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hanoella · 3 years

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Affettuoso- With Feeling (Part 2)

Pairing: Bucky x Pianist!Reader

Set after the events of TFATWS: In an effort to start over and make a home in Louisiana, Bucky meets a friend of Sam’s who ends up being his landlord. With only a driveway to separate them, he finds that he’s not the only one looking for a fresh start.

Series tags/warnings: Slow Burn, Eventual Bucky x Reader, Mentions of Domestic Abuse, Canon Level Violence

Part 2 Word Count: 3.5k

Read Part 1; Read Part 3

Autumn

A few days passed and the temperature had started dropping to one appropriate to fall. Each morning, Bucky had gotten up to exercise. And each morning, he opened his curtains to see that the house across from him remained unchanged. Lights that never turned off. No noise whatsoever. If it weren’t for your car in the driveway, he would’ve thought that no one lived there.

On his runs, he was able to see various things that needed fixing, like a fallen tree that was slightly in the way of a path or a pothole in the driveway he could patch. This morning though, instead of his run, he decided he was going to look around the back of the house, which was fenced off into a yard. From the gate, Bucky could see an old in-ground fire pit in the middle of the yard, closer to the screened in patio of the house than the far end of the yard, where the grass was overgrown- he would have to get on that.

The sound of a vehicle crunching on the gravel driveway caught Bucky’s attention. He walked from the side gate to the front porch where a man in a postal worker’s uniform was straining to get a large box out of the truck. Jogging over, he helped the older man set it down on the ground.

“Phew, thank you kindly sir,” the older man huffed as he took his hat off and wiped the sweat off of his forehead.

After taking a few moments to catch his breath, he walked around the side of the mail truck to grab a tablet from the front seat.

“Can you sign for this package?” He asked as he handed the tablet over to Bucky.

“Uh, sure.”

As he was signing, you came out the front door with a bottle of water in your hand. Bounding down the steps, you handed the cold water to the postal worker.

“Sorry, I would’ve been out earlier but I saw that you were working so hard, so I went back to grab a water for you.”

Bucky handed the tablet back as the older man thanked you.

“I appreciate it, ma’am. Do ya'll need help getting this inside?”

You looked at Bucky who shook his head.

“I think we’ve got it from here.” He said.

“Okay folks. Have a nice day.”

The postal worker turned around and got back in his truck. As the car started to roll forward, he lowered the window and waved while saying,

“It’s nice to see a kind young couple move into this area!”

With the truck halfway down the driveway, there was no chance to correct him. You looked at Bucky, mouth slightly ajar before shrugging it off with a small laugh. He chuckled as he awkwardly scratched the back of his head.

“He seems like a sweet guy.” You said as you watched the truck disappear behind the trees.

“Yeah.”

You stood there for a moment in silence before you spoke.

“So…”

“I’ll help you bring this in.”

“Okay, great, because there was no chance I was going to get this in by myself.”

You watched as Bucky lifted the large box with ease. As he went up the porch steps, you quickly passed him to hold the door open for him.

“I’m pretty sure that’s my bed frame, so you can set it in the room at the end of the hall.”

He turned to head down the hall, being careful to not bump into any walls. Entering the open room, he saw a room with plain white walls and a light sand-colored hardwood floor. Delicate sage green curtains moved ever so slightly as the breeze brought fresh air into the room. There was a mirrored closet with clothes that was cracked open, a small white table close to the ground, some boxes stacked in the corner of the room, and in the middle of the floor was a mattress covered in sheets, blankets, pillows and a laptop paired to some over ear headphones. He set the box down leaning against the wall.

“Ah, sorry about the mess, I haven’t had a chance to really get anything set up.” You say as you pass him to open the curtains wider.

“It’s alright, I’m sorry you had to sleep on the floor.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I still had the mattress so it wasn’t bad.”

Another pause. Bucky cleared his throat.

“Do you want help putting it together?” He asked, gesturing towards the box.

You sighed in response.

“Yeah, actually, I could. I’m sorry to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble.” He replied, seeing you smile tiredly from the corner of his eye.

You grabbed a pair of scissors sitting on the vanity and started opening the box. Once it was open, Bucky pulled out a large fabric cream colored headboard. You tried not to be too impressed at the fact that he pulled it out with one arm, flexing the muscles in ripples. It felt wrong to ogle so you shook your face slightly and dug into the box.

The material of the headboard was similar to canvas, reminiscent of the old cloth bags that flour used to come in when he was a child. As he set it down against the wall, he ran his right hand over the cloth one more time before letting his hand fall off.

The sound of you pulling out the metal parts to the actual bed frame snaps him out of his lull. Setting them down gently on the floor one by one, you attempt to make conversation.

“So, how’s the apartment? Is it okay? Do you need anything?” You asked, trying to hide how slightly out of breath that you were. Bucky walked over to grab the rest of the metal bars out of the box before you could try.

“Yeah, everything’s great. Thanks…”

There’s a lull as you fish the bag of screws and the instructions from the bottom of the box.

“Great. I couldn’t get down here soon enough to check everything myself. The real estate agent took pictures but it’s definitely not the same as laying your eyes on it in person.”

You open up the instructions and Bucky stands awkwardly before deciding to sit on the floor across from you. He leaned back onto his hands and enjoyed the fresh air circulating in the room. The slight chill was nothing compared to all the cold he had faced in his lifetime. That meant he could get by in a short-sleeved shirt and jeans. You, however, were bundled up slightly more. Bucky’s eyes trailed over you slowly as you focused on the instructions. Your hair was tucked back behind your ears in an attempt to keep it out of your eyes as you read, forest green shirt was layered with a cozy open cardigan. The black slim-cut joggers had fuzzy mid-calf socks layered over them to keep any warmth from escaping. Bucky wondered how much more you could possibly layer when the Winter comes and the true cold settles in the area. Before he could think about that, you flip back to the front page of instructions and tentatively spoke.

“Okay, so I think I get it…”

---

The next hour or so consisted of you telling him what parts went together and him screwing them together. It settled into a good flow, with scattered conversation sprinkled in between.

“So, how’re you enjoying Louisiana?” you asked casually as you skimmed over the next set of instructions.

“I haven’t been here long. It’s… different than New York,” he said as he twisted the screw in. At his prompting, you handed him another one. “Everyone’s friendly. It seems like a tight-knit community.”

“They definitely are,” you mused. “Brooklyn, right?”

He looked up at you, causing you to blink and then avert your gaze.

“Sorry,” you started to explain. “I saw the Smithsonian gallery during my last visit to New York… Do you ever have people recognize you?”

“Sometimes,” he said quietly, pausing for a moment before continuing on. “When I do get recognized, it’s not usually the kind of people I’d want to recognize me.”

Bucky thought back to shortly ago in Madripoor. Definitely not the kind of people that he wanted to recognize him. He shook the thought out of his head and continued.

“It’s strange to think that all those people who pass by the exhibit just know me now.”

You reflected on when you saw the exhibit. Right in the middle was a cutout of Bucky Barnes: Captain America’s Right Hand Man. The few paragraphs that were featured at the exhibit did not seem to fully encapsulate the man sitting in front of you, carefully screwing the metal pieces together.

“I think they know about you, but they don’t know you. There has to be more to James Buchanan Barnes than three paragraphs written by someone who’s never actually met you.” You say, meeting his eyes and raising your eyebrows comically.

For some reason, hearing his full name unnerved him. It made him antsy. He didn’t have any experience with being the center of any positive attention, and all of a sudden, your focus on him was scorching. He looked away and cleared his throat.

“Yeah, I suppose so.” He said gruffly.

You smiled gently before looking back down at the instructions to try to put him back at ease. It was funny, watching someone with such a hardened exterior be flustered so easily. There was definitely more to Bucky Barnes than meets the eye.

---

Bucky sat by himself, screwing the last piece in. You had left a few minutes ago to grab refreshments and hadn’t come back yet. He stood, dusting off his hands and pants before stretching his back and looking at the completed project. Picking up the mattress and all the blankets piled on it, he gently set it on the frame. Now it looked like you actually lived here. It was simple, but cozy.

The smell of butter and cheese wafted into the room, grabbing his attention. Looking up at the clock, Bucky realized it was almost noon. He followed the familiar smell to the kitchen where you were cooking, hair tied back and light-yellow apron. The delayed drinks were gathering condensation on the counter behind you. You looked over at him and slipped the apron over your head.

“Ah, sorry. I figured you could handle the last few screws so I started making lunch as well.” You said sheepishly.

“No, it’s fine. Thank you. It’s all done.”

He watched as you took the spatula and lifted a sandwich onto a plate, golden brown from toasting in the butter, matching the plate next to it. You had made the both of you lunch. Taking a knife, you cut the sandwiches in half and hand him the plate with the warm one that had just come out of the pan.

“It’s a grilled ham and cheese. I hope it’s okay.”

“You didn’t have to.” He responded, watching the melted cheese drip down the sides.

You shrugged. “I wanted to. Thanks for the help.”

“Thanks for the food. Do you need help assembling anything else?”

Your gaze flicked to the boxes leaning against the hallway. He looked behind at them and back, raising an eyebrow. Sighing in defeat, you spoke.

“… Yeah. But Sam is actually coming over later to help so you don’t have to do it now. If you do still want to help, you could come over then. I’ll be ordering dinner so you don’t have to worry about cooking. Though, please don’t feel like you have to. You’ve already done so much today.”

Bucky hesitated. He didn’t want to invade your life too much. After all, you were a woman living alone in a new area, the last thing you probably wanted was a strange man turning a contract into a forced friendship because you were polite. But then again, you had just moved down here. Of course, you needed a lot of help in the beginning. Soon, things will settle back to normal and then you’ll be back to just being neighbors who see each other outside occasionally.

“Sure. I’ll be back later when I hear Sam pull up. He doesn’t follow directions anyway so you probably need someone to supervise him.” He joked.

You smiled up at him.

“Great. You must be tired. You can take lunch to go and bring the plate back later.”

You didn’t want to keep him. He wouldn’t have minded staying. But he was still new to being an actual person again. His social battery was a little drained, and he appreciated the easy out.

“Okay, I’ll see you later.” He said, giving his classic low-key three finger salute.

“Bye,” you replied softly as you watched him open the screen door and walk down the porch steps. Lightly padding down the hallway, you peaked into your room, seeing the final product. It was sweet that he put the mattress down and you noticed he had also straightened out the blankets just a little. What a sweet gesture. He was a gentleman. Despite the gruff. You padded back down to the kitchen and sat at the counter to eat. It always felt wrong to make so much noise. You were just one person. One tiny insignificant useless person.

---

Bucky sat at his kitchen table, finishing the sandwich that he had started to eat on the way in. His attempt to eat it while it was still hot was so worth it, the bread still warm and comforting. As he took his last bite, he traced his finger on the little pattern of flowers and leaves on the border of the sage green ceramic plate. All of the little homey, slightly old-fashioned details were very reminiscent of home. Not his previous apartment in Brooklyn. But home back in the 1930’s when he was growing up. It was comforting. He sat back in the chair and closed his eyes, dreaming of a world that no longer existed.

