn’t even tried to close her eyes just yet, as she was still trying to grasp their current situation. Why was he so insistent on sleeping if he was just going to try and stare at her the entire afternoon? Why did he lie to Inuyasha in the first place if this was how they would spend their time? With all these questions moving around in her head, she might as well ask for the most basic of them.

“Miroku? Why do you lie and steal as casually as you do? I always thought that monks were pure-hearted.”

“What a wonderful question!” He exclaimed. With such enthusiasm, she was almost afraid of the answer she would soon receive from him. “I’ve been traveling on my own for so long, and it’s quite difficult to acquire wealth in such unfortunate times. I wish to give aid to those in need, but I also believe that it never hurts to help yourself as well.” He settled for an even tone and let his eyes slip open once more.

“And you are right, It is true that holy-people such as myself are meant to be free of sin. But, I was born tainted by the hole that resides in my hand.” His voice tapered off at his pause, the newfound silence growing thick with each passing moment. His sound returned to him, soft and low, as if it were only meant for his ears alone.

“It doesn’t matter how much I devote myself to my faith to any idol or deity. My curse is hell-bent on deciding my fate....”

But we are trying to stop Naraku! To free you from the Kazaana. You can always change your path after that! She immediately contested, perhaps a little too loudly, but she didn’t care. How dare he speak so little of himself and avoid her gaze as he did it?! She refused to accept his belittling statements.

“It is very hard for me to see a future for myself at this time, I’m afraid…” He brought his head up to look at her. A flash of fear ran through his eyes before he looked down once more. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t speak like that.”

He’s afraid…

And he had every right to be.

“Please don’t apologize.”

He never showed it in front of their group, but behind that calm and smooth exterior remained a man trembling under the weight of his own mortality. He was a man after all, and men were never to show what made them most vulnerable. But with how much he gives to help others, it feels unfair for him to just allow himself to suffer inside as he did.

If they understood each other as well as he liked to claim, then she knew he hated the restless feeling they had knowing nothing of where their wicked nemesis resided, surely plotting something to exploit the fears he caused within their hearts. Knowing that her poor brother remained in that demon’s grasp sickened her to her core, and sitting around with no leads made it hard to lay dormant as they did now.

“I get it. I am just as frustrated as you… About Kohaku-”

“-You don’t need to go any further” He interrupted her thoughts, I didn’t mean to remind you of your pain like that.”

“Miroku-”

“-Please,” he sharply cut in once more, hoarseness settling into his throat. He must’ve noticed it as well, as he cleared his throat soon after. “let’s just try to find rest while we still can.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, clearly trying to force unconsciousness upon himself. Sango relented, trying to relax her body, idly stroking Kilala as she watched the man slowly succumb to rest. It was surreal to see him struggle like this when it seemed like meditation was second nature to him. She decided on trying for sleep once his breathing evened out and all the remaining tension left his face.

________________________________________________________________

Miroku wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep, but he could tell from the shadows before him had grown considerably when his eyes peered open. He turned his head to see Sango now curled up against Kilala, her face all but buried in her demon companion’s fur. He slowly rose to his feet, slightly stretching as he made an intake of his surroundings. It looked as if the sun would soon begin it’s retreat from the sky. The monk knew the rest was necessary, but he definitely didn’t look forward to another predictively sleepless night.

One more glance at Sango’s sleeping form was enough to convince him to approach her, neglecting his Shakujo to silence his movements. He knew, probably better than anybody, of the threat imposed by the slayer’s attuned senses. He also knew the danger of being caught if she awoke to his gawking. Unfortunately it was a risk he was willing for one small fleeting moment to stare at her.

What an idiot he had been for making her sympathize with his life. Even worse that it reminded her of her own grief. He was happy to indulge her curiosity, but when he looked up at her, he turned cowardly at what he saw. It wasn’t fear, or sadness over his grim fate. It was the very same fire that lit behind her eyes in battle.

She was prepared to fight for him, it seemed…

He dare not think that she would go any farther for that. He was not worth her death. In fact, nothing was worth her death. The honor of her clan was at stake, and her life was essential in carrying on their legacy. One measly itinerant monk with a fated death should be worthless in her eyes, even if he wanted nothing more than to keep her alive.

Even if he wanted more than anything to see a future with her.

He turned away from her, returning to his spot in a now seated position. The monk had half a mind to wake the woman, but decided against it. Every waking moment for her was its own battle, after all. She needed all the rest she could get. And he’d gladly wait for her until that battle resumed, and fight with her at every step.

And if dying for her now meant he could spend the next life by her side, then he would welcome death with open arms.

“I hope this woman is the death of me,” he softly wished before all else melted away to his own meditation.

______________________________________________________________

Yeah I realized I took some liberties here with how Miroku and Sango’s relationship was at this point. This episode takes place after the Temptress of the Mist and Demon-Head castle, but far behind Mt. Hakurei, so what was going on with them hadn’t really become a “pattern” just yet. And Miroku had just comforted her in her grieving state for the first time right before that. Sango wasn’t deep enough to say he was her reason for living, so that’s why I kept her on the fence and didn’t have her feel too disappointed, because that’s what came after Mt Hakurei.

I’m a sucker for long winded perspective changes, especially here with all the parallels I draw between them. Some of my best lines were written here, especially the ending line. My GOD. I swear, I wrote that and everything made sense. I said “yes” over and over again, it was so good.

Also can you tell whose voice I’m talking about when describing Miroku’s? The answer is Koji Tsujitani. I always knew about Tsujitani’s delivery that makes Miroku sound truly “fake” but I noticed rather recently how he would add so much breath, especially in serious scenes. On the other hand, Kirby Morrow played the character down and deep in his throat, which isn’t bad when talking about his overall performance, but I decided to favor Tsujitani’s performance in this instance.

(I’m a classically trained singer and a music education major, so I’m a nut for analyzing voice acting. I have respect for both of these men may they rest in peace.)

Thanks again for the opportunity, and I hope to write more for this series.

-Saikage

#inuyasha #mirsan #mirsan day #dayofmirsan2021 #Miroku #Sango

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voidstilesplease · 4 years ago

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command me to be well

(a Beacon Hills Academy for the Supernaturals ficlet)

~•~

Supernatural creatures are known and accepted in society, and they have their branch and section in everything - the government, religion, court justice, health, food production, etc. They coexist with humans. There are still supremacist groups on both ends of the spectrum, but as a whole, supernaturals and humans share the world in equal.

In Beacon Hills Academy for the Supernaturals, mages (magic wielders) and shapeshifters (werewolves, werefoxes, were-coyotes, etc.) study and learn about themselves, strengths, and weaknesses, and adaptation in the human world.

Stiles takes both mage and shapeshifter classes. His mother had been a fire werefox, and his grandmother a mage. The magic ability stays dormant in between generations, so Stiles received the spark that skipped his mother. Stiles's dad is the Sheriff of Beacon Hills, Homo Sapiens division. (It's not what it's called, but Stiles uses the term to annoy his father.)

Every werefox can shift to their animal forms since birth. Their blood has no infectious components like werewolves, to turn an existing creature into one. So their kind only reproduces through procreation, but the power comes only between the ages of eighteen to twenty and never predictable. There are thirteen classifications of werefoxes: Heaven, Wind, Spirit, Fire, Earth, River, Ocean, Mountain, Forest, Thunder, Time, Sound, and Dark. And they all have to study every single one element through simulations and a weird practice called internalization. It's like the Buddhists' enlightenment when they have to "seek within themselves the core of their being" or whatever crap like that.

His mage classes are much worse. As a werefox, his reading skills are for shit, even with his human blood. His kind takes time to make sense of written symbols -it's called dyslexia in the human tongue- and so it proves to be a problem in his magic lessons.

"Stiles!" Kira, also a werefox and his non-biological sister, appears at his side after class. "Come over this afternoon and have dinner at home. Dad is making sushi."

The mention of sushi makes his mouth water, but he curls his lips downward. "I can't. I'm on my way to solitary study."

She winces sympathetically, "Yikes."

The solitary study is another word for detention in the Supernatural school. The students are put into confinement to reflect and read. It could be for an hour up to five -their offense and the amount of hate the teacher has for them decides the length of the stay. It doesn't sound bad when you hear of it the first time, but the stillness of being alone in a white room, being forced to think, drives everyone crazy. Stiles is probably the one person in the school who has seen those walls the most.

"What happened?" She asks, hoisting her backpack, forehead creasing intently.

Stiles shrugs, "In my mage class, we were practicing an incantation. I mispronounced a word because the symbols were flying all over the page," they stop walking when they reach the hallway that will separate them; Kira to the exit, and Stiles to his punishment. "All the light bulbs in the room broke simultaneously, and the shards went everywhere, mostly lodged in my classmates' and teacher's faces."

"Ouch,"

Stiles hums, curling his lips. "My incantation teacher hates me, just as much as I hate him. Every mistake I make is an excuse for him to send me to solitary. He also thinks I'm doing it on purpose. He gave me five hours today, and I'm expecting another tomorrow for the potion I fucked up earlier in another of his class."

"But that's unfair," Kira says, indignant for Stiles. "We're dyslexic. Every teacher should consider the limitations of each of us."

Stiles purses his lips but doesn't say anything. He doesn't mention to Kira that when the symbols rearrange in his mind, it's not always a gibberish mess. Sometimes, they're also perfectly readable -and quite harmful, depending on the caster's intention. He doesn't mention that more than half the time, he purposely utters curses and adds the wrong ingredients to concoctions. Stiles only does it for fun, though, to ruffle his teachers and enemies. He's a school jester; everyone knows that. He doesn't mean to cause pain to anyone -not all the time.

He's not vicious or vengeful. He swears he's not.

He's only a playful fox, curious with the less explored potentials of his power -even its violent capacity.

~•~

But it gets worse. It becomes an inclination more than a mere curiosity, especially when Stiles meets him.

In his fourth year in the Supernatural school, the management opened a program for the underaged supernaturals in the custody center. They're the young, homeless lawbreakers abandoned to the care of social workers after countless encounters with the law enforcement and their family's depletion of funds to cover the fines for damages they have caused.

The program grants them one term of attendance in the school instead of being instructed by tutors at the center, and a second one if the first term yields positive reports.

There are eight of them, and all are shapeshifters. There are three werewolves, a kanima, a wendigo, a chameleon, an electric eel (Stiles doesn't want to know how this kind came to be), and a were-coyote. All of them have criminal records, of course, but one has a count for murder - and his sister, no less. And Stiles knew him before his lock-up. They had not been friends because of Stiles's mistrust of canine shapeshifters, but he recognizes him right at first sight in years.

But while werefoxes prefer to stay away from the dogs, the latter doesn't have such urge to keep scarce, especially one among the outlaws: Theo Raeken.

He's taken one look at Stiles and decided to torment him. Witnessing Stiles do illegal magic did not help the case. Instead, it invited Theo more. Theo stalks him (as much as he can inside school grounds), stares at him, vies for his attention, pushes all the wrong but right buttons. Stiles feels repulsed by the way his blood thrums in Theo's presence. He's disgusted with himself for getting excited by his challenge. Stiles reminds himself daily that it's Theo -the one who murders their blood, and will probably have no qualms on staining their hands with someone else's. But Theo keeps provoking him, daring him to let go of caution.

One day, Stiles does.

He unleashes himself and leaves Theo bloody, beaten-up, broken, and exhilarated, and himself satisfied for the first time. Theo stops prodding him after that. He starts tempting him: We can run. None of them listens. Their truth is the only truth. And Stiles thinks he's right.

He's almost eighteen. His fox's element should be manifesting -and it looks like it is.

~•~

"What happens if I turn out to be the wrong kind?" Stiles asks Kira one night, in the middle of video game night at her house.

Kira is focused on the screen, but she echoes Stiles. "The wrong kind?"

"A dark fox,"

That pulls Kira's attention away from the screen quicker than they can run. Her eyes are wide with alarm when she presses pause and turns to Stiles. She opens her mouth but speaks nothing for a long time. It seems she's too shocked for words. Finally, she shakes her head. "You're not."

Stiles sighs, putting down his controller. "There's one out of thirteen possibilities that I am. It's little, but it's there nonetheless."

Kira scoots closer, holding Stiles's arm, her clutch tight. "Yes, but," she stammers, "there hasn't been one in a long time."

"Of course, there isn't," Stiles agrees, looking at Kira. "They're exterminated as soon as they present to snuff out any chance of gaining power and growing a second tail."

"But you're not one," Kira says forcefully, eyes suspiciously moist.

Stiles replies softly, "I enjoy causing mayhem."