---

Later, Sam knocked on the door way and shouted up the stairs through the screen door.

“Hey, anybody home?”

You bounded down the stairs and unlocked the screen door to let him in, giving him a hug in greeting.

“Woah, woah, don’t make me spill the goods,” he said with a laugh, holding the two cases of beer up.

“Good to see you too,” You joked.

Bucky saw the interaction from the garage window that faced your porch. He wondered if there was something between you two and quickly shook the thought from his head. He wasn’t jealous, just curious. It didn’t matter. After all, you were Sam’s friend first.

People can have friends, idiot. What does it matter to you? He thought to himself as he walked down the stairs to the garage.

Walking across the gravel to your front door, he knocked on the screen door as well.

“Come in!” You yelled from upstairs.

He opened the front door and walked up the stairs into the living room.

“Hey, Buck! How’re you settling in?” Sam said, giving him a hug as well.

“Good, it’s really nice out here.” He replied after they had separated.

“Good. I’m glad. You look like you finally got some rest.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, he was over early this morning, hauling around a bunch of heavy stuff and putting furniture together.” You interjected, bringing the bottle opener in from the kitchen.

“Let me guess, he completely messed it up? Turned your table into a chair or something like that?” Sam teased. Bucky slapped him upside his arm.

“Despite the picture you painted of him, he was extremely competent.” You said while trying not to laugh at Sam’s face of fake hurt. “Now come on, there’s a beer fee, you get one beer for every piece of furniture you put together.”

“I’m the one who brought the drinks though!” Sam protested, following you down the hall to the room where the boxes were.

Bucky smiled a bit as he listened to you both squabble. Friends or not, it was nice to have someone else to annoy Sam with.

---

“You sure you’re okay to go pick up the food?”

You looked up at Bucky from where you sitting on the floor, reading directions while Sam, who was ever so slightly tipsy, was trying to get a leg of a night stand to fit straight.

“Yeah, I’m good. He looks… busy. And it’s probably better for me to go out this late. You know, ‘cuz you’re a woman... lady.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Not to say that you’re not perfectly capable of handling yourself, I just mean… uh…”

“Pff-”

The laugh that Sam had been trying to hold back escaped from between his lips loudly as he covered his mouth. You rolled your eyes but regardless, a smile crept up on your face.

“Ignore him. I was just giving you a hard time. It’s very chivalrous.”

You paused thoughtfully.

“On a serious note, that’s very sweet of you. I appreciate it. You can just charge it to the card I gave you.”

He nodded and started walking down the stairs to the porch.

“Be safe!” He heard you call softly down the stairs.

“Will do.” Bucky instinctively responded.

The screen door shut behind him as he made his way across the driveway to where his own motorcycle was parked. A sleek modern black sports bike. Something he’d bought when he wasn’t ready to look at Steve’s old cruiser. He’d put the cruiser in the garage to work on and keep safe.

He mounted the bike and started it, the engine coming to life. He went to check what time it was on his phone when he realized he had left it inside. Swinging his leg over, he started to walk back up to the front door when he heard your conversation with Sam from the open living room window.

“Feeling at home?” Sam asked. There was a short silence before you answered hesitantly.

“Something like that.”

“How you holding up?”

“It’s been okay… lonely… I just can’t believe I let it go on for so long.”

Bucky hadn’t realized he had stopped in his tracks, eyebrows furrowed as he listened.

“The people who are trapped in the abusive relationship themselves always have a harder time seeing it than anyone else.”

Bucky blinked in surprise as Sam continued.

“It’s like that thing they say when you’re cooking with frogs. If the water’s boiling when you first put them in, they’ll hop right out the pot. But if you put the frog in cool water and slowly heat it up, they’ll stay, no matter how hot it gets. The more gradual the process is, the less likely they are to realize that they’re in trouble before it’s too late.”

“Yeah…” Your voice sounded heavy. Burdened.

“He was nice at first, wasn’t he?” You asked rhetorically.

“He was.”

“Fooled me…”

“Fooled me too. I never would’ve introduced him to you if I had known that’s what he was like. I should’ve known there was something off about him. I should’ve sensed it during the support group he came to at the VA.” Sam said regretfully.

“Hey, it’s not your fault, Sam.” You said, chastising him. “At some point, I knew that things were heading in the wrong direction. He got so angry. So spiteful. I knew I had stopped loving him and started being afraid of him. But then everyone was dusted, and I didn’t have anywhere else to be, anyone else to be with besides him. Being somewhere new by myself would bring struggles I couldn’t prepare for. At least with him, I knew what to be afraid of. Then everyone came back and he almost killed me. I guess I was just a poor little froggy.”

You tried to ease the heaviness of the conversation by being lighthearted with the last sentence. But there was still a sadness in your voice.

“Still. I wish I could’ve helped you when you broke your shoulder.”

“Don’t feel bad, Sammy. I ended up just fine. I’m here now. The only thing I regret is letting him trash my piano. It was old, but I grew up playing that thing.”

“I know how much it meant to you.”

“It’s okay, it's a new start. Besides, you were off fighting to be Captain America! Rightfully so. If this was the sacrifice I had to make for the right man to be able to take up the shield, I would’ve broken my other shoulder too!”

Sam must have given you a death glare because you laughed suddenly and your tone changed to defensive.

“Kidding! Kidding. Yeesh. But seriously, I’m proud of you. And thank you, for helping me start over.”

Bucky unclenched his hands. He hadn’t realized that he had gotten tense. Turning around, he headed back to the bike. He didn’t need his phone. He didn't want to let on that he overheard. Getting back on the bike, he waited until he heard laughter to sneak down the driveway, masking the fact that he was just now leaving.

Once he got out on the road, he sped up- letting the wind sting against his face and cool it down. The thought of a man using his own strength to hurt what was supposed to be his other half- it made him so mad. No wonder you were scrambling to get out here. He hoped that you never had to go through anything like that again.

Rest assured, if he can do anything to prevent that from happening, he will.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bucky imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x y/n

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ahtsumu · 4 years

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HEAVEN (IS A PLACE ON EARTH WITH YOU)

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 120

pairing: nanami kento x gn!reader

tags: angst, fluff, chicken soup for the soul ; wc: 2k

synopsis: he lives.

Nanami Kento wakes up with the taste of ash in his mouth.

His fingers twitch first–– the ones on his right hand tighten their grip on the handle of his sword when they recognise the familiar object. The ones on his left feel the bumpy ridges on the floor. Tenji blocks. What?

And then his eyes open, blinking rapidly as the fluorescent-lit world comes into focus. Only when they set on the severed arm next to his head does Nanami remember where he is. Why he’s holding his sword. What he was doing before everything went dark.

Meiji-Jingumae Station.

Instantly, the blond sits up–– feeling his spine pop as he does–– and scans the empty subway station for a patchwork doll-looking spirit. The sound of his neck cracking as his razor-sharp gaze rotates left and right echoes through the station. Oddly enough, the popping joints don’t feel like byproducts of time and age. For the first time, his stiff bones feel like evidence of unuse.

Nanami Kento feels like a pair of ballet shoes that need to be broken-in before being worn. New.

He hasn’t felt like this in years.

Mahito isn’t here. Excluding the maimed bodies of ex-humans that surround Nanami’s sitting figure, the subway station is completely empty. Is it over? A sinking feeling unfolds in Nanami’s stomach as he runs through the possible outcomes of the fight. The worst case scenario is that everyone is dead, he thinks as he brushes the dust off his clothes and stands up, still on alert for any unwelcome surprises. Nanami pauses as he considers what the best case would be, then.

It’s so foolishly optimistic he’s afraid to put it in words.

But miracles happen. The fact that he’s alive is proof of that. Well… Nanami hovers a hand over his wrist and pauses. Does he really want to know? This must be how Orpheus felt bringing Eurydice back from the underworld, he muses, letting his hand drop back to his side. Afraid to have been cheated of resurrection, yet even more afraid to check.

A thought, wrapped in hazard red and flashing all over, suddenly pushes itself to the front of Nanami’s whirring mind. It’s not necessarily a question; in fact, he doesn’t even know what he needs to know about you right now.

The whole thought is just two words and it’s your name.

A second thought puts a calming hand on the first one’s shoulder. It’s alright. You’re at home. You’re probably curled up in bed right now, a book in one hand and a steaming mug of chamomile tea in another. Nanami smiles softly and imagines crawling into bed beside you, falling asleep with you in his arms. That’d be nice.

He’s done enough, hasn’t he?

It’s time to go home.

ii.

“Nanami Kento.”

His head jerks up at the sound of his name, but he fails to pinpoint where it’s coming from. Even if he could, it’s not like he’d be able to see who said it.

Everything is black.

“Am I dead?” he rasps. His voice echoes through the space, each morpheme layering over another like an endless canon.

“Yes. But you don’t have to be.”

Regardless of the events that had occurred in Shibuya, it’s still jarring to see the heart of Tokyo–– or at least, one of the hearts of Tokyo–– at a standstill, looking like a ghost town. Nanami’s sharp blue eyes dart around the intersection, noting how much worse the destruction the city has been dealt looks under daylight.

Daylight. He freezes. It was nighttime when he arrived at the station. The fight’s probably over now. How long has he been out? Frantically, Nanami feels for his phone in his trousers' pockets, muttering a string of curses when he realises that the device isn’t in any of them.

Deep in his left pocket, however, his fingers brush against a 10,000 yen note and a thin red card with the words “Pleasure Doing Business with You” engraved in gold.

Nanami hails a taxi back.

iii.

The thing about souls is that they exist before the body does.

So they also die after the body does.

And that means a soul can live without a body. (For how long is another discussion.) But the fact of the matter is that after the human body’s death, the soul remains living for a period of time. And in that time, humans are most connected to the Universe.

Some can even speak to it.

Fewer can bargain with it.

“A binding vow with the Universe itself.”

Nanami nods. “I have…” an image of your face flickers behind his eyes “…unfinished business on Earth.”

“The hero cheats death for love.”

“I’m not a hero,” he replies firmly, “I’m just a regular guy with some irregular abilities. And I’m not cheating death.” He wonders how to phrase his next words without coming off as an ingrate. “The fact that I’m here right now means you planned this all along.”

It’s 8:27 AM on November 1st. That’s the date on your phone. Nanami found it sandwiched in the crack between the sofa cushions after looking around the first floor for your familiar figure. You also have around a hundred missed calls and even more unread texts. “I’m so sorry for your loss”s and “are you okay?”s clutter the screen, all from names he recognises. As he scrolls through the notifications, it becomes clear why you’d left your phone in the sofa.

At some point, the “sorry”s become oppressive.