She shakes her head hard, "We all like trouble, Stiles. That's sort of what we are,"

Stiles can't look at her eyes when he admits his truth, so he turns away. "I inflict pain," Kira freezes in her touch. "and like it. The sight of blood makes me sick but with pleasure. I-" he pauses, wipes the sweat that gathered in his nose. He swallows. "I want to get into someone's head and twist their mind. I have done it, and I want to do it again."

Kira draws uneven breaths beside him. Her scent has turned sweet with fear -and though it makes his stomach twist, Stiles inhales it, savors it.

Kira's voice quivers, "If you learn to suppress it-"

"If it can be suppressed and controlled, there would've been no vulpine law authorizing the killing of a nogitsune."

Kira bows her head in defeat, sniffing.

"My magic," his whispering voice is loud in her room, reverberating in its four walls. He's been coming here since he was a child. Who knows when and if he can have the chance again. "It knows what I might be. It flows in my veins with my blood, rushing when I'm doing what I shouldn't be."

They're silent for a long moment; Stiles refuses to meet Kira's eyes, and Kira strives to calm her racing heart. She doesn't recoil from her touch, even when she was afraid. Now that the fear has subsided, she moves to kneel in front of him and takes his face between her small hands, prompting him to face her. When he raises his head, Kira's eyes are glowing, fiery around the black. Stiles flashes his in response.

"If you are," Kira says, tone final and sure. "I'm with you. You're my brother, and I love you."

Stiles knows she will stand by her words, but he doesn't wish her to. Kira has a whole life ahead of her that she can't spend hiding a nogitsune or running with one.

Because Stiles will run, damn if he won't. He's not going down, and he won't let them catch him.

He leans his head against her hand, kissing the soft palm of it. He rubs his nose on the residual unease still clinging underneath her skin. "I love you, too."

And then he will come back invincible.

~•~

#steo #steo au #steo fic #steo ficlet #stira #stira brotp #teen wolf #teen wolf au #teen wolf fic #stiles stilinski #theo raeken #kira yukimura #BH Academy for the Supernaturals #supernatiurals are known au #stiles x theo #stiles and kira are bffs #void stiles #fics tag

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bytheangell · 4 years ago

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I Don't Want to Keep Secrets Just to Keep You

(Written for the @sh-rare-pair-exchange! Check out the tumblr or AO3 collection for other amazing rare pair fics!) (CW: angst with an open/ambiguous ending) (Read on AO3)

There’s a part of Alastair that doesn’t want to do this. A part of him that thinks maybe he overreacted before to Charles’ desire to keep them a secret, a part that wonders if maybe it wasn’t so unreasonable to want to cover up in public what they did when they met in private. Perhaps Charles had the right idea all along...

...and then the moment his mind begins to think along those lines, Alastair gets a tight, sick feeling in his stomach and he knows that it’s wrong… or at least wrong for him. He can’t go through that again, and he’s tired of hiding. Being forced to keep his emotions behind locked doors and constantly be on guard of every instinctive glance or desire to reach out is awful. He’s tired of lying, by omission or otherwise, about what’s important in his life. About who is important in his life.

About who he loves.

Because there is no longer any doubt in Alastair’s mind that he loves Thomas, and he thinks that Thomas might love him back. He hopes that Thomas does, because that may be the deciding factor in the conversation they’re about to have.

They agree to meet at Thomas’ today - his family is out of town, away in Idris until later that night - so they have the place to themselves. Alastair is barely inside the front door before it slams shut behind him and Thomas pushes him against it, their lips colliding with impressive intensity.

Instinctively, Alastair kisses Thomas back, losing himself for a second or two. Maybe they could do this first, then talk… but he knows if he allows that to happen then he’ll never go through with it. A small part of him wants to do it anyway, just in case it’s the last time, but as soon as the thought crosses his mind he knows it doesn’t feel right, that his heart wouldn’t be in it while his thoughts are so otherwise distracted.

“Wait,” Alastair says, shifting his head to the side as he has nowhere to pull back to, his body still pressed against the door. “There’s something we need to talk about.” He’s trying to sound casual but there’s a nervous edge to his words that he can’t fully conceal, and Thomas picks up on it.

Thomas freezes around him, arms pressing against the door on either side of Alastair where he immediately boxed him in. “Why does it sound like you’re about to break up with me?” Thomas asks, and though he forces a short laugh his tone is quiet and fearful. He takes a step back to give Alastair room to move away from the door.

“Can we break up if we aren’t formally dating?” Alastair questions, immediately knowing it’s the wrong thing to say, the words coming out far more bitter than intended. “I can’t court you, or take you to dinner or for walks in the park. I can’t even smile at you the wrong way in front of your friends,” Alastair points out as he continues. He’s voiced individual concerns here and there in the past, but now it all comes tumbling out at once in his frustration.

“Alastair…” Thomas says, the name soft and pleading.

“I know you don’t want people to know. I know you’re not ready, and I would never make you do that against your will. I just… I’m not certain I can keep doing this until you are.” It feels like a weight lifted off his chest to admit. He never gave himself and Charles this chance, this opportunity to have a proper discussion about it before the whole thing blew up into a fight. Alastair doesn’t want to repeat that history, not with Thomas, not when he means so much to him.

Thomas moves to lean back against the wall, still silent. The quiet hangs heavy between them, uncertainty souring the air, and Alastair speaks again to fill the silence before it suffocates them.

“I’ve done this before. I’ve been a secret before, I can’t do it again. But before there was never any hope of being anything else. He was never going to tell anyone. We were never going to be properly happy, not the way…” Alastair moves to stand in front of Thomas now, to make sure he’s really listening. “Not the way you and I can be. If you want to wait, I can wait. But only if there’s going to be a time when we won’t be a secret. I won’t hide forever, neither of us deserve that.”

Charles was never going to allow them to be together properly. Charles would have his wife, whoever that ended up being, and he would have his secrets. Alastair refused to be that secret for him, or anyone else. He could wait, he would wait, if Thomas needs time. But he can’t stick around if there’s no hope of that future.

“I can’t keep the entire part of myself that loves you a secret. It’s too much of me now. And I do love you, Thomas” Alastair adds because it feels important to say it now. No matter what happens, Thomas deserves to know how deep his feelings run.

Now that he’s said it Alastair wants to say it again, and again, and again. He wants to gasp the words against Thomas’ skin and muffle them into pillows at night and whisper them sweetly in the morning.

Before this moment Alastair had steeled himself to be alright with however this conversation played out, but now he’s struck with the sudden fear that he may never get the chance to say those three words to Thomas again.

“Oh,” Thomas says finally, the word spoken in a breath of surprise.

“I…” Thomas starts again, before immediately trailing off.

Alastair fights the surge of panic born from Thomas’ hesitation. I love you, Thomas. I love you. Please, love me too, Alastair thinks, as if maybe he can think the words loud and desperate enough for Thomas to hear them.

“I’m sorry, Alastair,” Thomas finally finishes the previously aborted sentence. “I can’t.”

The entire world feels as if it’s crashing down around Alastair.

“You can’t say it back? Because that’s fine. That isn’t why I said it,” Alastair attempts to salvage the situation, but Thomas shakes his head to stop him.

“No… I mean, I can’t say it back, but I also can’t... '' Thomas motions vaguely between them as he struggles to find the right words. Alastair can tell he’s flustered. “I don’t know when, or if, I’ll be ready. I can’t make that promise, and it isn’t fair to you, to string you along until I’m maybe ready someday. You deserve someone who can be there for you all the time, not just when no one else is around, and I can’t… I can’t be that person.”

“I see,” Alastair says, wishing he were even half as numb as he’s pretending to be. He reminds himself that this was always a possibility, as much as he hoped otherwise. Alastair waits for Thomas to change his mind, to take it back, to realize that they’re worth the risk of promising that one day soon they can tell the world about them.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, looking everywhere but Alastair’s eyes, refusing to meet his gaze.

“So that’s it? Just like that?” Alastair isn’t sure who he’s more upset with, Thomas or himself. He expected there to be more of a discussion, or at least more of an argument, over what they’d do next. He expected at least enough uncertainty to try and convince Thomas that they could still work out, not for Thomas to be so immediate and sure in his inclination to want to end things.

Perhaps he expected too much from both of them.

“It’s probably for the best. I think we both always knew it’d end sooner or later…” Thomas says, voice unsteady.

Alastair wants to scream at him that no, they didn’t both know that. That he doesn’t think Thomas truly believes it, either. He almost does, but he doesn’t think he can survive hearing Thomas repeat the words to try and convince him.

“I suppose I should leave then,” Alastair says instead, pausing only to step forward and give Thomas a chaste kiss goodbye before leaving without another word.

He thought they were in this together, that their relationship meant more… that he meant more than something Thomas could simply throw away without even fighting for.

The moment the door closes behind him Alastair feels the tears prickle in his eyes. He makes no attempt to stop them from falling the entire way home.

---

The moment Alastair leaves, Thomas slumps back against the door and slides to the floor.

What did he just do?

Thomas told Alastair he deserves someone who’s sure, but the problem isn’t that Thomas isn’t sure of Alastair, or even of them as a couple… it’s only himself he’s unsure of. His own doubts and hesitations and hold-ups.

He should’ve said he needed time, but he panicked in the moment. He knows he can’t make that sort of promise, not when his mind immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusions of how taking their relationship public may go over. And Alastair is right - it isn’t fair of Thomas to force that secrecy on him for who knows how long. Weeks? Months? What if it took Thomas years to come to terms with… well, everything their relationship entails?

It isn’t just him affected by this decision, it’s Matthew and James, it’s his own family who were hurt by Alastair’s petty rumors in school. Just because Thomas heard Alastair out and forgave him doesn’t mean anyone else would, and then where would they be? That isn’t even taking into consideration his family’s reputation, the Lightwood name already under such public scrutiny…

There are too many variables, too many things that can go wrong, and Thomas isn’t sure he’s strong enough to face them. He isn’t sure he’ll ever be, no matter how much he loves--

Loves.

Fuck.

For the briefest moment, he considers going after Alastair to talk things out properly instead of just shutting them down. He hesitates with his hand on the handle of the door, because what would he be doing, really? Bringing the man he loves back to a life of secrecy and stolen kisses in the shadows? If he loves him, he should let him go, to find someone who can love him better, the way he deserves.

Thomas cancels his plans that night, and the night after, and every day for the following week, saying he's feeling under the weather. He is, in a way - every time he thinks about what happened between him and Alastair he feels ill, a sick churning in his stomach he can’t ignore. He uses his ‘illness’ as an excuse for being quieter than usual for another week, and then two, until his friends finally decide to call out his lie.

Matthew, James, and Christopher wait until Thomas has a few drinks in him to pry into the real reason he’s upset, and it’s obvious they’ve discussed this amongst themselves because there are theories ranging from Thomas secretly hating them now and planning to run away to Paris, to Thomas having an affair with a half-mermaid.

“You’re all ridiculous,” he says, with a small smile and a fond shake of his head. It’s more than he’s managed in weeks. He weighs his options and decides that he needs to tell them something, thinking that perhaps he can manage enough of the truth while being vague on the details, just enough for them to believe him and drop the matter. He knows that if he lies now it’ll only spiral into a series of curious questions he can’t control and wouldn’t have answers for, so a vague truth seems safest.

“I was seeing someone,” Thomas admits slowly. “But I made a mess of things, and I don’t think I can fix it now.”

The others descend upon him immediately. “You’ve been dating? Behind our backs?! What kind of best friends are we that we didn’t know?” James declares.

“What kind of best friend is Thomas that he didn’t entrust us with such vital information?!” Matthew shoots back.

“You… wouldn’t have approved. I dare say you’d be glad to know it’s over,” he admits, and that only serves to break his heart further. He can’t even go to them for support because they’re part of the reason he did what he did, and-

-no, that isn’t fair. It isn’t their fault he put their comforts over his own. It isn’t their fault he wasn’t brave enough to talk to them about Alastair, and the fact that he still isn’t able to only further justifies that Alastair is better off not waiting around in case he never is.

“We would not,” Christopher says from the corner. He didn’t crowd Thomas like the others but as always, he’s listening even when he doesn’t appear to be. “We would never wish for something that upsets you.”

Thomas feels his pulse quicken as he considers - seriously considers - telling them. Maybe it wouldn’t be too late to tell them now then go to Alastair and beg forgiveness. But what if they react poorly? What if they cast him aside, and Alastair doesn’t take him back, and he’s left with no one?

It’s the fear that stopped him every time before, and it serves to stop him again. His whole life he sought out little moments of quiet and isolation from an overbearing and doting family, but when it comes to the friends who are a permanent fixture in his life now he isn’t sure what he’d do without them by his side, and he isn’t keen on finding out.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Nothing a night of drinking won’t solve. Come on, Matthew, let’s get another round,” Thomas says, hoping the distraction (and the promise of more alcohol) will be enough to shift the focus away from himself. He should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.