So you know he’s dead. Or, he quickly corrects, you think he’s still dead. Thankfully, he was only gone for a few hours. Maybe that’ll make his unexpected appearance easier to process. Nanami sets your phone down on the coffee table and silently walks up the stairs, making a beeline for the bedroom. Slowly, he pushes the half-closed door open.

The curtains are shut and messily so, like you’d just yanked the fabric once on each side towards the middle before moving on. The thinnest streams of light peek through the cracks you’d left in your haste, each seeming to stop and pool at the figure curled up on the queen-sized bed in the middle of the room.

Nanami feels something cold reach for his heart and squeeze.

You’re asleep, curled into a ball wearing one of his old sweatshirts, your face buried into a pillow with discoloured streaks everywhere, likely the doing of your tears. Letting out a guilt-laden breath, Nanami treads carefully to your side and places a hand on your shoulder. He gently shakes you.

And your eyes, puffy from crying, flutter open.

They meet a familiar pair of thin blue ones.

For a moment, you just stare at the man in front of you. The sunlight coming through the curtains ricochets off Nanami’s golden hair, forming a soft halo around his head. A small–– slightly apologetic–– smile plays at the corner of his lips as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Ken?” you breathe, sitting up instantly.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

That can’t be him, you think as you stare up at Nanami with wide eyes and a hanging jaw.

“But Ieiri said you were burned everywhere. And your eye––” you touch your own, you don’t dare touch his “–– she said it was gone.” Ieiri had also said that there’d been a hole burnt through his chest. That Itadori saw him disintegrate with his own eyes. That he was gone forever. This can’t be Nanami.

“Yeah. I, uh, died,” the blond says, looking down at the ground. “But then I made a binding vow with the Universe and… I came back to life.”

A moment of silence passes.

“If I touch you––”

“I won’t disappear.”

“Promise?”

Nanami feels the red card in his pocket. This, he thinks, must be the reassurance Orpheus needed but never had.

“I promise.”

Your arms around his waist are a little firmer than usual but Nanami doesn’t mind. He’s just glad to be in bed beside you with the curtains drawn (properly this time), holding you closer than close, feeling your steady breath on his neck.

When your hands briefly tighten around his side as if to check that he’s still there for the tenth time that hour, Nanami grins and finally asks, “What?”

“I just… can’t believe that you’re alive,” you murmur into his chest. It’s firm–– always has been–– but the feeling of the muscle and bones pressing back against your face brings you a certain peace you never thought you’d crave. “A binding vow with the Universe… is that even possible?”

Nanami laces your fingers together. You admire how his skin buzzes against yours, each pulse of the blood pumping through his veins a reminder of his still-beating heart.

“I think it’s similar to how reality is composed of layers that show themselves depending on the viewer,” Nanami says slowly, looking up at the ceiling. “For example, humans can’t see cursed spirits. That layer only shows itself to sorcerers.”

You hum in agreement.

“And so whatever it was I made that binding vow with… I think, in that moment, it let me see through another layer of reality.”

His words hang in the air as the two of you dissect them.

“What was the deal you struck?” you ask, peering up Nanami’s face.

The weight of the red card makes itself known in his pocket. “If I tell you,” he says, shifting so that you’re at eye-level, “you can’t give me shit about it.”

You nod.

Quickly, he reveals his end of the bargain. Anticipating your disapproval right afterwards, he shifts so that his chin rests at the top of your head.

“Kento––”

“You can’t give me shit about it.”

“… Fine,” you huff with a roll of your eyes. But you’re not pleased–– and Nanami knows–– and the conversation lulls to a stop.

(Your bodies stay intertwined.)

He waits for you to speak again–– because you always do–– so he’s not surprised when, minutes later in a quiet voice, you ask, “Did you see heaven?”

Nanami pauses. Did he?

“I think I did.”

“What did it look like?”

His eyes flick down at your face before looking back up at the ceiling. And he smiles.

“Like this.”

Mahito’s hand on his charred chest. Haibara. Itadori. Haibara. Itadori. Flowery words that wilt into curses. “You got it from here.” Feeling his body crumble away into dust. Blackness.

All his memories swim past his eyes. He sees his parents talking at the dinner table, his childhood friends crawling over playground equipment, the Jujutsu Tech second-years grinning as he bows in front of them, the first cursed spirit he ever exorcised, the dull-faced employees at Sachs, Itadori’s optimistic grin…

And then, you.

You with that look of concentration on your face as you sit in silence across from each other in the living room, feet propped up on the coffee table and noses buried in your respective reading materials.

You with flushed cheeks and reddened lips as he pulls away from the kiss to quip how it’s completely inappropriate for you to be interrupting him while he’s working, even if it is from home with a small smirk–– despite how he tugged you onto his lap in the first place.

You, sun-drenched and beautiful, laughing your head off in the passenger seat as he drives down the Shuto Expressway with both hands on the steering wheel, complaining again about your shit taste in music and begging you to throw on some Beatles tunes but still humming under his breath when you play another Britney song.

He’ll miss you.

Death is inevitable–– this much he and all sorcerers know–– so dying has never been a big deal to Nanami. And he’s never had a specific idea about how he’d die.

But as each moment flashes by and disappears in the periphery of his mind, Nanami realises that if death is inevitable, then dying like this, with you as the last thing he sees, is the best way to go.

Not everyone gets to die with heaven already in sight.

#nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

Text

the before, the after, the in-between

Chapter Six: mixed reunions Words: 4.2k

Relationships: Jon & Daisy, Jon/Martin, Daisy & Basira Tags: Post-Canon, Scottish Safehouse, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mute Jon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies

Work Summary:

There was no knife, no blood, and Jon was not dead. And when he heard a strangled noise from beside him and looked over to see Martin standing in the doorway of the safehouse, flung open and letting in the frigid bite of near-winter and sunlight, there was sunlight, he felt such a dizzying, intense wave of relief that he could hardly breathe around it.

Then, he opened his mouth to say Martin’s name, and nothing came out, and all of the relief fell away in an instant.

Jon wakes up in the safehouse in October of 2018, alive and well but without the Eye and without his voice. In the days that follow, he finds himself confronted with a world that has reset itself in space and in time, a version of himself that is no longer the Archivist, and the fact that death during the end of the world had not been so permanent as it had seemed.

Chapter Summary:

Basira seems happy to see you, Jon writes.

Daisy exhales slowly. “Yeah. She does.”

Jon waits for her to elaborate. When she doesn’t, he sighs, taps his pen on the paper a few times, and writes, And is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Daisy stares at the page a long while. Just when Jon thinks she’s not going to answer him at all, she says, “It’s… good. Just odd. Feels… like she shouldn’t be.”

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(cw for mentions of gun and knife violence, mentions of death/murder, mentions of blood)

Stars are just beginning to fill the sky when there comes a knock at the door—two crisp taps, unhurried, but with a heavy insistence that has Martin standing from the couch quickly, mumbling, “I’ll get it,” and crossing the room while Daisy and Jon watch from where they’re still sat on the couch.

“Hel—oh, yes, come in,” Martin says as he opens the door and Basira immediately pushes past, her eyes scanning the room in front of her with a firm intensity. “Nice to see you too,” he mutters as Basira’s eyes find Daisy, and a wide-eyed expression crosses her face so quickly Jon can’t pin down what it’s meant to be.

“Daisy,” Basira says, and then she’s across the room and standing in front of Daisy, hand halfway outstretched towards her. “It’s… it’s really you?”

Daisy’s hand twitches where it’s clasped in Jon’s. He gives it a subtle, reassuring squeeze. “It’s really me,” she says quietly.

Basira’s eyes scan Daisy’s face, the outline of her body, as if searching for imperfections. After a moment, her eyes find Daisy’s again and she nods, as if confirming something for herself. “Right,” she says, retracting her hand and dropping it to her side. Next to him, Jon can feel Daisy tense slightly, though her face remains carefully calm. Basira takes in a deep breath, lets it out, then steps forward and wraps her arms around Daisy’s shoulders, bending down at an awkward angle to do so.

Daisy goes rigid for a moment before softening. Her hand slips out of Jon’s as she tentatively returns the hug, her hands ghosting across Basira’s shoulder blades and her fingers tracing the hem of Basira’s hijab. Basira exhales again sharply, gripping Daisy a little tighter as she does so, and says, “I thought you were gone.” Her voice is even, but there’s a layer of desperation underneath it that makes it sound choked at the edges. Jon suddenly feels very out of place, and he tries to subtly shift towards the other end of the couch to give them space.

“I was,” Daisy says, voice muffled by the fabric of Basira’s hijab. “But now I’m not.”

Basira laughs a bit unsteadily. “Right,” she says again. “I… I wondered if you were back. Didn’t want to think about it too hard, though. Just in case.”

Daisy is quiet for a moment. Then, so quietly Jon almost doesn’t hear, she says, “I’m sorry, Basira.”

Basira grips her tightly for a moment more, then pulls back so she can study Daisy’s face. “Don’t be. You didn’t force me to do anything. I made you a promise, and I kept it. That’s just how it was.” She exhales slowly. “Besides, none of that matters now. You’re back, and that’s a good thing. God knows there’s enough that’s wrong in the world right now.”

Daisy sits very still, a strange sort of tension keeping her rigid. “You’re… not angry?”

Basira frowns. “No. It was hard, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t you, Daisy. You were trying to be better, before, but you did what you had to, and so did I. It’s just how it was; no point in being upset about it.”

Daisy looks down at a point just beneath Basira’s eyes. “Yeah. No point,” she echoes. After a moment, she says, “You’ve been… okay, then?”

Basira’s lips purse. “I’ve been managing. Finding my own way. Dealing with…” She waves her hand in the air, an encompassing gesture, and Jon doesn’t miss the way her eyes flick over to him. He’s not particularly fond of it, though he fights back the scowl. “It’s been a mess.”

“You said it’s been bad,” Martin says, coming up behind the couch with four mugs of tea carefully balanced in his hands. He passes the first one to Jon with a thin-lipped smile, then to Daisy and Basira in turn. “What does that mean?”

Basira sighs and blows across the surface of her tea in an attempt to cool it. “Well, after you… reset the world? Which we’re going to have a long conversation about, by the way.” She looks pointedly at Jon, who looks pointedly back and takes a sip of his tea to hide his glower. He’s still a bit irritated about the whole… group decision situation. Maybe more than a bit. “I woke up in the Institute, still sitting at the same bloody desk I’d been working at when everything went to hell. I knew something was off straight away, because that feeling of being watched? It just wasn’t there. Didn’t matter how, didn’t matter why—it just wasn’t. So I assumed that the plan worked and the Fears were gone, but I didn’t know yet that we’d been thrown back in time or whatever. Got up and started looking around, trying to figure out where Georgie and Melanie went. Yeah, it was weird that everything looked the same, but I’d seen weirder.”