“Come now,” Matthew says instead. “Don’t be embarrassed. Whoever she is, she can’t be any worse than the sort I’ve already brought ‘round the group.”

Thomas hesitates. The temptation to let the assumption pass by without correction is strong and he nearly gives into it. Nearly.

“He,” Thomas corrects softly.

Matthew’s expression softens from the casually teasing grin it had before. “Okay...” he says, processing that information for a moment. “That doesn’t matter to us. Right?” Matthew looks encouragingly at James and Christopher for support.

“Of course not,” Christopher agrees immediately.

“Matthew might be a little offended that you have a crush on someone other than him,” James says, in an attempt to lighten the mood. “But other than that…”

“See. You don’t think we’d judge you for that, do you?” Matthew looks relieved that they’re all in agreement, and Thomas wishes he felt that same immediate relief.

“No,” Thomas admits. “I mean... Maybe that was part of it. But that wasn’t the main reason,” Thomas clarifies. He knows he’s said too much now, that he won’t be able to drop it here without explaining further, and the panic rises again. He knows that Alastair wanted them to go public when they were together, but what right does Thomas have to tell everyone about them now that they’re over? “I really don’t want to talk about it. It’s over. Just… let it be over.”

Thomas anticipates the look that passes between Will and Matthew even if he doesn’t look up to see it - the unspoken communication they’ve perfected over the years, Matthew’s silent desire to find out more but trusting Will to be the better judge of whether he really should or not.

Will seems to read the way Matthew’s entire body is tense and defensive, and Thomas catches him giving a single quick shake of his head to Matthew.

“Alright. We won’t bring it up again. But we’re here if you want to talk about it; if you change your mind and decide it’d help,” James adds.

Thomas nods, grateful. He knows that this is his chance to do that, one last moment before the topic drops to come clean… and then the conversation shifts, and the moment is gone.

---

Nearly a week later, on what would be the one month mark after ending things with Alastair, Thomas has to admit he isn’t doing great. He’s barely doing fine. He hasn’t been sleeping well or eating properly, and he’s on his second stamina rune just to get through his patrol that night. Mr. Herondale almost didn’t let him go, but Thomas insisted he was okay. He needs this to feel useful, to return to something close to normal. He needs the comfort of a routine again.

And maybe he would’ve been fine if it wasn’t for the demon he happens to cross paths with. He spots the ichor first, tracking it to an alley, expecting to be able to take care of an already injured demon just fine. Except the demon isn’t injured, the blood was left as a trap - and the demon also isn’t alone. Thomas holds his own surprisingly well in his current condition, but that only lasts a few minutes before he takes his first hit, which leads to a second and third in rapid succession. Thomas stumbles as he tries to stand from where he fell, realizing he can’t feel his right leg where deep gashes leave his blood spilling onto the cobblestone below. He can’t see his side or left thigh at the moment but feels them in a similar state.

He can’t get up. Thomas struggles, but between the three injuries that leave him bleeding out on top of his already fatigued state, he can barely manage to prop himself up on his elbows, let alone stand. He watches the demon dive down at his chest with the knowledge that this is it, this is how he dies.

The demon sinks its teeth, sharp and ravenous, into Thomas’ chest… and then something pierces the demon’s head. No, not just something - a spear.

Thomas would know that spear anywhere, even as his vision begins to darken at the edges, blurring as the demon falls off of him. And then the demon’s face is replaced by Alastair’s, and Thomas feels the runes Alastair tries to draw on him, an iratze, an amisso… but Thomas can feel himself fading. He’s too injured, he’s losing too much blood too quickly.

“Hold on, Thomas,” Alastair mutters above him, but Thomas barely hears the words that sound so distant and muffled despite how close they are, despite the fact that Alastair is right there, his arms and the front of his shirt now covered in Thomas’ blood. He doesn’t have the presence of mind to wonder why he’s there, only to be thankful he gets to see him again.

“Alastair,” Thomas whispers. He barely manages the one word and isn’t sure how he’s going to manage the rest, but Alastair deserves to know. He needs to say it. Hell, he should’ve said it a month ago, and regretted his decision not to every single day since then. Each labored breath is an acute reminder that he’s out of days to waste on regret. “I-”

“Save your breath,” Alastair says, shushing him, but Thomas doesn’t listen.

“-lo-” Thomas continues, forcing the words out one at a time through gasps of air and shuddering coughs. Because this is important. And their breakup may have been his fault, but he needs Alastair to know what he meant to him - what he still means to him - if this is his last chance to say it.

“No,” Alastair says, shaking his head. Thomas can’t tell if there are tears in Alastair’s eyes or if that’s just his own vision blurring. “You don’t get to say that now. Stay with me, and you can tell me later. When you’re better.”

“-love you… too…” It takes the last of what little energy Thomas has left to force the words out. The moment he does darkness overtakes him, and he doesn’t feel the pain any longer, only peace.

#thomastair #thomas lightwood #alastair carstairs #tsc #tlh #the prompt was for angst and only angst so for once the sadness isn't my fault ;)#...okay at least not ENTIRELY my fault #this is entirely angst #the open ending is the only reprieve #GOOD LUCK SOLIDERS #elle writes a few deadbeat lines

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bigskydreaming · 4 years ago

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I’m still laughing my ass off over that one post that was going around a week ago with the fanon depictions of the Batboys vs more canon-accurate depictions, and the various ‘defenses’ people leaped to for why fanon is so much better, and its just like....yawn.

See, its not like fanon can’t be better, and isn’t better with some characters, its not that it can’t ADD nuance.

None of that’s the problem.

The problem is when people ONLY use it to DETRACT nuance and then are like ‘wow, whats the problem, whats the issue.’

Let’s take for instance the infamous matter of Dick’s alleged asshole behavior to Jason back when the latter was Robin, because of Dick’s issues with Bruce at the time.

Here’s the thing - even though that’s not what happened, it IS a fairly plausible examination of what could have happened, so its not like there’s no reasoning or justification whatsoever in exploring it. Its that....its not ever explored. Its just used to one-side a situation and render Dick unsympathetic while Jason’s propped up as having been victimized by him and Bruce is largely kept off-stage entirely.

But because quite frankly we just didn’t see much of their interactions back then, period, theoretically, adding more conflict in this vein still COULD have fleshed out that time period and added nuance every bit as much as my preferred additions of more positive interactions between them.

But people don’t add in these conflicts simply to add nuance, they add them in just to add BLAME.

The fanon isn’t the problem there. What you do with the fanon and why is the problem.

Its like my issues with the Jason-Kori-Roy friendship. It’d be one thing if Roy and Kori’s presence in Jason’s life was used to PUSH BACK against Jason’s belief that Dick hated him or didn’t mourn him or even just to provide more understanding or context about Dick’s position or side of things at the time to Jason when he gripes about him, so he’s a little more inclined to be understanding of what that was like for his brother thanks to the viewpoints of people whose POV he values and who in turn have always valued Dick’s POV and position in things.

But instead everything about the years of sympathy and understanding and insight Roy and Kori have always had for and in regards to Dick are flushed down the drain in order to have them join in with Jason when it comes to bashing and griping about that asshole Dick Grayson. Once again....perfect opportunity to add more nuance and complexity to a situation and a character dynamic, with it almost universally being pounced on to provide the reverse...to TAKE AWAY even MORE nuance and complexity from a situation by erasing anything and everything Roy and Kori might actually feel about what’s being said or believed of this other person they have a history of valuing a great deal.

Or like I was just saying earlier today about how its almost completely forgotten or erased that Dick was shot in the head upon Bruce’s return from the timestream, and was in an eminently sympathetic/hurt position for Bruce and Tim and others to come together around and put aside their own invididual resentments at least for the time being, in order to support Dick throughout an extremely dangerous and debilitating wound and recovery period. The issue with erasing, ignoring or invalidating Dick’s many traumas isn’t that ‘oh we just don’t like all the characters angsting 24/7, sometimes its too much, we like fanon happy-go-lucky Dick because he’s different,’ its like.....lol no, because if you’re still capable of and looking to rip into that depiction of Dick for....get this....not being able to get/grasp/empathize with the kinds of and degrees of trauma you still uphold for all the others, you’re really just looking to make him look unsympathetic in comparison, and shift focus away from their LACK of support and understanding for him when he really justifiably needs it in order to keep that focus instead on their contempt or bitterness for him no matter what else SHOULD have been taking place for him at the same time.

For example....going back to the Dick and Jason’s early years scenario.....I talk all the time about the Brother Blood situation, but guess what else that situation has? A time frame that’s pretty directly applicable to this Dick and Jason enmity scenario so many of you posit, given that the first two times the Church of Blood had Dick captive and were literally said to have released him back into the world secretly under their control....he was still Robin! And the third time, when he finally broke free thanks to the others (and Jason) rescuing him, it was only then that he was Nightwing. Meaning all of that is PERFECTLY positioned to be a fantastic and compelling additional underlying cause of Dick’s alleged early issuers/grievances with Jason.....the same mental turmoil that led to him lashing out against the other Titans like Donna in that infamous fight, could just as easily be said to have contributed or even been entirely behind any shitty interactions with Jason you want to posit happening back in the day.

And look at how tragically dysfunctional that makes all of that instead then....Jason resents Dick for something that ultimately, isn’t actually his fault since he was never lashing out while in sound mind but as an unknowing reaction to a mental battle against conditioning he didn’t even know was there at the time.....and this being a surprise revelation to Jason years later making him mentally reframe all their history, because Dick never said anything about this earlier because due to his guilt complex he felt it would have just been him making excuses or trying to let himself off the hook instead of a valid and understandable added layer of context.

That’s SO much more compelling and interesting than just a one-sided ‘one brother is an ass to the other for no real reason whatsoever, at leat not one we’re willing to acknowledge as being anymore relevant than a random footnote’.....but the problem isn’t that people go off fanon vs canon, the problem is REGARDLESS of whether people are using fanon or canon, people just don’t WANT Dick’s position in any of these times to be sympathetic or understandable, they want him JUDGED for it, condemned. They’re not TRYING to craft interesting, compelling dynamics or situations, they’re trying to make him the bad guy, always the bad guy, and the other person just unilaterally his unfortunate victim.

Just like with Tim and Red Robin, for all that even when people are like ‘nobody was really at fault/its not like Dick had another option with Damian, etc’ in PRACTICE there’s literally no distinguishing between this take and ones where Dick is just wholly irredeemable for his unforgivable choice, because despite even lip service paid to the idea that Dick had his reasons for what he did, there’s no actual PAY-OUT ever given to the idea that he’s anything less than terrible a brother to Tim for it...like, fanon is never the issue here, its just straight up canon....being willfully picked apart and reframed to make the issue entirely one-sided.

People pile on all the additional reasons Dick’s terrible for not taking into account Tim’s headspace at the time, like all the other people he’s lost in the last couple years comic book time, but again, at most there’s lip service about how Dick was going through a lot to, but its never added in to any degree that MATTERS or lessens the characters’ or readers’ vilification of him....while at the same time, there’s a willful disregard of and refusal to engage with all the other things and people Dick had lost in the same time frame, comic book time, like oh.....every single thing that happened in Bludhaven with Blockbuster, Tarantula and Deathstroke, given that the former was literally concurrent with Stephanie’s death and the latter right after Jack Drake’s death.

There’s never allowed any resentment from Dick towards Tim for not giving a single shit about what he was going through at the time, or for assuming he had no idea how to relate to the depth of Tim’s grief as though Dick hadn’t literally gotten a front row seat to his entire city being nuked by Chemo in that exact same time frame, with it still being touted that Dick just didn’t have any understanding or empathy for Tim’s many losses of the time. There’s never any frustration allowed from Dick about how much Tim resents him for making him give up Robin when at the same time, it was Tim and mostly Tim alone who pushed Dick to give up being Nightwing and assume the Batman mantle when even Bruce’s will had expressed to Dick that this was not what he wanted for him.

Again, never even time or focus given to Dick being shot in the head on Bruce’s return before using that to call in Bruce as reinforcements for Tim yelling ‘how could you do this to me,’ let alone any acknowledgment of the fact that Dr. Hurt, the very same villain that shot Dick in the head there, is the very same villain who had Dick locked up, straitjacketed, drugged up and on the verge of a lobotomy in Arkham for a week just BEFORE Bruce’s assumed death.....because lolol, it’d make people look pretty silly for taking Dick’s one comment about asking if Tim maybe needed to take a break and look after his mental health in Arkham to the extremes they did, if forced to acknowledge that at the time, Arkham was a TOTALLY different proposition due to how extensively Dick was invested in its rebuilding and overseeing its running thanks entirely TO that time, just before Arkham blew up and needed rebuilding from the ground up in Battle for the Cowl....because of the fact that Dick himself had just spent a week locked up and straitjacketed and drugged to the gills and on the verge of a lobotomy thanks to the oh so tender mercies of Dr. Hurt’s accomplices having the run of the place.

Because end of the day, the problem with this fandom and Dick Grayson is not fanon, and its not canon, its fandom. Its the willful DESIRE to not have any minimizing or mitigating context on display ever, so as to only keep the worst possible interpretation of Dick’s actions - either drawn from canon or fanon, whichever is most handy for a particular scenario - front and center.

So yeah, the idea that fanon adds nuance or context to Dick’s dynamics with any of his family is hilarious, not because it CAN’T, but because too many people are just entirely too unwilling and uninterested in allowing it to, just as they’re uninterested in any interpretation of actual canon that provides Dick with a smidgen of empathy or understanding for his positions or choices.

Like, that’s the POINT of most of your fanon for him. To strip AWAY nuance. So how are you going to be out here acting like you’re really contributing something to his character that canon doesn’t provide, when really, its all the same to you across the board: Dick Grayson is never justified let alone sympathetic ever?

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softowlhours · 4 years ago

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by the lakeside

bokuto koutarou(horror!AU)

it should’ve been the perfect summer getaway. you were both in need of some down time away from your busy careers. but things get a little eerie when there’s a voice in your head that isn’t yours and you find out that you’re not alone in that pristine white house on the hill.

genre: horror, angst, fluff if you squint

tw: descriptions of drowning, asphyxiation, strangulation. suggestive sexual situations.

a/n: i promise i’ll proofread this later and also write an epilogue but until then please enjoy this story it took me way longer than necessary to write. i’ve read it so many times that i don’t find it scary anymore. but i hope you do! :)

word count: 6k

my body feels like an empty shell sometimes, a carcass I am dragging around. when I look into the mirror I don’t recognise myself. i don’t recognise him, either.

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

bokuto’s hair gleams silver in the glorious morning light. wind blows through your own strands as you zip past the lush green meadows. you could see the sheep dotted on the grassy planes like puffs of pure white clouds. far away, there stood giant mountains. their high peaks looked like they were breaching the baby blue ceiling of the sky. you only notice your gorgeous surroundings with half a mind, because your eyes keep trailing back to the man besides you. you admire his profile, the sharp slope of his nose, the chiselled cheek bones and jaw line. you zero in on the plush of his lips and it is then that you notice his teasing grin.

‘admiring the view?’ he asks.

‘mhmm. a sight for my sore eyes.’ and he truly is. your gaze drops a little lower. his toned chest peeks from where the buttons of his shirt have come undone. his biceps flex and strain against the fabric as he manoeuvres the steering wheel. he looks like a movie star, straight out of the golden age of film. the red vintage convertible he drives only adds on to your day dream. you can’t help but feel like a heroine starring in your own block buster romance. heat rises to the tip of his ears and the back of his neck at your shameless appraisal. bokuto notices the way lust is barely concealed on your face. he fucking loved the way you looked at him, like he was the guiding star you were always attuned to. the one for whom you’d always search for in an endless night sky.

‘your eyes are sore from staring at your computer screen all day everyday.’ he ignores your attempts at flirting, and instead addresses what has been eating away at his mind lately. he’s been worried about you. you often called him out for pushing himself to the point of breaking when it came to volleyball. but, you never noticed how you were inclined to do the same when it came to you own work; buried under papers and ink, day after day as your work ethic kept you confined to your study room. you being a best selling author, him a pro volleyball player; you truly were the power couple worthy of everyone’s envy and admiration, but your lives could get stressful at times.

‘kou, I’m sorry ‘m dragging you away from your routine. the game season starts in two months. you should be hitting some balls right now.’ you withdraw your hand, and he instantly misses your touch. you appear a little crestfallen as you opt to idly fiddle with the lace bordering your sundress.

‘hey,’ his voice is silky, tone slightly chastising. ‘don’t apologise. this was my idea anyways. we need some time away. from everything.’

‘you know that,’ he continues, ‘i’ll never be too busy for you, right? it makes me feel lonely when you just withdraw from me... shut me out.’ his face eyebrows furrow a little. ‘for you I’ll always carve out time.’

bokuto had a way with words that always left you stupefied. they weren’t embellished and gaudy, like yours. all you ever did was spin fairy tales. Yes they were beautiful, but they were also false. unlike you, he always spoke from his heart, and you wonder if that was why his sentiments without fail reached others.

‘oi- don’t fall asleep.’

‘i’m not sleeping!’ you snap out of your reverie. ‘i’m sorry i… never realised you’d feel that way’ puffing out a sigh, you lean back lazily on the leather seat. ‘i haven’t been feeling much inspiration lately, and when i do write i just hate every word of it.’

‘maybe I should retire,’ you muse. ‘never write a word again. let people remember me as the genius author I’m not.’

‘but you are a genius writer!’ bokuto insists. ‘give it a fifty years and they’ll be teaching your work as a part of the curriculum. i’ve never read anything better!’

‘that’s because you rarely read!’

‘i am a picky reader,’ bokuto shrugs, cocking an eyebrow as he looks at you haughtily. ‘so congratulations that your writing actually piqued my interest.’

snorting, you pinch his thigh.

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

it’s almost evening by the time you drive past a small sleepy town. the few houses have their curtains drawn. there’s a small supermarket and a polyclinic but you notice how the streets are mainly empty, save for a couple of children who play seven tiles on the roadside. fifteen minutes and more grassy meadows and sheep later, you arrive at what looks like the edge of the world. surely you’re being a little dramatic calling it that, but the road winds up the gentle slope of a hill and on top of it sits a pristine white house. bokuto pulls up the car in front of massive wrought iron gates, a chain holds it shut.

‘okay, but when nori said ‘vacation home’, this is not what I had in mind. Is he actually the heir to a conglomerate or something?’ you observe, definitely appalled.

‘uh- knowing his stingy ass, i’m not sure?’ bokuto sounds and looks puzzled as well, so you know he wasn’t expecting it either. he reconfirms the address konoha had messaged him. ‘do we climb the gates? because he never gave me a key or anything. he said the place has a caretaker who’d-’

‘how can I help?’

your heart leaps to your throat, and both you and bokuto snap your heads to your left to look at a man who stands on bokuto’s side of the car. neither of you had seen him approaching and it was as if he were a magician, materialising out of thin air. old, sinewy and dressed sharply in a suit, he’s hunching to be at your eye levels. upon closer look the fabric of his clothes looked worn out and they fray at the edges. his hair is slicked back and he wears gold rimmed spectacles, its lenses the shape of half moons. his smile is serene, demeanour dignified but there’s shrewdness in his tone.

‘um- hi.’ bokuto greets recovering first. ‘i am konoha’s friend. i assume you’ve been expecting us?’

a beat passes.

‘indeed. allow me to show you around.’

bokuto parks the car under a shed close to the gates and you walk down the stretch of the garden. it is immaculately kept, and roses of all colours bloom neatly in rows. a giant sycamore tree stands close to the house, its branches brushing the roof. when you stand on the porch of the house the gate seems miles away. bokuto wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close to his side. he sneaks a soft kiss under your left ear as the caretaker opens up the door for you.

the inside of the house is splendidly furnished and it leaves you awestruck. simple but gorgeous, a modern castle of sorts. a cream colored leather sofa sits in the centre of the living room, the rug in front of it is white and fluffy. There is a box television- the kinds popular decades ago, and you wonder if it actually works or if it’s just for show. the chandelier above is a million crystals and an open kitchen makes up the far end of the living room. a stair case winds its way up. but, what truly catches your eye are the massive french doors which open up to the stretch of a green lawn. calling it a backyard would be a bit inadequate; for the trimmed grass meets the surface of a great lake, its water like molten lava reflecting the evening sky. you can see the outline of ducks waddling away, probably on their way home. the lake stretches out for almost a mile and after that you see nothing but the thicket of the woods. it is almost the end of july, so while the days are warm, the temperatures tend to dip quite a bit at night. you shiver a little and snuggle closer into bokuto’s side. the caretaker, in his monotonous voice, explains to you how your room shall be upstairs, the one to the right. there were four other rooms which were mostly empty and locked for the sake of easy maintenance. you tune him out when he moves on to the instructions regarding the heating and locking systems.

you’re entranced by the house, and standing there in its magnanimity you feel like you’ve been drawn into a picture book. you can imagine breakfasts every morning on the front porch. afternoons spent lolling on the grass besides the lake. you would keep a vase filled with freshly cut roses from the garden, in the centre of the kitchen table. spend the nights sitting in front of the fire place when winter laid its thick blanket of white snow outside. your high flying careers felt like a distant dream. your laptop back home could collect all the dust it wanted to. you could just stay here forever wrapped up in each others arms.

i’m lonely. i hate how you’re always away from home because of volleyball.

bokuto notices your distant look , the slightest way your lips are set in a grimace. it tugs on his heartstrings. makes it difficult for him to breathe.

bringing his mouth close to your ear, he whispers your name bringing you out of your head. you blink, biting back the ugly realisation that had just intruded your brain. you had never felt that way before, you had forced yourself not to. it was long ago when you had decided that you’d never make him choose between you and volleyball. or maybe that loneliness was something you’d always felt. but because you were afraid of it; you had hidden it under your skin, in between your bones.

if i could, i’d steal you away and keep you all to myself. in a cage just for me and you.

too afraid that he’ll somehow read your mind, you step away from him, disoriented by the venomous voice of your subconscious as you look around for the old man.

‘he left while you were zoning out, princess. said he’s going home.’ he pulls your back against his chest, long fingers begin snaking up a well known trail up your thighs. your cute little sundress does little to stop him. ‘he’ll be back by noon tomorrow, to tend to the garden and all that.’ bokuto speaks in between the kisses he’s placing along the side of your neck. ‘apparently, he lives in that town we drove by earlier.’

‘mhmm.’

‘want to live in a house like this someday.’ he asks you, his voice hushed. you rest your head back on his chest, as love and lust pools in your stomach and clouds your thoughts.

i’m scared someday you’ll leave me behind.

“me. you. maybe a dog. maybe… children?” he continues and your eyes widen at that.

‘you want all that?’

‘with you? yes I want everything. i’ll take everything that you can give me.’

liar.

you turn around and pull bokuto into a heated kiss. his chapped lips meld into yours and your teeth clack a little from the suddenness of your movement. by now it is completely dark outside and the living room is dimly lit by a lamp. bokuto seems unaware, too lost in you to be notice space and time. but, a weird sensation surrounds you. you feel the whisper of a cool breeze, a murmur disturbing the stillness of the house. with one hand, bokuto cups your behind. the fingers of his other rake through your hair. it’s a buzz now, like a thousand bees hovering over your heads. you feel dazed, you’re needy, you’re confused.

there’s someone else here. the two of you are not alone.

‘ow,’ you yelp in pain.

bokuto jumps away from you, but his hands are badly tangled in your hair.

‘I told you to tie your hair in the car!’ he is laughing. ‘it’s a nest in here!’

the buzzing dies down. the silence that follows is deafening. you wonder if you’re delusional with the lack of sleep.

as bokuto carefully weaves his fingers out he places a chaste kiss on the little crease in between your eyebrows. he finds you so cute, it physically hurts him.

‘don’t worry, babygirl,’ his voice drops a few octaves. ‘windswept looks sexy on you.’