Basira takes a long sip of her tea. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon sees Daisy shift, setting her still-full mug on the side table and tapping her fingers on her thigh in a rhythmic pattern. He thinks, for a moment, about reaching out, but instead, he just curls his fingers tighter around his own mug. “The place was pretty empty,” Basira says finally. “Before the change, the blood and stuff was all cleaned up about a week after that last attack on the Institute, and then it was just me and a few others. Rosie, a couple of people from Artefact Storage. The people who’d survived and who weren’t smart enough to just… stay away. Rosie was still at her desk. She looked like she’d seen… well. She looked like she’d seen what the rest of us had seen. And…”

Basira exhales slowly, and for the first time, she looks… hesitant. Like she’s not sure she should continue. After a moment, Martin says, “And what, Basira?”

Basira looks down into her tea, her jaw set. “And him. Elias. Jonah. Whatever. Just… sitting behind his desk when I opened the door to his office. Like nothing had even fucking happened.”

A shock of something simultaneously icy cold and red-hot laces up Jon’s spine, and he nearly drops his mug. He looks at Basira with wide eyes, even as he thinks that it makes sense, of course it makes sense, everyone who died while the world was wrong came back, of course he would too, why would it be any different. He remembers the sensation of the knife tearing its way through Jonah’s throat, the heat of the blood as it had dripped down his hands and wrists, tries to juxtapose the image of Jonah lying dead on the Panopticon floor with the image of him sitting alive and well and breathing behind his desk once again, and feels sick. He doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until the exhalation rips its way harshly out of his throat like it’s been punched out of him. He barely feels Daisy’s hand as it wraps around his, barely feels it as she takes the mug of tea from him and settles it on the floor so it won’t spill. He registers the brush of another hand against his arm, and he hears Martin’s voice from beside him, saying with concern, “Jon? Breathe, love. It’s all right, just breathe.” Then, to Basira: “Christ. He’s alive?”

“Was alive,” Basira corrects, and just like that, all of the air crashes back into Jon’s lungs and he takes a deep, rattling breath, his eyes focusing on her face as it twists into something that might be called a smile if one were being generous with the definition. “I… I didn’t really think. Just pulled my gun and pointed it at him. No Eye, no contract. No reason not to kill him. I wasn’t planning to shoot him, not really, but then he started rambling about- about apotheosis and failure and second chances, trying to convince me that there was no need to be hasty, that we could work something out. Called me Detective again. Just the same slimy bullshit, but without all the bravado and without the collateral.” Basira sighs and looks up from her tea, glancing at Jon with something unreadable on her face. “Melanie was pissed that I didn’t let her stab him.”

Jon makes a choked noise that he thinks, after a moment, might be a laugh. It’s devoid of any amusement, though, and might be bordering on hysterical. Beside him, Martin says quietly, “Shit. Well, uh. That’s… that’s good, at least?”

Basira grimaces. “Sure. It’s great that the bastard’s dead—again, I guess, assuming that you did kill him before everything went back to normal—but things are still a disaster back in London. I’ve been trying to keep them from tearing down the whole Institute, though don’t ask me why I even care about the place after all this. People are angry.” Basira taps her fingers on her thigh in thought. “It’s… probably for the best that you guys ended up out here, actually. Things haven’t been good for the people in charge of domains. They got ahold of Simon Fairchild, and it… it wasn’t pretty. There’s been some chatter about leniency towards the less actively malicious former avatars—I think that came up after they found Callum, actually, which… yeah, that’s a whole thing—but…”

Basira shrugs. But people wouldn’t be so forgiving towards the person who ended the world, Jon thinks with a wry, twisting feeling in his stomach. He fiddles with the notebook where it sits on his lap, but he doesn’t open it. After a moment, Basira continues, “So that’s the state of things, basically. Even though everything’s technically fixed, there’s still a lot of damage, and Georgie, Melanie, and I have been handling it as best we can. Though I think Melanie’s of the opinion that we should just let the entire Institute burn. She’s probably right, but…” Basira shrugs. “It’s just a building full of scary stories now. Might be able to make some use out of it.”

“Right,” Martin says with a sigh. “That’s… a lot.”

“Yeah,” Basira says, sounding weary. “It’s… it’s nice to have a break. To just appreciate the fact that everything’s better now, you know?”

Better for us, Jon thinks bitterly, and he can feel the edges of his mouth twitching into a scowl that he forcibly represses. He doesn’t think pointing out that they’ve condemned an infinity of other worlds to suffering for their own peace of mind would be beneficial, given they’ve already driven that argument into the ground and then some. Besides, he thinks as he rubs his thumb over the spine of the notebook, that would require him to open the notebook and writing it down, and Basira doesn’t know about his voice yet. He’s too tired to hear whatever surface-level pity she might be able to conjure up for him.

“I’ve missed you, Daisy,” Basira says, an increased vigor in her voice as she turns to face Daisy. She looks like she wants to reach a hand out towards her, but she doesn’t. “It’s been… hard. Being alone with all of this. I’ve had Melanie and Georgie, but I… I could use my partner.”

Daisy stares at her for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is slightly more hoarse than usual. “You want me to come back to London with you.”

Basira nods, a slight frown forming on her face. “Do you… not want to?”

Daisy is quiet for a long moment. Her eyes stare down at the floor, focusing on nothing at all. “I don’t know,” she says finally, the words tense and choked, like the honesty of them pains her. “I… I need to think.”

Basira watches her for a few seconds, something stiff and rigid on her face. “All right,” she says at length, a touch of surprise and resignation lacing her voice. “That’s fine. I can’t stay past tomorrow, though—I have to get back and deal with what’s going on back in London. If you don’t want to…” Basira’s mouth flattens into a line. “It’s fine. I’ll understand.”

“It’s not—” Daisy cuts off with a frustrated noise, almost a growl. “I just need to think.”

“All right,” Basira says again, more placating this time. “I… won’t rush you.”

It’s quiet in the room for a long moment. Finally, as if at a loss for anything else to say and falling back on instinct, Martin offers a tentative, “Would… anybody like something to eat? You’ve been traveling all day, Basira, I don’t know if you’re… er, hungry or not.”

Basira stares at Daisy a moment more. Then, she sighs and says, “Sure, why not.”

“Great!” Martin says, sounding relieved. “Let me just… I’ll see what we’ve got that’s quick.”

He stands, and Basira stands in tandem with him. “I’ll help,” she says. “I’ve got some… things I want to talk to you about. And then after we eat, we’re going to discuss…” She gestures in the general vicinity of Jon and Martin. “Everything.”

Jon curls in on himself slightly. Martin just sighs and says, “Come on, then.” They disappear into the kitchen, and then Jon is left with Daisy on the couch, the faint clatter of cupboards opening and dishes rattling settling into the background.

Now that they’re alone, Jon reaches over and bumps his hand against Daisy’s, a silent question. When she turns her hand over, he takes it in his, threading their fingers together and squeezing firmly. With his other hand, he awkwardly flips the notebook open, ignoring Daisy’s sound of amusement as he clumsily takes his pen in hand and balances the notebook at the same time, and writes, Are you okay?

Daisy pauses for a few seconds before responding. “Yeah,” she says simply.

Jon waits for her to elaborate. When it becomes clear that she’s not going to, he writes, Basira seems happy to see you.

Daisy exhales slowly. “Yeah. She does.”

Again, Jon waits for her to elaborate. When she doesn’t, he sighs, taps his pen on the paper a few times, and writes, And is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Daisy stares at the page a long while. Just when Jon thinks she’s not going to answer him at all, she says, “It’s… good. Just odd. Feels… like she shouldn’t be.”

Jon raises an eyebrow and gives her hand another gentle squeeze. After a moment, Daisy continues, “Even after the coffin, there had been this… weight, between us. I knew she was glad I was back, but I could also tell she was disappointed. She tried to hide it but, heh, she’s always been easy to read for me. She wanted the person I was before, and I knew that, deep down, she was frustrated that I wasn’t that person anymore. I was never… angry with her about it. I understood. Basira’s practical, always likes to have the upper hand. And me choosing to ignore the Hunt… it wasn’t practical. Not for her. She was happy to see me, but she also wished it was a different me. It just… feels weird that it’s not the same now. I’m different, and Basira doesn’t like different. She doesn’t like change.”

There’s been a lot of change lately, Jon writes. Then, while Daisy’s reading his words, he continues, She went through a lot after you were gone. With everything that’s happened, the world the way it is, I

Jon pauses, and Daisy waits as he taps the pen on the paper, leaving little half-formed dots of ink where it makes contact. After a moment, he sighs and finishes, I think she’s just glad that you’re back. Whatever version of yourself that may be.

Daisy looks towards the kitchen. There’s the gentle murmur of voices, too quiet to make out any words above the sound of things sizzling in pots and pans. “Maybe. I… don’t know.” There’s a pause, and then she says, quieter, “Maybe she’s just glad that I’m not a monster anymore.”

When Jon goes to write, she squeezes the hand of his she’s still holding tighter, shaking her head. “Don’t. It’s… complicated.” She’s quiet for a long moment, looking away from Jon and focusing on the faint light streaming in from the kitchen. “The parts of me that she valued the most,” she says at length, “the ones that made me a good partner, that made me strong—they were all that was left by the time she found me after the change. They were all Hunt. And I knew when she looked at me, when she pointed her gun at me, that she saw me. Not the Hunt, not some… monster. Me. But I don’t… know if she believes that it was really me.”

Daisy grimaces, like she’s not happy with the words. Carefully, giving Daisy time to stop him if she wants, Jon writes, You don’t know if she accepts that all the worst parts of yourself are still yours.

Daisy is quiet for a moment. “Something like that,” she says finally. “She… she said it wasn’t me. That the person she hunted through the apocalypse wasn’t me. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell her that it was. That it is. It feels like…” Daisy blows out a breath. “Basira’s good at compartmentalizing. It makes her a good partner, a good… hunter. But if I go with her to London, and she just… puts everything that happened during the change behind us, I don’t think things are going to last.” Daisy huffs out a laugh. “She’s stubborn. I like that about her. Can also make things… difficult.”

Jon laughs through his nose and writes, Yeah, Martin’s like that too sometimes. He hesitates, then continues, So what do you want to do?

Daisy studies his face for a moment. “What do you want me to do?” At his look of surprise, she continues, “I can see it on your face. You have an opinion, so just… spit it out. Write it down. Whatever.”

Jon scowls. I do not, he begins to write, before his hand stills, leaving the sentence incomplete. He takes a deep breath, exhales, and scratches the words out with a bit more force than is strictly necessary. Next to them, he writes in thick, dark lines, I want you to stay. Then, quickly after: But you should go with Basira.

Daisy reads the words and hums. “Why?”

Because she’s your partner, Jon writes, irritation and a strange sort of sadness mixing in him and twisting his lips into a grimace, and because she needs

“I meant,” Daisy says, bumping her knee against Jon’s to cut him off, “why do you want me to stay?”