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

later that night as you are lie under the drapes and canopies, you notice how the bedroom is much like the rest of the house- fit for royalty. bokuto snores softly, but you lie awake with your head on his chest. his heartbeat is a mind-numbing rhythm. a thin sheet of sweat covers your bodies and you try to ignore the wetness in between your legs. you should probably change the sheets as well, but your body refuses to move and you don’t know where to find any new ones. sleep evades you so you let Bokuto’s question roll around in your mind. a forever with him. of course you would say yes. there was nothing more that you wanted than that. but the dread from earlier which you had managed to keep at bay with lust, slowly begins to resettle in the pit of your stomach.

he promises you an eternity now, but he’ll leave you behind soon.

you somehow clamber out of bed, making sure not to awaken bokuto. picking up his shirt from where it lies on floor, you put it on. the bedroom has identical doors from the living room, made of glass, and they open onto a small balcony. you draw open the lacey curtains and step out into the chilly night air. the sight that awaits you makes you gasp. a fine mist rolls over the water, but the lake itself is still. its surface is like taut cellophane. beyond the lake where the woods begin, it is pitch black darkness and you cannot tell where the woods meet the moonless sky. it’s a new moon night, but where you expect to see the stars is an empty hollowness. its eerily silent. too silent. no insects trill. no wind blows. you stare intently into the water for so long that you swear you see something lurking just underneath its surface. the mist that hovers slowly inches towards the house, coiling like endless bony fingers.

that pool of velvety darkness, i wonder what it’d feel like against my skin.

come to me then. feel it for yourself. your voice, no, her voice purrs.

you whirl around to see bokuto. he’s standing a feet away from you, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

‘whoah! easy,’ bokuto exclaims, surprised by your jumpiness. no way it had been him who had spoken moments ago. ‘what are you doing outside?’ he asks. ‘i nearly got a heart attack when I saw someone standing out here.’

you look back towards the lake, and you’re utterly confused. the mist seems to have instantly vanished. you can even hear the water now, softly undulating. it appears akin to a creased sheet of silk.

had you been hallucinating? dreaming with your eyes open?

you fight down the growing panic and instead walk over to him, squishing his cheeks. you softly kiss his pout. ‘aww. baby’s scared?’ you coo.

he grumbles something about you catching a cold but tugs you inside and you decide to let it all go. you’re tired and tomorrow will be a new day.

had you turned around, you’d notice how the stars were glittering like cold hard gems in the night sky.

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

you were pleasantly lazing about in the sun. the lake was a glittering blue and the woods looked benign during the day. they weren’t as dense as they appeared to be in the absence of light. from where you lay, the house looks like an entity of its own. imposing and regal. bokuto is dressed casually in a t-shirt and sweatpants as he plays around witha volleyball, tossing and spiking it all by his lonely self. you didn’t remember seeing him pack a volleyball, but then again somehow he always seemed to miraculously have a one at his disposal. today, he hasn’t gelled his hair up in its usual style, so it flops onto his forehead in a way you wished he’d leave it more often.

‘y/n! nice receive!’ he hollers at you.

he spikes the ball aiming straight for your stomach and you somehow manage to block his assault. thank god he hadn’t used a quarter of the strength he usually puts into his spikes.

your strong and annoying man.

‘you trying to murder me or what?’

he pulls you up to your feet. ‘i’ll be teaching you how to spike, drama queen. it’s insane how you’ve been with me for all these years and haven’t learnt a thing or two about volleyball. people would die for a one on one training session with me.’ he brags as he fetches the ball from where it had rolled off to.

you try to copy his motions, but what he can effortlessly pull off is an impossible feat for you. you send the ball upwards and jump as you try to match your timing to spike it. but before you can hit the ball it lands on your head.

bokuto is losing his shit, doubling over with laughter. and you try to look angry but end up giggling with him.

‘i give up!’ you complain. plus my boobs jiggle since i’m not wearing a sports bra,’

‘babe, thats kinda the point!’ he beams.

a perfect spike lands on his face.

‘owww, that’s foul play, y/n! ’ he yells. rubbing his nose, he walks over to you.

‘you should be punished!’ he scolds you, but places a kiss on your temple. his hands wander downwards to unzip your dress. he lets it fall to the ground. you know where this is headed. you think he’s going to kiss you so you close your eyes and lean towards him but before you can react, he’s bending down and suddenly you’re being lifted. he has you over his shoulders and your peals of laughter warm his heart. he hadn’t heard that sound in a while.

bokuto marches straight into the lake and dumps you in. the water is cool and refreshing, just as you had imagined it. it’s shallow enough so you’re chest deep in the water when your feet are planted at the bottom. his body glistens with dampness, hair a floppy wet mess. he was so beautiful, that even though it was irrational you felt a little bit shy. you’re splashing each other with water, the atmosphere’s light and bubbly with amusement. bokuto tries to catch you but you slip out of his reach. he is being his loud and dramatic self as he falls face down into the water, complaining as he comes up with his eyes screwed shut.

‘i swear i’d rather be blinded by your beauty than this water.’

you shake you head, feigning disdain and then you’re swimming away from him, towards the safety of the house. it must almost be noon, and you vaguely remember its time for the care taker to come around. you did not want to be seen in your wet underwear. bokuto calls out to you, apologising. there is water in your ears, it laps all around you as you swim. it dulls all sound and every other sense until the only thing you hear is your thumping heart. when you come up for air, you can see the blue sky, when your face is in the water you can see the stones and pebbles littering the bottom.

but, when you come up for air again, the sky is overcast. laden with dense gray clouds.

the water runs icy, lead flows through your veins. your body is sinking like a ship. it feels like you’re trying to move through viscous jelly. when you try to pull up for air you cannot break through, the surface traps you like its the cellophane you remember seeing the night before. a tight grip on your waist, abruptly pulls you under. your flailing hands try to grasp at nothing in particular. you wonder if its bokuto just messing around, but you know it isn’t. you don’t feel his presence anywhere. your fingers suddenly entangle into something. your eyes burn when you try to open them and look. jet black strands of hair, a bone white face, a mouth that is open like a gaping wound. you scream and nothing but gurgles and air bubbles escape you. you try to pull back but your hands are stuck in the weedlike hair. Funny you think of the evening before, when bokuto’s fingers had entangled in your messy hair the same way.

‘kou…koutaro!’ you try calling for him. you hear your disembodied voice, feel the water flood your mouth, your nose. but you feel all alone with that woman straight out of nightmares. fear has you in its grip, your minds a mush.

you hate him so damn much. you hate him, you hate him, you HATE him. a voice repeats the same words in your head. you wonder if it sounds like your own or someone else’s. you cannot tell the two apart.

you feel a hand wrap around your arm, its large and warm and it feels like home. as it drags you out of the water the ashen face seems to quiver and distort. her eyes flicker open. they roll in their sockets but when they fixate on you, you see eyes just like your own. but they are transparent like marbles; burning with betrayal and accusation.

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

you wake up with a start to screams piercing the air. they are shrill and blood curdling. your hands are on your ears as you try to block out the sound but it only gets louder. it takes you a moment to realise that the screaming had been you. bokuto holds you in his arms, you can feel him shaking underneath your palms that grapple at his back.

he’s crying.

no! why is your bokuto crying? you pull away a little just enough to look at him, but the way his features are twisted in melancholy punctures a hole through your heart.

‘y/n, babe… babe,’ his lips quiver stealing away speech but he forces himself to speak. ‘ i looked everywhere in the water but I couldn’t find you. you were swimming and then you just stopped. i thought you were fooling around but you were down there for too long. so i come over but... I couldn’t see you anywhere at first. i panicked! holy shit... i was panicking.’ he shifts away from you, an arms length away. leaning back on the sofa, he stares up at the ceiling. ‘You weren’t even struggling, just stopped moving. Do you remember what happened?’ bokuto drags a hand down his face. he’s visibly distressed.

‘i don’t know what happened,’ you croack. ‘it felt like I was stuck. my feet wouldn’t come lose. as if someone was there with me in the water, holding me down…’ a sob escapes you.

bokuto pales a little at your description. but there had been no one but the two of you in the water. hell he hadn’t even seen any fishes.

he had pulled you under in the first place hadn’t he. there’s no one here but the two of you.

you remember not being alone in the water. you remember the heaviness. but nothing else.

bokuto opens his mouth to say something, but you cannot concentrate. the urge is too strong. before you can think, before you can answer. you are bending over and puking your guts out.

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

you spend the rest of the day, clinging to bokuto. and he doesn’t mind. he seems to be craving that constant feeling of your skin on his. something to remind him that you were okay, that you were here now. he makes his way around the kitchen with you stuck to him like a little koala.

“sit down on that chair just for a minute, y/n. i can’t find the plates!” he tries to loosen your chokehold on him but you only tighten it and bokuto booms out a laugh.

‘i swear you’re lucky you’re cute.”

‘just consider this weight training.’

bokuto had put together a light meal. you reckoned you’d be unable to stomach anything too heavy.

‘we were supposed to be having fun. i feel like i’ve ruined everything.’ you mumble gloomily. you’re sitting on the chairs you pulled up around the kitchen island. a make shift dining table.

‘it’s okay. its enough to just be together.’

‘oh no been away from you for a five whole minutes.’ your expression is of mock worry as you rush over onto his lap. you immediately bury your head in the crook of his neck, his familiar scent calms you down. he chuckles at your antics.

‘do you think we can just go home?’ you ask apprehensively, still feeling bad about having spoilt your perfect little getaway. ‘i don’t feel like staying here anymore.’

‘sure, baby girl .’ bokuto replies in a heartbeat, and you wonder if he feels the same unease in remaining here any longer.

‘we can leave tomorrow morning.’ he suggests. ‘it might be a bit too late to leave now. plus, caretaker-san didn’t even show up today.’

‘is it okay to just leave?,’ you ask.

from where bokuto sits on the dining table in the kitchen, he can see the doors in the living room that open up to the porch. it’s around three in the afternoon. the weather was beginning to turn awfully gloomy.

clouds slowly fill the sky eclisping the sun that had shined all day. it leaves everything in shades of gray.

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

you wake up alone in bed. the remnants of an eerie dream still lingers in your mind. you had been combing your hair, which was unusually thick, dark and long. you kept brushing the silky smooth strands, on and on and on, until they started coming loose in your hands. shuddering as you recall it, you turn around to see the wall clock read nine p.m. where was kou? at some point you had fallen asleep although you did not remember coming upstairs to the bedroom. he must’ve carried you from where you and him had been lying on the sofa downstairs, idly chatting.

your body is still heavy with exhaustion but you force yourself to sit up. hearing the water running in the bathroom, you call out to bokuto. ‘kou?’ you pad your way over to the bathroom. when you open the door there is no one inside. water drips from from a leaky tap into an empty bath tub. strange. where had the sound been coming from then?

you find yourself mesmerised by your reflection in the mirror right across from you. when you step inside the bathroom, the tiles are dry and frigid underneath your feet. the lights are off, however, the bathroom is faintly lit up by the light filtering in from the frosted windows. the bags under your eyes are dark and puffy, your lips look ashen. you look like you had lost a tonne of weight over the span of the past few hours. tracing a finger along the outline of your reflection, you notice how your eyes were a forlorn abyss. hollow like the dead.

mine. stay with me. don’t leave me alone. a voice whispers to you and you listen, enchanted.

you see the corners of your lips quirk up in your reflection. your expression twists into that of deranged happiness.

so, you’ll stay?

you don’t feel the smile on your face.

you’re backing away slowly. a scream dies in your throat.

that isn’t you. it’s her.

you’re running full speed out of the bathroom and you make it just in time as the door slams shuts behind you. the edge of your thin white slip gets caught in between but you yank it loose with enough force. bursting out of the room like a bat out of hell you’re hurtling downstairs. you have to look for bokuto. you must leave. now!

you’re me, i am you. he doesn’t love you, so just stay with me. I’m lonely.

you try to call out to bokuto but you cannot find your voice.

and then you see him. sitting on the sofa. the relief you feel is momentary. the old television is on, and the screen is grainy with static but bokuto’s eyes are intent on it. he’s still as if he were carved out of stone. he doesn’t acknowledge your presence just keeps staring ahead with an owlish gaze. you place a shaky hand on his shoulder and he finally turns to look at you.

his eyes that usually are like pools of golden honey are dark and murky like cheap kerosene. his features are sharper, more cunning. a devil in your lover’s skin. the mist outside thickens, appearing as if they were pale white walls surrounding the house.

i told you to just stay with me. you should’ve stayed with me in that cool dark water.

he doesn’t love you, i do.

suddenly bokuto is stalking towards you, his movements hypnotic like that of a panther, sinuously fluid, predatory. a feral look glints in those foreign eyes. he slams you against the nearest wall, his hands tightening over your neck. your head meets the hard surface with a thud. those large arms that have always felt like home suddenly feel empty and cold like a prison cell.

you’re just a prisoner in his cage. he doesn’t love you like I will.

black spots fill your vision, as your air supply is slowly being cut off. ‘kou- please don’t.’ you whimper. a flicker of recognition flashes through those eyes, but the grip around your neck only tightens. ‘kou-’ you call again softly. tears fall freely down your face. your hands go limp by your sides and in the process you knock over a vase that had been on table besides you. it falls to the marble floor with an obnoxious crash. the ceramic splinters into a hundred pieces. bokuto’s eyes widen and the darkness from his face lifts. it is as if a thick patch of clouds obscuring the moon had drifted past, letting its pure light fall to the earth once again. he’s your bokuto once again.

horror struck he lets go of your neck and catches a glimpse of the angry red fingerprints left behind like a morbid necklace. you collapse to the ground.

a door bangs shut somewhere in the house, startling you both. bokuto is about to crouch down next to you when suddenly the volume of the television is cranked up. the harsh static sound grates your ears, like a drawn out growl. there’s thumping coming from behind every surface of the house- the walls, the floors, the ceilings. every door, every window swings open only to shut back with a bang, over and over until shards of broken glass lie like a carpet all over the floor. the house is alive with the breath of countless souls that live in its every crack and crevice. you both look on with horror as heavy mist begins to pour into the house. bokuto’s teeth chatter with fear, and he tries to get you to stand. he follows your gaze which is fixed to where your bedroom had been. and he sees it then. on the door which opens into the room, there’s a shadow of a woman. he can discern the long straight hair which she combs on and on and on.

‘f-fuck!’ he spits.

he harshly pulls you over his shoulders but transfixed you crane up your neck to continue looking at the shadow. hastily he manages to grab the keys which he had hung on a hook by the main door. the shadow grows darker, more defined as if whoever it belonged to was coming closer. he feels you struggling and you scream to be let down.the main door to the house is already open so with one last glance at the chaos behind, you are both bolting out of the house.

‘y/n, run! to the car. hurry, hurry, hurry!’ he shuts the door, hoping it would buy you some time. he’s not really sure what he’d just seen or what any of it meant. but thinking would come later. he grabs your hand as you start the mad dash across the front garden. you notice despite your compromised vision due to the mist, how the roses look wilted. the grounds gooey and wet underneath, and your feet sink into the soft mud making movement sluggish. but you don’t stop. moments later, the door behind you flings open with enough force that it comes loose from its hinges. the whole house seems to be angry.

come back here.

don’t leave me alone.

an overgrown root coils around your calf and yanks you back. your hand slips out of bokuto’s and he turns around, horrified, to see you being dragged into the ground. like you were falling into quicksand.

‘hold on to my arm,’ bokuto bellows, ‘and just don’t. let. go!’

the circulation in your leg is being cut off and you cry in pain. you can feel the disgusting way the soft earth keeps parting further to let you in. you want to let go, give in to the struggle. maybe it’d be better to just lie buried here, decomposing till you forget whats fear, whats pain.

your name is rolling off bokuto’s tongue like a chant. his muscles burn with strain. the sweat and slick makes his grip on you weak and he notices how you’re letting go. he reads the resignations on your face. but why are you letting go? why are you trying to leaving him alone?

bokuto loses his footing and falls backwards and almost loses you, but he manages to interlock your fingers. he’s grunting with effort, and roars with frustration when it doesn’t seem to be working. it is then when you see the blood covering his feet, the glass splinters buried deep into his soles. in your haste to get away you never noticed how he had walked all over the shards with you over his shoulder. the ache in your heart swells. you know he’d never leave you behind. it was the two of you, or none of you who’d make it alive out of here.

the thought of bokuto buried deep into the ground, lips blue and crusted with mud gives you a renewed conviction. with the last spurts of energy you hold tight onto bokuto’s arm with one hand. the other digs into where you find soft but solid ground. you attempt to claw your way out and fight the drag of the noose around you ankle that tries to pull you in the opposite direction. away from bokuto. bokuto is inching backwards, his voice hoarse with all that screaming as he does his utmost to haul you out.

rain begins to pour in heavy cascades even though there hadn’t been a single cloud in the obsidian sky. and suddenly you feel earth’s hold on you go slack. bokuto and your efforts come to fruition as your foot comes loose and you tumble straight on top of bokuto’s body. but its too early to celebrate. a loud thunderclap spurs you both into action and you run and run, fighting the burn in your lungs until you reach the car. bokuto, is grateful, infinitely grateful that the keys had remained in his pockets during that struggle. he hands you the keys and with no time to waste you’re running to the car, afraid that something inauspicious might happen again if you didn’t hurry. bokuto notices with relief that the iron gates are not chained shut like they had been upon your arrival, and with some effort he swings them open. bokuto clambers into the passenger seat and you floor the gas as you drive straight out of the gates, into a calm quiet night.

it takes you a moment to notice that the rain had stopped.

∷ ∷ ∷ ∷

the two of you are covered in dirt, in blood. absolutely shattered with exhaustion. bokuto finally feels the pain that had been dampened by adreneline. it now ignites like an inferno. he almost tears his lip trying to bite back a whimper. in the rear view mirror, you catch a glimpse of the house. it looks regal and imposing, as it had when you’d first arrived. you can see the dimly lit bedroom, the curtains billowing gently in a slight breeze. the glass on the doors is intact. the garden is immaculate once again and you can see patches of soft grass spread out where the mud had almost eaten you up alive just a few moments ago. a shaky laugh escapes Bokuto, and before you know it, feeling delirious, you’re laughing with him.

bokuto’s phone rings and the sound cuts short your hysteria. with some effort he retrieves it from the dashboard where he’d left it two days ago. he had planned on not letting anything distract him from you on this short getaway. he puts it on loudspeaker.

‘they picked up!’ you hear Konoha say to someone and the collective sighs of relief are audible.

‘dude, where have you both been? we’ve been calling you all day. ms. nakamura told me that you never made it to my vacation home?’

‘ms. nakamura?’ bokuto rasps.

‘yeah, the caretaker I told you about?’

‘the caretaker was a man!’ you snatch the phone with from bokuto with one hand while other remains on the steering wheel. you’re yelling at the receiver like a mad woman. ‘we came to your villa, but that man opened the gates. listen, there’s something wrong with the house and lake behind it is-’

‘what lake? there are only corn fields behind my house. which is, by the way, a traditional japanese one. where the fuck have you both been?!’

you and bokuto look at each other in confusion, and you hit the brakes. you glance back at the house which is now far, far away. if you squint your eyes you can see the outline of a man at the gates. the lamp in his hand glows golden like a distant star.

a woman’s shadow is dark and lonely against the delicate lace of the bedroom’s curtains.

#bokuto koutarou x reader #bokuto x reader #bokuto koutarou #bokuto #haikyuu!!#haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu x reader #hq!!#hq #haikyuu angst #bokuto angst #bokuto fluff #bokuto imagines #hq scenarios #hq imagines #haikyuu fluff

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simplyclockwork · 4 years ago

Note

I note you have a backlog of prompts. You have just filled my Sherlock stuck prompt brilliantly. Whenever you get a chance it would be great to have a fic where Sherlock breaks his wrist and is more dismayed about being in a cast than John expected. Sherlock finally admits that it’s because he won’t be able to play his violin. He confides that playing is his way of expressing himself and working through his feelings. John finds a way to help him. Discussion of feelings please!

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Hello, anon! Thanks for your patience on the fill. This was such a sweet prompt, and I hope what I wrote does it justice. Read the rest beneath the page break or on Ao3 here.

Feel free to send me a prompt anytime!

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On the way back from the A&E, Sherlock is strangely quiet. He sits in the back of the cab with his forehead pressed to the window, cast-clad wrist in his lap, his eyes closed. His face looks pale and drawn, the corners of his eyes tight with pain, and John feels a pang in his chest. As the cabbie navigates the London traffic in fits and starts, John clears his throat and breaks the silence.

“It’s only a broken wrist,” he murmurs, trying for comfort. Sherlock doesn’t react, just stays with his forehead against the glass, and John adds, “Couple of months and you’ll be back out there.”

There is no response, and they sit in silence until the cab finally pulls up in front of 221B. Sherlock slips out without speaking, leaving John to pay the driver while he disappears inside. John follows quickly, the cab pulling away behind him with a mechanical purr before the door closes and muffles the sounds outside.

Upstairs, Sherlock curls into his armchair with a pensive expression on his face. He stares at the dark fireplace with fixed eyes, and John tilts his head toward it.

“Are you cold?” Sherlock just shakes his head, and John squints one eye shut in thought. “Hungry?” Another headshake. John fidgets in the ensuing silence before deciding to make tea. It’ll keep him busy, give Sherlock the space he seems to need and provide John with an excuse for getting something other than air into the detective.

The act of making the tea is soothing, the familiar motions helping to settle John’s restless mind. Behind him, in the sitting room and unmoving in his chair, Sherlock is a silent, sombre presence, impossible to forget or fail to notice.

When John returns with two mugs, he sets one carefully next to Sherlock’s uninjured side and settles into his chair. Sherlock sits in almost the same position as before, but now his violin rests on his lap. He plucks half-heartedly at the strings with a peculiar expression on his face.

John sips his tea, burns his tongue, and swallows back a curse. Placing the mug next to his chair, he leans back, studying Sherlock. After a moment, Sherlock looks up without raising his head, watching John from beneath his long, dark lashes. “What?”

Hands laced together in his lap, John clears his throat. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Sherlock frowns, his eyes darting away. They halt on his cast, brows drawing together until he looks down at the violin. He plucks a string, and his face does something complicated, but he doesn’t answer John’s question.

Once nearly a minute has passed, John tries again. “Sherlock.”

Those eyes rise to him again, still shadowed by eyelashes and a slight frown. “I’m fine, John.”

John’s mouth flattens into a tense line and pulls to the side. “You’re obviously not.”

Another light pluck of a string, the sound wavering in the tense air. Sherlock’s lips twitch down at the corners. “I’m fine,” he repeats, sounding anything but.

Heaving a sigh, John leans forward, clasps his hands between his knees, and ducks his head, trying to catch Sherlock’s eyes. They skitter away, and John sighs again. “Look at me,” he murmurs, frowning and earnest. Sherlock does, squinting hard at him as his gaze darts over John’s face. Holding his attention, John asks, “Talk to me?” He pauses and licks his lips, feeling a little twinge of helplessness in his chest before he adds, “Please?”

Sherlock’s breath rushes out of him in a gust, and he fidgets with the violin, his fingers restless. “It’s my wrist,” he finally mutters, scowling down at the polished wood in his lap. John tilts his head, still leaning forward.

“Does it hurt?”

“No… well, yes, but that’s not the problem.” Sherlock goes silent for a moment, his lips a hard line, his face tense, and his expression tight. Everything clears all at once, and he slumps in his chair with a defeated sigh. “I can’t play my violin, John.”

John frowns, processing the words as he sits inclined toward Sherlock. Tongue darting out to wet his dry lips, he nods slowly. “Okay.” Choosing his words with care, he continues, “It’s only for a couple of months, Sherlock. You don’t want to prolong the healing process.”

A low growl follows his statement, and Sherlock rakes unsteady fingers through his hair with a rough gesture. “I know the medical necessity of the cast, John,” he snaps, his voice harsh and angry. John starts to lean back in surprise and catches himself at the last second.

“Okay, right. Sorry.” He squints one eye shut in thought. “You going to tell me what it’s about, then?” Another frustrated noise prompts him to add, “I’m not a mind reader, Sherlock. I need you to tell me what the problem is so I can help.”

After a moment of agitated quiet, Sherlock grimaces. “I need to play.” He doesn’t elaborate, and John swallows as he considers the words.

“Okay. Why?”

Sherlock’s fingers twist in his hair again, making the curls stick up and flatten. “It helps me think, John. Playing, it helps me…” he shakes his head. A muscle jumps in his jaw, teeth clenching together and making a tendon stand out in his neck. Hesitating, John reaches out and touches light fingers to Sherlock’s knee. Tension ripples through Sherlock’s body before dispersing, and his shoulders drop from where they rose to his ears. “Feelings don’t come easily to me, John. I don’t know how to… they’re not—I can’t… I need to play,” he finally manages, the words escaping on a belated breath.

“Alright.” John agrees, giving Sherlock’s knee a light squeeze before leaning back. “It helps when you’re thinking?”

“It’s more than that.” Sherlock waves a hand as if trying to pluck the words he needs from the air. “It… when my mind is too loud, too busy, too full, playing helps me…” he makes a motion like gripping something in his palm before loosening his fingers and shaking his hand dismissively. “It helps me find the threads and loosen the knots.”

Understanding falls over John at Sherlock’s urgent voice. “Playing helps with the overstimulation.” Sherlock tilts his head in silent agreement and doesn’t speak. “Okay. Right.” Rubbing a thumb over his bottom lip, John taps a hand against his thigh. “Right. Well, we’ll have to find a way for you to play with the cast then, won’t we?”

Sherlock blinks, surprise flickering over his expression. “How?”

“We’ll figure something out,” John replies with solid confidence. Sherlock just stares at him with an avid look in his eyes, appearing almost breathless as John works the problem over in his head. Finally, he offers, “What if I did the strings and you moved the bow?” He glances at Sherlock’s cast. “You work the bow in your right hand, yeah?”

Nodding, still silent, Sherlock watches John stand with an intent expression. He lets John take the violin from his lap and accepts his hand when John offers it, pulling Sherlock to his feet.

“Okay, you’ll have to help me,” John says, tongue caught between his teeth while he tries to position the instrument beneath Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock blinks down at him and finally helps, using his right hand to guide John in small adjustments until the placement is correct.