Jon blinks at her, surprised. He looks down at the paper, holds the pen tightly for a moment, and then writes in careful, neat letters, Because I like you. Does there have to be another reason?

Daisy hums and, after a moment, shakes her head. “No. I guess not.” She bumps her knee against Jon’s again, a bit firmer this time. “Thanks. But you’re wrong, you know. About Basira.” Daisy looks at the kitchen again, where the sizzling has stopped and there’s the faint clattering of dishes. “She doesn’t need me. She’d be fine without me. Always has been.” She sighs. “And so would you.”

Jon nods and squeezes her hand. I know, he writes.

Daisy sighs again, leans her head back against the couch. “I think,” she says after a moment, “that… I have to do what’s right for me. Not me and Basira, just… just me.”

Jon is about to ask what that entails when Martin’s voice floats over from the kitchen, telling them that the food’s ready. Daisy doesn’t say anything more as she stands, snorting softly as her maintained grip on Jon’s hand pulls him to his feet as well, and together, they head into the kitchen.

The first half of the meal is spent in relative quiet. Basira keeps shooting looks at Martin, who returns her gaze with something firm and unyielding. Jon shifts in his chair and nibbles on his cheese toastie, trying very hard not to grab his pen and start tapping it on the table just to fill the tense, awkward silence between them all. Finally, Basira finishes her sandwich, looks at Martin again, sighs, and says, “Martin filled me in on what happened.” Then, at Martin’s glare: “What? I’m not talking about it. I’m just… acknowledging it.”

“Good,” Martin says, pinching his toastie just a bit too firmly between his fingers. “Because there’s not much to talk about. Which is why we agreed not to talk about it.”

Irritation washes over Jon, and he tries to squash it down. He can’t help the way his knee starts bouncing under the table though, and he takes a sullen bite of his toastie. Not much to talk about. Sure. For a moment, he entertains the thought of dropping the sandwich unceremoniously, grabbing his notebook, and scribbling out, Thanks for asking for my input before telling Basira your version of events and saying that there’s nothing to talk about, but he pushes the thought away and takes another, bigger bite to distract himself. It’s fine. Martin’s… Martin’s right, it’s not the time.

(He’s still upset that he didn’t even get the slightest say in the matter. It’s fine.)

Rationally, Jon knows that Martin is just trying to avoid what would probably turn out to be a long, spiraling, extremely upsetting conversation-turned-argument. Irrationally, he wants to push the words we’ve condemned a thousand realities to hell; are you happy now? into Basira’s face and watch her try to defend herself. Was it worth it? he wants to ask. Was it fucking worth it, just so you can have your happy ending?

He doesn’t ask. He knows what her answer will be, and he doesn’t want to hear it right now.

It’s fine.

“So,” Basira says, not so much breaking through his thoughts as driving a battering ram through them, “the Fears are gone. For good. And they took your voice with them.”

“Basira,” Martin hisses.

“Just making sure I’ve got all of my bases covered,” Basira says defensively.

Jon glares at his plate. He sets his sandwich down, suddenly no longer hungry. He takes a deep breath, looks up at Basira, and nods. His fingers itch towards his notebook; he keeps them still.

“Hm.” Basira taps a single finger on the edge of her plate. “That… that makes sense, I guess. What with Annabelle’s whole… thing.”

Jon’s stomach squeezes. Throat tight, he nods again, looking away. His eyes land on Daisy, who’s sitting beside him and watching Basira with something unreadable on her face. Her toastie is sitting on her plate in front of her, completely untouched. Then, stiffly, as if preparing herself for a difficult truth, Daisy says, “I... know a little bit of BSL. Picked it up back when I was still a PC. It’s not much, but… it’s something.”

Basira looks at Daisy, her finger stilling on the side of her plate. When she speaks again, it’s quiet, and she doesn’t sound surprised. “You’re not coming with me, then.”

“Sorry,” Daisy says roughly. “Just… need a bit of time. Soon, I promise, just…”

“… just not now,” Basira finishes. “It’s… all right. I understand. Honestly, with things the way that they are out there right now, it… it might be for the best. Just until things settle down.”

“Yeah.” Daisy picks at the edge of her toastie. “You’ll… be safe, though?”

Basira takes a deep breath, and when she lets it out, her lips settle into a smile, thin and bordering on humorless but still warm in its own way. “Always am.”

Daisy laughs a little, just an exhalation of air through her nose. “Right.”

It becomes clear that none of them plan to eat more, so Martin and Jon clear the plates and stack them in the sink while Daisy and Basira sit at the table. Basira says some things to Daisy in hushed tones, and Daisy responds under her breath, and Jon takes wet dishes from Martin and wipes them down with a towel and stares out the window into the darkened sky and focuses on the sensation of cloth under his fingertips so he doesn’t lose himself in the inky black swirling thoughts that are threatening to drag him down.

“Hey,” Martin says quietly by his side, letting their fingers brush as he hands him another dish. “You all right?”

No is probably the honest answer. Jon is sure that Martin can see it on his face even as he nods and busies himself drying the plate in his hands. To his eternal gratitude, Martin doesn’t push, even as his mouth flattens and he continues scrubbing the dishes in the sink with careful, methodical motions. Jon is sure that, at some point, something will crack and Martin will push. Push until it all breaks and shatters and crumbles into a million tiny, sharp pieces. But for now, Jon dries dishes and scratches his thoughts into the back pages of his notebook where they’ve begun to pile up into messy tangles of words and emotions and focuses on the fact that, when Basira leaves in the morning, Daisy will still be here.

That, for now, he thinks, will have to be enough.

#tma #the magnus archives #jaisy week #jonathan sims #daisy tonner #basira hussain #martin blackwood #my writing #my fic #before tag #4.2k... how did this chapter get so long ;___;

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sunsetcurvecuddles · 3 years

Note

Boggie cuddles featuring Luke just flopping onto Alex unprompted cause he feels left out

first of all i love u second of all this got away from me and turned into a luke character study what else is new. this is essentially a snippety sequel to maybe you find it stuck in your molars but a) you don’t need to read molars to understand this i don’t think and b) idk if it’s good enough to put on ao3 so have it here at least haha maybe i’ll change my mind.

as in molars: luke in this is trans, and ambiguously ace/aro spec. warning for some pretty mild transphobia.

The feeling of fighting with his mom makes the back of Luke’s neck prickle and his hands hurt. He feels so dumb about how angry he is, that even after the whole length of the bike ride to Bobby's, Luke still has the urge to stomp the ground and throw his helmet down when he stops. The only thing stopping him is his mom's words still ringing in his ears, that he's certainly acting like a teenaged boy, throwing a tantrum like that. He still drops his bike, almost pettily, to hear it clatter to the ground.

The rational part of his brain, however small and puny, knows she probably meant he was acting stupid and hot-headed. Which maybe he was. If she meant anything else, why would she have supported him so far? They were fighting about the band, like always, not his gender.

But the cold ice-pick of fear in his heart keeps going over "acting like a boy" over and over and over, acting like, as in not really—

He shakes it off and takes a few deep breaths. Puts his hands behind his head, elbows out wide, and closes his eyes. Just breathes. Knows he can't go into the studio with that kind of energy, or he'll psych Reggie out.

"Luke?"

It's Alex, at the door. He must have heard Luke drop his bike. The sight of him — fingers curled around the doorframe, messy hair in his eyes, eyebrows furrowed — immediately loosens whatever ugly tight feeling was building in Luke's chest. His denim jacket has slipped off one of his shoulders, and he looks so soft and warm. Like safety and home and acceptance. Like he's looked Luke's whole life.

"Hey, Lex," he says, and it comes out a little breathless, but he tries to play it off as just being from the bike ride. "Sorry I'm late."

"Are you..." Alex begins, but he must see Luke flinch, because he blatantly changes direction mid-sentence, "... gonna come in? Bobby got pizza."

Luke's stomach growls, absolutely without his permission, and Alex laughs, rolling his eyes and beckoning Luke to follow him, as if Luke wouldn’t follow Alex into the depths of hell without looking back.

The studio takes another layer of distress off Luke's shoulders. It's dimly lit at this time of day, just past sunset, and Bobby's guitar and Reggie's bass have been propped up on the ground rather than their stands, which means they were playing before Luke arrived.

Bobby and Reggie are curled up together on the couch, both munching away at slices of pizza, and Reggie's in Bobby's lap, which momentarily startles Luke. Not because they're cuddling (the most run-of-the-mill Sunset Curve activity possible) but because it reminds him that things have changed.

To be fair, he's doing a good job adjusting. Bobby and Reggie dating might have thrown him for a loop at first, but he's getting his head around it. He's at the point now where he can handle hearing Reggie talk about when he and Bobby went out last week, without being totally consumed by without us? Was it a date? and feeling nauseous. The way Bobby looks at Reggie no longer makes him feel squirmy, even if he does still find it confusing.

And they're two of his favourite people in the entire world. So if they're happy, he's happy. Seeing them cozied up and warm and eating actually makes Luke feel better than he did a moment ago.

Kinda makes him wish he was cozied up too, though. Just without all the other... stuff.

"Hey, Luke!" says Reggie cheerfully, his cheeks a little flushed and a smile pulling across his face, but his mouth is completely full of pizza so it sounds more like "Eeuke!"

Bobby's nose wrinkles in amusement, Alex's in mild disgust, but neither of them say anything about it, and Luke doesn't care because Reggie looks so relaxed and happy, simply says, "Hey, Reg. Bobby."

To his relief, neither of them ask why he's late. He can't tell if it's because they're being considerate, or if it's because they're totally absorbed by the pizza. He's happy with it either way. Bobby gives him a little nod, and then shuffles as Reggie tucks his head under Bobby's chin, Bobby's hand coming to rest on the sliver of Reggie's hip that's exposed by his t-shirt riding up.

Luke's chest hurts. Not in an actually bad way, like it used to before top surgery, when he'd worn his binder for too long. Just in a feelings way. Not that he knows what that feeling is, what he's meant to call it. It's not jealousy of Bobby and Reggie. He doesn't want to have whatever this different thing is that they have, can barely identify it between the lines when he looks for it.

He just wishes he was being held like that, and wishes he didn't constantly feel like he has to prove himself to people all the time, and wishes he could feel included, somehow, without interrupting them.

When Alex slumps back into his own seat on the couch, Luke can't stop himself. Unceremoniously, he flops across Alex's lap, too, and reaches for a slice of pizza before Alex can properly finish scoffing, Alex’s arms coming around his waist by instinct to stop him overbalancing and toppling to the floor.

"What the — dude, get off me!" Alex insists, but his voice has none of the sharp edge that it would if he actually meant it, if this was one of those times where Alex needed not to be touched. Luke grabs a piece of pizza in each hand and shimmies his way back up to seated, nose inches from Alex’s. Offers him the other piece with a bright grin.