Once Sherlock seems pleased with the placement, John leans down and lifts the bow from the violin’s case, pressing it gently into Sherlock’s right hand. Confident Sherlock won’t drop the tool, John places his fingers on the violin’s neck and meets Sherlock’s bemused gaze.

“Tell me where to put my fingers.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen, some fleeting emotion passing through them far too quickly for John to catch. He hesitates, and John offers an encouraging smile. Lashes fluttering in a half-blink, Sherlock swallows and dips his head in a quick nod.

“Put your index finger on the third string,” he instructs, eyes fixed on John’s hand as he obeys. “The ring finger goes a little over. No, not there. Yes, like that. Now, move the middle…”

Sherlock’s words wash over him, and John does his best to position his fingers under Sherlock’s tutelage. It’s far more complicated than he anticipated, and he bites at his bottom lip in focus.

Once his hand is in the right spot, John looks up at Sherlock’s face to find pale eyes fixed on his face. Offering a small smile, John waits. With their gazes locked, Sherlock lifts the bow and draws it over the strings. The sound isn’t quite right, and John winces. But Sherlock is already adjusting John’s fingers with sharp focus, muttering beneath his breath.

The next try is better, the note soft and sweet. With the sound still vibrating in the air, Sherlock teaches John how to shift into the next position, then the next. It’s slow going, with John making more mistakes than he gets right, but Sherlock is surprisingly patient. As they play, the creases on Sherlock’s brow yield and ease, leaving his face calm and smooth.

John feels Sherlock’s eyes on him more often than not and resists the urge to look up and meet them, keeping his attention on the unfamiliar movements of his hand.

By the end of an hour, they make it through the first forty seconds of Ode to Joy, something Sherlock assures John is a beginner piece, though John’s stinging fingers beg to differ.

“How do you do that without ripping off your fingerprints?” John asks, wincing as he prods at the reddened skin. Looking up from placing the violin in its case, Sherlock smirks.

“Calluses,” he explains, holding up a hand. John takes it in his own, turning it palm-up to study hardened skin on Sherlock’s fingers. He traces a fingertip over a thickened section on Sherlock’s index, and Sherlock shivers.

Finally, John looks up and meets his gaze. Sherlock stares down at him with a complicated expression and soft eyes. The sight steals away John’s breath for just a moment, returning it in a weak exhale when Sherlock speaks.

“John,” he murmurs, lashes fluttering in a series of quick blinks that John finds far too endearing, “thank you.”

A small smile on his lips, John presses his thumbs gently to Sherlock’s palm. “Anytime, Sherlock.”

#Johnlock #Prompt #Violin #Fluff #Simplyclockwork #Sherlock #BBC Sherlock #Soft Boys #Anonymous

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whitewolfandthefox · 5 years ago

Text

Call of the Wild Part 9

Summary: The pack will stop at nothing to get you back.

Series Masterlist

Words: 4.9k

Warnings: death, torture, killing, injuries, swearing

Add yourself to my taglist!

A/N. Just so y’all know, Ciri is like 17/18 in my story, she’s a competent fighter at this point. You can thank @riviawitch3r for convincing me to post this as a surprise midweek update! I had it finished early and was really excited about this one, so here you go!

The Battle

As your screams echo in his ears, Geralt sees red. The sound of your distress ignites a feral rage in his core that swiftly overcomes anything that dares to come between him and the entrance, anything that keeps him from getting to you. He could feel your pain and despair leaking through your bond and it only fueled him more. Your soul called out to him to save you, to help you. You may have given up, but there was a small part that still desperately fought to live, to wait for him.

Geralt roared as he smashed into the guards; he could hear the sounds of his pack following behind him. The men in front of him rallied after his first attack. Four men stood fast in front of the gate as a fifth ran to raise the alarm, the sixth guard crumpled on the ground after meeting Geralt’s blade. He raised his sword, a feral grin on his face as the soldiers paled, shifting nervously as he stalked towards them.

The first two men charge out to meet him, swords raised high. The Witcher slashes the first across the chest, the man dropping to the ground with a cry of pain. Bringing his blade around, Geralt met the second man’s strike, holding fast as a low growl emitted from his chest. He could see the guard swallow nervously before disengaging, striking hard and fast, sword singing through the air as it bit from shoulder to hip, disabling the man. Geralt pushed him to the side as he continued towards the last four guards.

Ciri appeared at his side, a grimace on her face as her sword leapt to catch the blade of the rightmost guard, Yennefer meeting the leftmost with her dagger. One of the guards broke rank and ran as Geralt engaged the last man, reversing his sword to slam the hilt into the man’s stomach, knocking his breath out of him. The guard slid down the wall as Geralt snatched a dagger from his hip, striking so the blade went through the man’s leg into the ground, pinning him as he howled in pain.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ciri dispatch her opponent as she separated his head from his body. She slowed, wiping her blade on the man’s tunic before returning her sword to its sheath. Yennefer did the same, finishing her strike with her dagger buried in the man’s heart, a feral grin on her face. Satisfied his companions were in no immediate danger, he lowered his body so that he was level with the remaining guard’s head. He stared at him, golden eyes almost glowing in the darkness as the guard cursed at him, trying to free himself of the dagger’s bite.

“The shapeshifter. Where is she?” Geralt’s voice was low and ominous, grating through the air as he held himself in check, aware that they needed a plan of attack to take the fortress.

The man cursed at him, fidgeting before Geralt reached out and pushed the dagger further into the ground, stilling the man’s actions as he howled in pain. He settled for glaring at the trio, chest heaving as he gasped for air.

“I’ll give you one more chance: answer my question, or I’m done asking nicely. And you really won’t like what happens then,” he promised with a feral grin. The sound of his voice was like nails grating on a chalkboard, sending unpleasant shivers down the man’s spine. The man stared at him, eyes wide in horror. Yennefer knelt down beside Geralt, the sweetest smile on her face. Her violet eyes met the man’s blue gaze and he paled further. Distantly, Geralt noted that he hadn’t thought the man could lose any more colour but had apparently been proven wrong. His lips pulled back from his teeth as he felt you cry out, soul nuzzling against his. He tried to soothe you, pushing hope at you, but was again rebuffed, pain overwhelming every aspect of your consciousness.

The snarl that appeared on Geralt’s face was the last straw for the man as he broke, information streaming out of him as he babbled at them, desperate to get away from the frightening pair in front of him. Letting Yennefer decipher the stream of words spilling from the man on the ground, Geralt turned to Ciri as he released a piercing whistle, signalling that it was safe for Jaskier to join them. His eyes searched the younger girl, looking for any sign of injuries. She stood still for the examination before bouncing over to Jaskier as he joined the trio, snarl a permanent fixture on her face.

Yennefer joined the group as well, Geralt sparing a glance to see the man slumped against the walls, glassy eyes signalling an end to his life. All eyes turned to the sorceress as she spoke. “Y/N is in the dungeons on the lower floor; the keep is built into the hill so part of it is exposed. There’s another entrance on the other side of the keep. The sorcerer’s study is on the second floor, where he’s done all his research. Hopefully that will be where we find him.”

Low snarls echoed in the space around them, all shapeshifters displeased at the mention of the man who had been hunting their kind. Geralt stepped up to lay out the roles each person had.

“Yennefer, you and I will go find this sorcerer and deal with his ‘research’, as he calls it. Ciri, Jaskier, you two find Y/N and guard her, make sure no one can get to her or get her out of this keep. Once Yen and I are done we will come find you and get the fuck out of here. Any questions?”

The other three shook their heads before Ciri and Jaskier shifted, a lion and honey badger standing in their places. Jaskier lifted his head, searching for the distinctive scent of their kind. The pair took off, racing around the dark structure as they followed the scent that would lead them to the lone shapeshifter they came to rescue. Geralt watched them go, conflict clear in his eyes.

Yennefer placed a hand on his arm, drawing his attention back to her. “They’ll be fine. They’ll find her easily and will lay low until we can get there. The sooner we deal with this sorcerer, the sooner we can get back to them.”

Geralt swallowed harshly before nodding, the knot in his chest only tightening as he turned away from the direction his heart was telling him to follow. The pair entered the gates, blades held tightly in their hands as they waited for the next wave of guards to crash upon them. They found a dark hallway, moving slowly with senses on high alert for any indication of an attack as they searched for a staircase. Geralt strained his ears, hearing the sound of metal clanging on metal as a group of five guards rounded the corner to run straight into Geralt’s blade. Two men were soon lying on the floor, meeting their ends at the hand of the Witcher and the sorceress before the rest of the small group was aware of their presence. The three remaining men backed up quickly, forming into an arrow formation, swords held high against the shapeshifters. Yennefer darted forward, long dagger flicking out to bite into the leftmost guard’s shoulder, drawing a cry from him as she leapt back, avoiding the answering slash. The front man thrust towards them, Geralt whirling to the side to avoid the blade as he fell forward, a white wolf leaping at the men as he shifts.

He bowls into the small group, knocking the two in front of him to the ground as the third steps out of the way, engaging Yennefer behind him. He can hear the ringing of metal on metal as she defends herself against the guard. He refocuses on the men around him, one trying to regain his feet as the other is struggling beneath his paws. He snaps at the man, tearing his throat out before rolling to the side, ignoring the sparks that leap from the sword striking stone, missing him by inches. The man in front of him pales as Geralt allows a low growl to rumble out of his throat, filling the air as he hears a body collapse to the ground behind him. Yennefer’s heartbeat still thrums in his ears, so he keeps his attention on the man in front of him. He takes one step towards the guard before the man breaks, dropping his sword as he turns to run back down the hallway.

Geralt pauses, sending a glance back over his shoulder to find Yennefer staring at him with one eyebrow arched. She gestures at the retreating man and the wolf takes off, following him down the hallway. The guard is pounding on a door, yelling to be let in as Geralt approaches. He pauses as he bunches his powerful muscles before he leaps, hitting the man in the chest as he turns to meet him, wide eyes filled with horror. The man slumps beneath him, the taste of hot copper filling Geralt’s mouth as he tore into him. He rolls off the body, turning to examine the door.

Sauntering up behind him, Yennefer spoke a word and pointed at the locked door. Under her hands, the wood splintered before exploding backwards, killing anyone behind it. Geralt leapt through the aftermath, tearing up the stairs that the door had hidden. He used his massive body to knock the soldiers off the structures, sending them plummeting to the ground below. Yennefer was forming intricate symbols with her hands, forcing men to crumple to their knees, slitting their throats as she walked past.

Geralt raced to the next floor, snarling the entire way. He leapt at the last man, his weight bringing them both to the floor, the guard’s head slamming against the ground; blood oozed from the back of his skull, forming a puddle under his head. Geralt rolled to his feet as the man remained motionless. He dropped down to his haunches, waiting for Yennefer to join him at the top of the stairs and ignoring the blood soaking into his paws.

The wolf inclined his head to the sorceress, indicating that she should lead the way through the door. Yennefer rolled her eyes at him as she passed the Witcher, laying a hand on the handle to unlock it. Geralt followed her into the hallway, finding it empty. As he passed over the threshold, the smell of blood hit him. He visibly balked before glancing at Yennefer, seeing her nose wrinkled as well. Closing his eyes, Geralt reached deep within himself, pulling the magic over himself like a blanket as he shifted back to his human form.

“You smell it too.” His deep voice rumbled through the silence, echoing off the stone. Yennefer nodded at his words, too wary to respond. The pair followed the scent down the hall, dread growing as it got stronger, seeming to come from under the last door. As they got closer, other scents started to mix in; the most prevalent ones were fear and pain. They paused before the door, hearing low murmurs coming from behind the wood.

They looked at each other, silently communicating with their eyes before Geralt dropped his shoulder, slamming it into the door and forcing it open. They burst through into the room, Geralt drawing his sword and stabbing into the first guard that rushed them as Yennefer ducked under a blow from the second, slashing at his legs before following up with a strike to his chest as he fell. Silence fell on the room, broken by a slow clap.

They looked to the end of the room, finding a man lounging across a chair wearing dark maroon robes. The room was full of various little trinkets and other things Geralt didn’t care to identify. A long table sat in front of the chair, covered in papers filled with notes and drawings. Shelves lined the walls, vials and books covering every inch of available space. The scent that they had followed permeated the room, the smell of death and suffering overwhelming their senses as they observed the space. Their focus was returned to the man at the end of the room as he laughed, a sharp sound that echoed around the small space.

He grinned up at them, a cruel smile adorning his face. Standing, he spread his arms wide. “Welcome to my study. My name is Master Astarion. Have you come to pledge yourself to my cause?”