This feels better. Alex grumbles, but takes a bite out of the pizza Luke held in front of his face, and the last of Luke’s bad feelings melt off him. Bobby and Alex start chatting about something — gig planning stuff, or a phone call Bobby had with some guy his brother knows who might be able to do some professional-looking photos for them on the cheap.

Alex is as warm and cuddly as he looked, and Luke rests his cheek on Alex’s shoulder to eat, still feeding Alex periodically with his other hand so that Alex doesn’t have to move more than necessary, and zones out of their conversation. He’s eating, and he’s getting cuddled, and he’s with his favourite people.

When they finish their food, they’ll probably have a more chill jam session than normal, full stomachs so no jumping around. Maybe he can run through his latest new draft with them. Get Alex to come up with a rhythm. See Reggie’s eyes light up as he plucks the bassline for the first time. Have Bobby try a few different harmonies, just to see what works.

Alex’s hand runs up and down Luke’s back once, smooth and solid, and Luke can’t help but melt into him, couldn’t do anything else if he tried. His ankle bumps Reggie’s and Reggie meets his eyes, grins just slightly, bumps back so their feet stay pressed together, Luke’s toes tucking under Bobby’s thigh. Bobby doesn’t even complain. Luke nudges his nose against Alex’s throat and mutters, “Love you guys,” and they all say it back without a single pause, without the slightest hesitation in the world.

now on ao3 as well

jatp taglist (lmk if you want to be added or removed): @queenmolina @nickalicious @bi-reginald @malecacidd @burntchromas @jughead-is-canonically-aroace @cinnamonstickrayofsunlight

#jatp #julie and the phantoms #sunset curve #luke patterson #my fic #aro spec luke #chickwiththepurpleguitar

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wille-zarr · 4 years

Text

The Mandalorian: “Kids, Cover Your Ears”

In Fields of White ~ Chapter Seven ~ “Kids, Cover Your Ears”

masterlist / previous chapter / next chapter

pairing: din djarin (the mandalorian) x f!reader

warnings: rated M for language; canon-level violence; near-death experience; angst

word count: 11.9k

chapter summary: not one to wait around on the mandalorian for rescue, you begrudgingly join forces with an unlikely ally, knowing it will take all of your wit and tenacity to outsmart the threats looming against you and the children

story summary: fleeing from the life you wish more than anything to forget, you are left to navigate the galaxy alone as a wide-eyed wanderer. in the process of evading the dangers linked to your previous life, your destiny is forever altered when you cross paths with an intimidating mandalorian and his unusually gifted child.

a/n: this is a repost as the first time i posted it, it didn’t show in the tags. opening italics are a flashback to the previous night. this chapter makes quite the narrative sandwich. begins and ends with fluff, but the middle filling? pure a.n.g.s.t.

also found on: Ao3

In Fields of White

Chapter Seven: “Kids, Cover Your Ears”

“Tell me, Mandalorian,” you laugh, letting your eyes lazily dance along the outline of his gleaming Beskar, admiring the flickering flames reflecting back against it. “I have a question.” You didn’t need a mirror to know that mischievous glint in your eyes had returned. You could simply feel it: the up-to-no-good attitude radiating from within like a blazing warning beacon.

Happy.

You are happy. You haven’t felt this in so long, you’re simply drunk on it.

After several hours singing and dancing at Kuill’s homestead, your spirit- your heart- are bursting with bliss, like they might just erupt wings and soar up of your body, leaving the bounds of the physical realm for the mysterious realm of the Force.

The euphoria has pretty much eradicated any anxiousness you still felt regarding the day’s prior embarrassing events. Though, to be honest, as much fun as the dancing has been, the Spotchka is perhaps the most to blame for your loosened lips.

Which leads you back to your question for the Mandalorian.

He leans forward, resting both hands atop his knees, quiet, patient, and long-suffering as always when dealing with your jestering mood.

“Mandalorian-” you drop down to your knees, directly in front of him- “dance with me.”

He stares, neither speaking nor moving at your request. You might have wondered if he had heard you, except that he is staring directly into your eyes… At least, you assume it’s your eyes. A bit hard to tell with the, you know, helmet and all.

You chuckle again, rolling your eyes. “You know-” you motion circles in the air with your hands- “dancing: when two people grab hands and let the music dictate their movements?”

He jolts his head away, staring down at the dirt.

“I don’t dance.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from bursting out into laughter at the frown in his voice. But you lose the fight, the grin stretching across your face despite your best efforts. “The Mandalorian doesn’t dance.” You say it as a statement.

He begins rapidly tapping his fingers against his thigh armor, probably hoping you’d just go away.

No chance of that, Mando.

With a smirk, you reach out and grab onto his upper arm, just below where his armored veneer ends, and you teasingly squeeze.

You open your mouth to smart off again, but the words fall flat when his gloved hand slaps down on yours, pinning it in place against his bicep. Your lips part. At first you thought he might throw your hand off- maybe you broke some Mandalorian code by, you don’t know, touching him or something. But you watch, blinking, as his shoulders relax, falling back into repose.

Yet his hand remains, holding your own hostage.

Neither of you speak.

Maker. This… is awkward. A running theme with your interactions, it seems.

“Well,” you clear your throat, flashing him a cheeky grin, “that’s okay, Din. I guess you got two left feet, huh?” You release his arm, but his own hand keeps yours pinned in place. You’re not sure what to do, so you tug, relieved when he releases his hold.

You leap to your feet, dusting your skirt off in hopes of appearing casual about the interaction. “Fine, so you don’t wanna dance-” you scrunch your nose down at him- “so I’ll just dance with Cara then.”

“Cara?” he grunts.

With one last snicker, you hop away from the Mandalorian, straight to where Cara is conversing with Omera, interrupting their conversation with your request.

“Cara, Din turned me down.” You throw both hands on your hips. “So, will you dance with me?”

“I think I need another Spotchka first.”

“Oh!” Omera laughs, grabbing both yours and Cara’s hands. “Come on!”

The three of you join hands, laughing and snickering as you join the others around the fire in a lively dance.

-------

Few things bring Cara more joy than tormenting her favorite people. But what brings her the most joy? Tormenting Din. And after observing his behavior last night at the bonfire, she has plenty of ammunition to hurl his way.

“Mando,” Cara calls out, increasing her pace to catch back up to her companion. “What’s the big rush?”

This, of course, is a baited question. Cara knows exactly why her Beskar-clad friend is moving faster than a Kowakian Monkey-Lizard that’s being chased by a Hutt.

And it involves one lively, plucky little friend of the Mandalorian.

And what kind of friend would Cara be if she didn’t take the preverbal knife and twist it just a little deeper, tricking him into taking the bait.

“She can wait, you know.”

The hitch in Din’s step brings Cara immense satisfaction. The Mandalorian, even hidden behind all that hard exterior, is damn easier to read than he thinks.

A dangerous, mysterious Mandalorian warrior- brought down by simple childish infatuation.

How amusing. But really not surprising.

He can don as much Beskar as he can physically strap on, harden the soft layer of human skin with an impenetrable shield. And yet, for all the advances in technology, they’ve yet to discover how to armor the heart against the blaster blot of a crush.

“We can’t waste our entire day here, Cara,” Din grumbles, shooting Cara a glance. “We need to get back to the homestead.”

“Don’t give me that look, Mando.”

Din shoots Cara another glare in response.

“Yeah, that look.” Cara grins. The Mandalorian is no fool. And yet, even with all his experience, he really is about as dense as his armor. “Are you really in a rush to return to the homestead-” Cara casually adjusts the rifle slung across her back- “or are you just fretting over your pretty little friend?”

The Mandalorian freezes mid-step.

“If you’re trying to keep it a secret, Mando-” Cara brushes past him and continues walking- “you haven’t exactly done a great job of it.”

Cara downgrades her grin to a smirk as Din’s footfall resumes behind her.

“I don’t know what that liquid is the Sorganians keep offering you-” a harsh huff of air follows- “but you should probably lay off of it.”

Her chuckle turns into a mocking belly-laugh. “Oh, you’re not getting out of this one, Mando,” she snorts. “While she was singing, Kuill tried asking you a question. You didn’t even look at him, much less give an answer.”

The Mandalorian spins around. “He did not-”

“Uh huh. He shuffled off, mumbling something about a ‘love-struck blurg’.”

The Mandalorian continues stalking forward, but he’d have to move much faster than that to escape Cara’s prodding. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Cara.” His tone is a warning, but she’s hardly afraid of him.

“Fine! Fine,” Cara sighs. The Mandalorian is making this way too easy. She really had hoped he’d put up more of a defense.

Cara lets the air hang silent a good thirty or forty long seconds- just enough to let Din think he’s off the hook. “You know,” she blurts, “you could have danced with her last night when she asked you, you damn Bantha-brain.”

“I don’t dance,” he mutters, a twinge of ire in his tone.

Cara huffs. “No, you just stare, apparently.”

The Mandalorian releases a long, heavy sigh, but does not respond.

“She’s pretty…” Cara voice takes on a nonchalant tone, “great personality…”

“And a lot of damn trouble,” he grumbles, hooking a finger in his belt and twisting around to face Cara.

“Well,” she puffs, intrigued by his reaction, “don’t get your Beskar britches in a stitch. If that’s how you feel, guess it’s a good thing she’s coming with me then.”

He faulters a split second before huffing through the vocoder.

“It is.”

Cara rolls her eyes. There is no talking him through this. Fine, be stubborn. Mando, you are a-

“On Taek,” his voice barges through her thoughts. “Since Taek…” His voice turns slow, languid. “She’s… just inexperienced, in over her head.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean?” His words are careful. He crosses his arms, slowly, methodically.

Cara pauses long enough to gather her thoughts. With a shake of her head, she sighs, “when she was fighting me- sure, she wasn’t very strong or even good at it, but the way she instinctively moved and reacted, she’s been trained before, I’d say. She isn’t clueless.”

“What are you thinking then?” The Mandalorian shifts his weight, angling his helmet to the side.

“I don’t know for sure. But I certainly don’t think she’s exactly what she portrays.” Cara raises an eyebrow. “We should probably run her name through the databases. I’d be curious to see what shows up.”

“I already did.”

“Not surprised,” Cara chuckles. “And?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s impossible.” Cara stops in her tracks. “No one is recordless.”

Din sighs, brushing past her. “I know.”

“False or wiped identity.” Cara can’t help but smirk. “I’m impressed.”

“Just watch her, Cara,” Din mumbles through the vocoder, matching his pace to Cara’s. “And… watch out for her.”

“I’ll leave the ‘watching her’ part to you for now, since you seem to enjoy it so much.”

Even through a dark visor, the long-suffering, please-just-stop gaze was more than apparent to Cara. But, of course, she plans to pretend she hasn’t noticed.

“Mando, you truly ar-”

“Cara.”

The alarm in Din’s voice rips the words from her mouth.

“What is-” Cara freezes. “Hey!” She throws a hand on her hip, the other hand reflectively slapping against her blaster holster.