A growl ripped its way out of Geralt’s throat, Yennefer stiffening beside him. “I see no cause,” the Witcher spat, “I see only pain and suffering, death, misery. There is nothing good happening here. You are destroying my kind with what you do, and I will not let it stand!”

Geralt’s tone rose in volume, until he was roaring at the sorcerer who was responsible for so much death. The grin slid off his face, a scowl taking its place. “Destroy? Like you destroyed my family? It was your kind who murdered my father, your kind who took away our only chance of survival, who killed the rest of my family! It was you! You who made me leave, you who made sure I wasn’t there to heal him, you who didn’t save my sister from the sickness that took her life!”

He spat to the side. “No, it is not me who is destroying anything, it is you and your lowly kind. Once I’ve found my cure, I’ll eradicate you and the other shapeshifters. No one will have to feel the pain of losing their entire family to you. No one will feel the pain I have ever again.”

The low growl that had been emanating from Geralt’s throat slowly grew louder. He took a step towards the sorcerer, his presence seeming to grow larger as Yennefer stalked to the other side of the table. Leaning forward, Astarion gripped the hilt of a sword, his other hand pulling the sheath off before throwing it back on the wood. Geralt’s hand darted to his shoulder in response, unsheathing the iron blade that lived there.

The sorcerer sneered. “If you won’t willingly join me, I guess I’ll just have to kill you in order to study you. At least your measly existence will be somewhat useful.”

Geralt sneered back, “I’d like to see you try.”

The sorcerer lifted his sword above his head, rushing towards Yennefer, assuming she was the weaker prey. A feral grin appeared on Geralt’s face at this as the sorceress merely swayed out of the way of the blade, brushing a hand against him as he went. The man spun around, face frozen in an expression of shock as his sword hung loose in his grip.

“What did you do?” he demanded, tone harsh.

Yennefer laughed cruelly. “Only what needed to be done. Seven days I curse you, a mere man you shall be.”

His eyes narrowed as he drew a complicated symbol in the air. Geralt shifted his weight, expecting a burst of power, glancing over to see Yennefer watching the sorcerer with a vicious look of glee on her face. As his face betrayed his frustration and shock at his failure to cast a spell, a harsh laugh again burst from the sorceress’ lips.

“You bitch! You’ve stolen my magic!” His eyes narrowed at her. “Give it back,” he growled. Enraged, Astarion frantically swiped at Yennefer, her own blade darting up to meet his with a ringing clash. Geralt rushed forwards, dropping his shoulder into the man’s back as Yennefer stepped sideways, opening a cut down the man’s arm as he passed her. The Witcher continued his rush, Astarion twisting to get away from the larger man. As the Witcher turned to face him, he brought his sword low towards the sorcerer, hoping to open a wound on his leg. The other man met his blow, grimacing as he struggled against Geralt’s overwhelming strength. He slowly lost ground, heels digging into the stone to push back against the shape shifter.

The sorcerer glanced desperately at the window, shoving back against Geralt, surprising the Witcher with his desperate bid as he raced for the opening. Geralt was quickly after him, a blow to the back of his head sending the man staggering as he crashed through the glass onto the balcony behind it. Geralt followed him out, sword biting into his robes as Astarion rolled out of the way. He was up and on his feet, grabbing a stone statuette from the railing before he launched it at the Witcher. He was up and over the railing, taking the advantage of Geralt’s hesitation as he dodged the projectile. The Witcher grinned as he approached, the stupid man had put himself into an impossible position. He raised his sword, preparing for the final blow, muscles tensing in anticipation of his downswing.

A burst of panic overwhelmed Geralt’s mind, sending him staggering as he missed his final strike. His sword bit into Astarion’s shoulder, drawing a cry from the man’s lips as his hands slipped, sending the sorcerer tumbling to the ground below. He rolled to a stop just outside of the treeline, laying there briefly before pushing himself to his feet and disappearing into the woods.

Yennefer was at Geralt’s side in an instant, concern in her face. “She’s panicking, Yen. Something’s happened, I can feel it.”

“I know, we’ll go find her in a moment. But for now, we need to search his study, find out if he has any other holdouts. We can’t lose him, Geralt, he’ll keep hurting our kind until he’s dealt with. Jask and Ciri will be with her, trust them.”

He hesitated briefly before nodding. Yennefer went straight to the table, looking through the various papers that were spread out across its surface. Geralt examined the shelves, picking up and looking into various vials to see what they contained. His stomach turned in revulsion as disgust rose into his throat. The bottles were full of samples; pieces of fur, various kinds of teeth, blood. Any tissue that could be harvested was there, the scent of fear and pain clinging to them even after they had been dried and preserved.

Geralt turned away from them, breathing hard through his nose as he clenched a fist at his side, trying to control his anger. He heard Yennefer call him from the table, worry only increasing at her apprehensive tone. Joining the sorceress, his breath caught in his throat as he realized just what was outlined on the table.

It was you.

There were sketches of your dimensions, showing your figure, your measurements, detailing your bone structure. His stomach threatened to rebel at the last drawing as he thought of what they had to have done to be able to draw that. There were notes outlining what injuries you had sustained and how long they took to heal. Records of samples taken and when. A small bundle of fur caught his attention. His hand darted out to snatch it, motions stilling as your scent emanated from the disrupted paper. It was so distinctively you, but tinged with the scent of your fear; the scent of your pain almost overwhelming anything else in the room. The contents on the paper was a sketch of your human form with small notes made around it. He scanned it briefly, it detailed the injuries that you had sustained that had triggered your shift. Geralt felt sick, revulsion rising in his gut as he realized what you had gone through. With a snarl, Geralt dropped the paper and snatched up another, scanning the contents before he did the same with a third.

As he continued reading, the rage that had been simmering in his chest was quickly stoked to an inferno, consuming any rational thought in his head. With a roar, he gripped the edge of the table and flipped it, arm lashing out to knock the vials off of the shelves. The sound of shattering glass ignited a fierce sense of pleasure in him, spurring his actions on as he continued to ravage the room. He left nothing on the walls, emptied every table, every set of drawers until any information was a tattered mess on the floor.

Yennefer was watching him with wary eyes as he turned to her, chest heaving with the exertion of his outburst. He narrowed his eyes at her, yellow irises turned golden with rage. When he spoke, his voice was low, an avalanche waiting for the one push that would set it tumbling down the slope, destroying everything in its path. “Burn it to the ground.”

A feral grin sprouted on her face. “With pleasure.”

Not waiting to see her actions, Geralt spun on his heel and headed for the door. In the hallway he paused, listening for any sounds that might indicate guards still lying in wait for him. Hearing nothing, he stalked down the hallway, the scent of burning paper beginning to fill his nose as Yennefer set to her task with glee. Geralt quickly made his way down the stairs, meeting no resistance along the way. Anyone who had been in the keep had either fled or been killed.

As he exited the staircase into the dungeons, his steps stuttered, your scent overwhelming his senses. He closed his eyes as he inhaled, letting you wash over him, soothing the rough edges that had formed since he had left you. He quickly turned to the left, following the sound of Jaskier’s voice. As he approached, Ciri appeared in a doorway; seeing him, she strode quickly towards him with a frown.

“Papa, please, you need to listen to me before you go in, she’s not-” Geralt spared her a tense smile, cupping her cheek before gently moving her to the side as he cut her off. He froze as he came into view of the cell. Jaskier was on his knees in the middle of the room, crooning gently to a fox cowering in the corner. He quickly took in the state of the cell; the blood stains on the floor, the tools against the stone, the repaired wall to the back, the way the fox shook. He could see your ribs, could see half healed wounds underneath your fur, the way you held your front leg off the ground and his heart stopped.

As he approached Jaskier, the man glanced at him but kept the steady stream of gentle words that fell from his lips going. Geralt could see thin lines of red running down his forearms. You had clawed him. The Witcher gently touched them as he looked at the bard; he received a slight head shake and a wan smile in return as the crooning continued. Geralt returned his attention to you, focusing on your tail between your legs as you kept your ears tucked against your skull, lips pulled back from your teeth as a low growl rumbled out of your chest.

Lowering himself to his knees, he crept towards you, keeping his body language open and his posture small. You shrunk back against the wall as he approached, causing Geralt to freeze at your actions. He spoke in a gentle voice, hoping to soothe you. “Y/N, it's okay now. It's me, I came to find you. Lets go now.”

As his voice reached you your growl grew in strength, lips pulling back from your teeth even more. You snapped your teeth at him as he tried to reach for you, Geralt snatching his hand back in horror. Something was wrong. He reached out with his mind to you, trying to get a sense of your emotions. Now that you were closer, he was able to get a better feeling from you, but in your state all that he was able to understand was a jumble of thoughts and feelings that whirled around your head.

Notrealnothim - this is a trick - HELP ME - ithurtsithurtsithurts- let me go, please - i just want to die - it isn’t him, it couldn’t be him - wakeupwakeup - won't change back, he’ll kill me - he won’t come for you - PAIN - Geralt, please - ijustwanttodie ijustwanttodie ijustwanttodie

Geralt recoiled into himself, not realizing there were tears running down his face as he spun to look at Yennefer, having arrived in time to see you snap at him. Ciri, who was now sitting with Jaskier, halted her movements as she reached for the Witcher, the bard drawing her closer to him. The colour drained from the older woman’s skin as she saw Geralt’s face, saw the desperation and fear that was on it.

“She thinks this isn’t real, Yen. You need to do something. Get rid of the damn spell.” Geralt's voice broke as he pleaded with her, needing to fix this.

Yennefer closed her eyes briefly, brow furrowing as she searched the room for telltale signs of magic. She could feel old traces of it in the air, flinching away from the pain that accompanied it, but she couldn’t find anything active. She slowly opened them and watched as Geralt’s face fell at the expression on hers. She spoke in a whisper. “There is no spell.”

Geralt closed his eyes in despair at her words. “No, no, that’s not true. She can’t think this isn’t real, she, she has to know it’s me. She has to know I came back for her. I can’t lose her, Yen. You have to do something.”

He was begging at this point, desperate for anything that would fix you, that would make you be alright. The guilt of leaving you sat on his chest, eating away at his heart as he turned his attention back to you. You had backed yourself further into the corner during their conversation, unnerved by the harsh words. You had curled into yourself, presenting a smaller target as you tucked your tail around your side and in front of your chest in an attempt to make yourself seem less threatening.

Geralt crumbled as he stared at you, unable to think, unable to come up with a solution that would fix this problem. He sighed, turning back to his pack. Jaskier and Ciri were sat together, leaning into each other as they drew strength from their counterpart, waiting anxiously for their leader’s decision. Yennefer lingered by the doorway, guilt on her face at the thought that she couldn’t fix this either.

Geralt spoke in a low voice, unable to meet any of their eyes. “Set it alight, Yen. Burn this fucking hell hole to the ground.”

“What about-” Yennefer cut herself off as the Witcher turned back to you, heartbreak clear on his face.

“I’ll carry her, make sure she gets out.” The thought of betraying your trust like that, of possibly hurting you sent knives through him, but he had to do it. As Yennefer muttered incantations under her breath behind him, Geralt closed his eyes and reached for that mantle of power, covering himself in it. He felt the world shift and opened his eyes to see sharper colours with his enhanced senses. In this form he could see your injuries with greater detail, and the guilt eating away at him grew. It was his fault you were in this situation in the first place. He couldn’t protect you and now you were hurt because of it.

As Yennefer announced she was ready, he approached you, heart breaking at the sight of you shrinking away from him. You screamed at him as he bent towards you, teeth snapping at his muzzle. Trying to be gentle, he batted you away, wincing as the scent of fear that had already been in the air grew stronger at his actions. He pressed you into the ground, closing his muzzle around the scruff at your neck as he gently lifted you into the air. You struggled for a little while longer before going limp, body becoming a dead weight hanging from his mouth.

Panicked, he set you down, a whimper escaping him as he nudged you with his nose. He could see your chest rising and falling as a distant part of him pointed out the fact that he could see all of your ribs through your fur. He pushed that, and the guilt, to the back of his mind, focusing on your heartbeat, faint as it was, consoling himself with the fact that it was still regular. Gathering you again, he lifted you by your scruff as he turned to look at the rest of his pack. A lion, a honey badger, and a raven waited for him.

As he moved towards the door, the raven flew over to a crack in the wall and placed the ball of light hanging from her beak there. As she did, a vivid blue flame sprung from it, racing up the stones to the ceiling as the shape shifters left the room, racing for the stairs. Geralt was careful not to swing you, but still moved with urgency. He could smell the acrid smoke filling the air as the stone burned from the unnatural flame. The pack burst out of the keep and raced for the forest, leaving the burning stone behind them, the flames highlighted as the structure was framed against the dark night sky.

**~*~*~*~**

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