“This… is where we left the bikes-” Cara blinks, glancing around at the empty alley- “right?”

Din does not answer. He steps forward, swiftly circling around the perimeter, observing the surrounding environment, the neighboring alleys… but finding nothing.

“Were they stolen?” Cara growls, temper beginning to take control. “Damn! I ju-”

“Look.” Din lifts something up off the ground, and Cara’s heart plummets.

“Is that…?”

“It’s her bag.” Din’s voice is measured, dangerously cool. “And her purchases are still inside it.”

Cara sighs, knowing this… didn’t bode well. “She wouldn’t have left it willingly.”

Din angles his helmet to glare out into the far horizon. “No.” He shifts his weight, swinging around to face Cara. “No, she wouldn’t.”

Cara frowns at Din’s fluttering cape as he sweeps past her, stalking straight back towards the shops.

She sighs.

“What have you gotten yourself into…”

-------

“Don’t worry, kids!” you weakly chuckle, knocking your hat back out of your eyes. “Look, this is just a little… fun adventure.” You rest both hands on your hips. “I’ve been kidnapped before, and I’m still here. We’re… going to be just, uh, fine.”

“No!” Large, rolling tears race down Winta’s cheeks. “And- and we’re trapped here! With them! And-”

“Winta,” your voice turns firm. You toss her a warm smile, grabbing ahold of her shoulders. “If I’m not worried-” you pause to brush your hand across her cheek before pulling her close- “then you shouldn’t be either, sweetheart.”

Of course, you are worried. Terribly worried. Nearly freaking-out-wanting-to-shriek-and-jump-out-the-ship worried.

Okay, so panicking. You’re panicking!

You swallow, the dry walls of your throat sticking together, making it difficult to even breathe.

“Yeah, this will be fun!”

You flash Birdie a curious gaze, raising an eyebrow when you discover him grinning with glee. “Birdie, what about the current situation has you so excited?” you can’t help but prod. Damn, you want a slice of whatever has this kid beaming with elation because, kriff it, you might just start crying yourself any minute.

“The Mandalorian will find us,” Birdie chirps, spinning around the hull of the Razor Crest. “And kill them! Just like one of his adventure stories!”

“Birdie!” Winta hisses. “You don’t know that!”

“He will!”

“He might not!”

“But he’s Mandalorian!”

“He might die, Birdie!”

“No, he can’t!”

“YES, he CAN!”

“Kids!” you bark, separating the two of them before hands start flying. Stars, where’s an adult when you need one because you sure as hell don’t feel like being one right now. You kneel down on the ground between them. “Stop this immediately, both of you. Winta, go over there. Don’t talk, even look at each other.”

“Fine!”

“Fine.”

Both kids obey your orders, but that doesn’t stop them from tossing each other angry glares from across the room, each tempting the other to break your order first.

You sigh, roughly rubbing your face with both hands. Stars, what next?

You feel a little tug on your pants. You flash your eyes downwards, smiling wryly at the baby. His expressive eyes are visibly distraught from the heightened emotional tension in the room, and the blanket you had wrapped him in remains tossed over the back of his head like a protective canopy.

“Come on, kiddo,” you sigh. You reach down and toss him up against your shoulder, releasing a tight breath when he tucks his face into your neck for comfort. Such a trusting action would normally warm your heart, but instead, your wry smile turns bitter. These children need you for comfort, for reassurance, to tell them it’s going to be okay. After all, that’s what parents do- they promise everything’s going to be okay.

But that’s just it. You can chant the words over and over and over again until the air runs out of your lungs, your empty chest filling with a baseless hope. But words on their own are meaningless. They cannot change fate.

You- you can’t do it again. You cannot lie to another child.

Your hands begin to shake, the hollow ache of grief bubbling and swirling in your stomach, the excruciating anguish of grief and despair eating away at what is left of your confidence. How can you sit here, swallow back against your fear, and vow to these children it will be okay?

A tiny squeeze on your arm rips you back to reality, back to the children here now. You press your eyes tightly together one last time, throwing away your pressing desire to just break down. Peeling your eyes back open, you sigh at discovering Winta and Birdie pressed against you, wide eyes glued to your face, searching it for answers and guidance.

“Listen, I said it’s going to be okay, and it’s going to be okay.” You flash them a shaky smile followed by a sharp nod. “And that’s that.”

Your smile warms, relief flooding your heart as their faces relax at your promise, however baseless it was.

Maybe that’s all a parent really is. Someone who lies about the truth until you are old enough to face the bullshit for yourself.

“Chins up,” you sigh, jumping to your feet and placing the baby back down on his blanket. With a sharp whine, he takes it up in his hands, crawling back underneath it.

Kid’s got the right idea.

You take this moment to flail your eyes around the room, desperate for a shred of an idea, any idea on how the kriff to get out of this. Unfortunately, the Mandalorian’s weapons are locked away, as the Nar Shaddaa lady assured before leaving you alone with the kids in the hull. Everything- the escape pod, the ramp, all locked down.

Maker. This- your plans- are spiraling out of control. When this whole mess began, you had a few escape scenarios in mind, but they were wild and risky, per your usual style. They had to be scratched the split second the children were involved. You’ve never cared much if you take risks with your own safety. After all, what is life but a game of chance? But it would be a cold day in each of the seven Corellian hells before you ever, ever put a child in harm’s way.

You groan as you are punched with reality: you are completely and utterly dependent on the Mandalorian and Cara for rescue.

And, well, that’s just not good enough. If there’s anything you’ve learned during your miserable existence in this galaxy, it’s that you can never, ever rely on others as a first line of defense.

Gotta take matters into your own hands. You might not be much of a fighter, but, blast it all, these Nar Shaddaa gangsters have made one critical, critical error:

They’ve triggered a mother bear…. And there’s no coming back from that. You will fight for them. If things get out of hand- If things change… You exhale slowly, resigning yourself to your decision.

If there are no other options, you will give them that name- the one once so unfortunately, intrinsically linked to your own.

But you can face that name again for them. The children are worth it- worth throwing everything away for.

You are emboldened by this decision, the protective instincts flooding your system, renewing your resolve to get out of this mess for them.

“Well, kids-” you lower your eyes, meeting three innocent expressions- “ready for a little fun?”

“YEAH!” Birdie shouts, bouncing up and down.

“Shh!” you hiss, swiftly pressing a palm to Birdie’s mouth. “Ready for quiet fun, Birdie. Quiet fun.”

Birdie mumbles something through your fingers as you lead him over to the bunk compartment. With a grunt, you lift him up to sit atop the mattress.

“Winta, bring the baby over. I want you three to stay right here. Do. Not. Move.” You swoop your finger in the air. “And no fighting.”

“I never fight,” Winta snorts.

Birdie jumps up on his knees. “You do too!”

You open your mouth to interrupt another round of squabbling. “Kids, you have go-”

“Girl,” barks a voice from the cockpit. “Get up here. Now.”

You grit your teeth as the snarled demand of the woman from Nar Shaddaa reverberates throughout the hull. The baby whimpers, tucking his head back behind Winta, who doesn’t exactly look that much better herself. The sparkle- the zeal for adventure- has even been ripped from Birdie’s eyes.

“Do not move.” You point a finger again. “Winta, you’re in charge.” Birdie’s mouth drops open, preparing to object, but you slam a hand down on the control switch, entombing the children inside with a snap.

With a heavy sigh, you yank on the brim of your hat to lower it back down on your brows. Biting your lip, you begin to make your way up the ladder, dread building in your stomach at not knowing what exactly to expect.

“Get up here,” barks the woman again.

“I’m here. I’m here,” you respond lazily, your outer rim accent thickening as you slip into your Nar Shaddaa persona. You stroll into the cockpit, hands raised in the air in surrender. “What is- AHG!”

Her hand lashes out, fingers sinking into your upper arm, digging ruthlessly into your flesh. With a harsh shove, she heaves you to the floor. Your knees crash into the metal flooring of the cockpit, and you cry out as your hands catch the brunt of your fall. The pain reverberates through your joints, the ache lingering longer than you think you can bare. Your cry is cut off by your own hand pressing to your lips, not wishing to alarm the children hidden down below.

“Stay down,” the man seated in the pilot’s seat grumbles, flipping switches.

Oh. Oh, you are seething now.

Clenching your teeth tightly together, you begin to raise up off the floor. “This- AUF!” The woman’s boot smashes into your back, sending your head hurling towards the floor. You grit your teeth, raging as hot, sticky blood trails down your cheek from the impact.

“Really? Making us repeat ourselves?” The boot presses harder, pinning your cheek flat against the biting cold of the metal floor. “Stay. Down.”

You squeeze your fists together, so tightly that your fingernails are digging into the flesh of your palm, to keep from snarling back at her. You can’t be stupid- you can’t be prideful. Hold back. Hold on.

“Well-” the woman sighs, lifting her boot- “you are an annoying one.”

“Thank you,” you grumble under your breath, “cultivated talent.”

So much for silence. Hell, your stupid mouth is going to get you killed. This- oh stars. Oh stars, what can you do? How do you get out of this? The children, they-

“Where is she.”

Your heart clenches.

That…that voice- that voice! The holo-communicator!

Din!

“I said,” he growls, low and dangerously measured. “Where is she?”

You’re about to open your mouth when the boot presses down on your back in a silent warning. You bite your lip as hard as you can stand to keep from snarling an expletive.

Think of the children. Think of the children…

“First, Mandalorian,” says the woman, “we need to come to terms on an agreement.”

“Show me her,” the Mandalorian’s voice lowers. “Now.”

Your stomach flutters at the rage lurking in his voice, but you don’t have a chance to think beyond that. A hard hand yanks the back of your collar, dragging you up to your feet as you cough and choke against the grip.

“Fine,” the woman sighs, sounding almost bored with all of this- their terrorizing. She shoves you forward. “Here’s your girl. She’s fine.”

Coughing into your hand, you rapidly blink, your eyes finally coming into focus. There he is- shrouded in the blue light canopy of the holo-display.

Cough- “Man-” cough-cough- “Man-do!” cough.

The Mandalorian steps closer, reaching out as if he could just somehow touch you. You clamber forward, slapping your hands down on the base of the holo-display.

“Mando! They ha-”

“Are you hurt? Is that blood?” His voice is hard, dangerous, even through the crackling audio of the holo-display. “Tell me. Have they hurt you?”

“Din!” you cry, losing every ounce of your cool. “Din, they have the children!”

Dead silence.

Breathing heavily, you continue, “Winta, Birdie, and, oh stars! The baby! The baby, Din!”

The Mandalorian freezes, visor trained on you, his stare melting you down to a little puddle on the floor.

“Oh yes, forgot to mention that,” the man mumbles, leaning back in the pilot’s chair beside where you stand.

The hum of the holo-display reverberates throughout the room, the only noise outside of your harsh, panicked breathing.

“You-” the Mandalorian’s voice burns. “If you put one mark on them-” he takes a step forward- “there is no place you will be able to hide from me.”

“Don’t worry,” the man snorts, “we’re taking good care of them, right?” He shoots out a hand, twisting it around your arm.

“Kriff off!” you snarl, all your pent-up rage exploding like a bomb. You fire an elbow at his face. He catches it, twists you around, and pins it against your back. “Go to hell!” you scream, kicking and stomping your feet. He twists your arm further, and you yelp from the burst of pain.

“Let. Her. Go.”

“Or what?” the man snorts. “You’re not exactly here, are you?”

“Rea, stop antagonizing everyone,” the woman barks, clearly irritated with her partner. “Let her go.”

“Hmf.”

He heaves you forward, and your ribs crash into the edge of the display, sucking all of the air from your lungs like a vacuum.

Your name- you can faintly hear it- over and over and over again- slipping through the stars and fog and mist swirling around in your head.

“I-” you groan- “I’m o-okay.” You press a hand to your ribs, taking deep breaths against the aftershocks of pain. You clench your teeth.

Oh. Oh, you’re going to kill them. By your hand. You will kill them.

“Listen,” the woman takes over, pushing aside her partner, “we are sending the coordinates for a rendezvous point. You have my word-” she smiles, that sickly, fabricated Nar Shaddaa smile- “they will not be harmed further, if you come alone and bring the original datachip you took from Marek. That’s all we want.”

You hold your breath, awaiting Din’s response.

“I’ll do whatever you want.” His voice faulters, lowering even further.

He’s afraid.

“Good. Just remember-” -the woman smiles, that same phony smile- “one mistake-” she rests a hand on your shoulder- “and the deal is off.”

The Mandalorian shifts, twisting his head to find you- to stare you directly in the eyes. You hold the gaze, unblinking, sending him a silent promise through the connection, just wishing, somehow, he could receive the message.

Two seconds…

Three seconds…

Four seconds…

“I understand.”

And the holo cuts off.

-------

“No, no,” you mumble. “I promise. This isn’t blood.” You continue wiping the very-much-actual-blood on your forehead from where it collided with the floor.

“Sure,” Winta grumbles from the Mandalorian’s bed, his blankets thrown over her head.

“No, really.” You wince as you dab at a tender area. “Okay, it is blood. I, uh, was thinking too hard.” Tossing Winta a lopsided smirk, you tuck your legs under as you sit on the floor of the Mandalorian’s Razor Crest bedroom. “I was thinking too hard, and my brain started bleeding, that’s all.”

“Whoa, really?” Birdie grabs onto your shoulder, staring directly at your wound. “That’s weird!”

Winta huffs, but you smile over at her, sneaking her a sly wink. No use scaring the kids. Might as well be a little silly. After all, anything that calms them, it in turn calms you, right?

Rising up from the floor, you toss aside Din’s shirt that you had been using to clean the blood away. “I owe you one shirt, Mr. Metal Man.” You grin as the kids giggle at your words.

Twisting around on your heel, you throw open his drawers, pawing through the mess the Nar Shaddaa operatives left behind in their search for the datachip (and checking for weapons, no doubt). Not that they really made the mess much worse. Din did a fine job of that on his own.

The man lives like a kriffing Rakghoul.

You glare up at the wall, sighing at the bare space left behind from the now-missing vibroblades. “Mando,” you grumble under your breath, just barely loud enough for the kids to hear, “couldn’t you have hidden a blaster in your, oh, I don’t know, underwear drawer?” Your smile blossoms as their giggles turn into full-on roaring laughter.

“Hey, if the Mandalorian asks-” you fling his clothes right and left over your shoulders, adding to the mess already consuming the floor- “the Nar Shaddaa bad guys made this mess.” You lift up a flannel shirt, similar to the one you had “borrowed” previously. “Deal?”

With a sly little giggle, Winta nods her head, lifting the blankets up for Birdie to join her underneath.

You shift to stand, and you pull on Din’s shirt to cover your blood-stained one. A gentle tug on your pants freezes you mid-buttoning. “Oh!” you gasp. Your eyes twist downwards, meeting the expressive orbs of the baby. His little hands are outstretched, pleading to be picked up.

“Of course, baby.” You pull him up against your chest, expecting he wished for more comfort. But instead, he stares, almost mournfully, at you, observing your wounds.

“I’m okay, little guy,” you sigh as you exit the bedroom and pace the hull a few times. He reaches his little three-fingered hands upwards, grasping for your wounds, but you push his hands back down with each attempt.

He squeals in protest. “Shh, I need to think, baby. I’m just a clumsy oaf. I tripped, is all,” you half-heartedly mumble, deep in thought. You need to focus. You need a damn plan.

Your thoughts are barely coherent, sloshing back and forth in your brain like a thousand loose marbles. If you could just… You freeze mid-step, mouth dropping open.

The back of the hull.

You see it.

A gleam.

A shine.

An… idea.

With a burst of a grin, you flip around, racing back into the bedroom. “Kids,” you hiss, dropping the baby back down on the bed. “Come! I need you to make a lot of noise. Scream; holler; just- noise.” Giggling to yourself, you rush back into the hull, freezing mid-way when you don’t hear them following after you. You twist around, discovering them still staring at you, wide-eyed, from the bed.

“Come on!” You wildly motion at them. “Don’t you want to be a part of an adventure?” You throw them a wink.

Birdie is the first to leap to your side, energy fueled by a promise of excitement. “Scream? Scream?” He grabs onto the fabric of your pants, yanking on them as he bounces up and down. “Why! Why!”

“A distraction.” You smirk, dropping down to meet his eye-level. He bursts into giggles as you ruffle his hair. “Think you can handle it?”

“But- but how?” You look over at Winta, finding her standing in the doorway as she bites her finger uncertainly.

You shrug, tossing both hands on your hips. “I dunno; doesn’t matter.” You sweep your hand in the air around the room. “Just scream about the, oh, refresher or something.”

“The refresher?” Winta snorts.

“I DON’T WANNA USE THE REFRESHER!”

“Stars, Birdie!” you hiss, slapping both hands over your ears. Maker, the sound certainly reverberates in this blasted metal ship!

Winta stares at you with large eyes, but you just raise your eyebrows at her. “Go on,” you mouth.

“Um-” Winta walks over and slides the partition covering the refresher open- “you’ve got to, Birdie! It’s the only one!”

“No! It’s stinky and gross, and I hate it!”

Heh. Kid would make a good actor.

“What the hell is going on down there?”

Just as you expected, the Nar Shaddaa operatives immediately check in on all the commotion.

“Um,” you mumble, rushing over and leaning up against the ladder. “The, uh, girl is just trying to help her friend with the refresher. He’s never seen one like this, and he’s…um, scared.”

You bite your lip to keep from snickering when muttered curses swirl down the ladder followed by the snap of the cockpit door clicking shut.

An impish grin stretches across your face, and you knock your hat back, amazed at how easily this is working out. “Well-” you turn to face the children, giving them a pointed look- “did I say stop?”

The children erupt.

And the baby, not one to be left out of the fun, takes it upon himself to begin wailing.

“Good, uh, good.” You cringe at the racket, fumbling over your feet in your hast to race to the back of the hull. “Keep on! Keep going!” You come to a halt, beaming up at your one-way ticket to rescue.

A blaster.

Of course, said blaster might still be clasped in someone’s hand.

And that hand might be frozen in carbonite.

But, hey, that’s a minor issue you’re about to take care of.

Grumbling under your breath, you begin punching away at the controls on the side of the carbonite block, unsure of what exactly any of them do. “Blast!” you hiss under your breath. “Come on, Carbonite Man! Unfreeze!”

You gasp. The block warms under your hand, shifting in color. Stars! He’s either cooking alive or unfreezing! Or is he- OH! HE’S MOVING!

You slap both hands over your mouth, gawking wide-eyed as Carbonite Man leans forward from the block like some sort of horrifying rebirth. So caught up in the terrifying visual, you barely register the kids abandoning their distraction technique to rush over and stand beside you. You stumble forward, reaching out a hand in the man’s direction. “Uh, sir, I- Oh!”

He drops down, coughing and sputtering and shaking against the floor.

“HE’S DYING!” Birdie shrieks against your leg.

“Shh! He’s, uh, fine!”

You hope, anyway. A dead body would be hard to hide.

You come back to your senses, swooping up the blaster the man dropped during the unfreezing process. You twist it around, pointing it directly at him as he coughs and shutters against the floor.

You blink, wide-eyed, as his body abruptly stops convulsing, resting stiff against the floor.

“Is he…?” Winta mumbles, voice quivering.

“Oh, blast!” His dark eyes shoot open.

Winta screams, clasping her hands over her mouth.

He groans, placing a hand on his forehead. The man, maybe in his early thirties, rapidly blinks, his eyes flittering around the room until they freeze, resting on your face.

Oh no.

He’s cute.

Had it been any other scenario, you would have jumped in feet-first flirting. The unruly stubble and the sweaty curled hair plastered to his forehead? Yes, please.

“Well, he-llo there, beautiful.” His lips slowly twist up into a smirk. “What’s a doll like you doing in my bedroom? I think I’d remember you.”

Maker. Why are they always cute until they talk?

“Where the hell do you think you are right now, bud?” you grumble.

He squints his eyes. “Uh… my eyes are actually pretty blurry, and I-” His expression plummets to the ground.

“Oh no.”

“Exactly.” You shove the blaster in his face. “Get up.”

“Wait, was- was I… carbonite?!” He leaps to his feet, throwing his hands in the air.

“Get back,” you growl, jabbing the barrel towards his ribs.

“Shit! Calm down with that blaster, lady!” The brief flash of anger in his face is swiftly replaced with horror. “Wait- where’s… Mandalorian?!”

“Calm down,” you bark, pushing as much authority into your voice as you can muster. “You’re on the Mandalorian’s ship, and you had better listen to me.” You tilt your head to the side, throwing the children a pointed look.

“Kids, cover your ears.”

They reluctantly obey, even the baby as he grasps at the ends of his ears, attempting to fold them down against his head.

“Now, let’s talk business.” You step forward, blaster corralling Carbonite Man up against the wall.

“Blast, blast, blast, wait, lady!” the man laughs nervously, throwing his hands out to the side. “I mean, come on! We can make a deal here, sweetheart.” He takes a step forward.

“Bold move considering I wield the blaster.”

“Drunk on power, are we?” His tone shifts into a smooth blend of irritatingly cocky confidence. “You like being in charge, sweetheart?”

“Maker,” you mutter under your breath. You bite your cheek to keep from losing your cool. After all, the kids will have enough lasting trauma from this situation without you adding to it by shooting this nerfherder in front of them.

“I mean, if you and those kids are his bounty-” he throws them a little wave; Birdie returns it eagerly before Winta slaps his hand down and recovers her ears- “shouldn’t you be pointing that thing-” he motions at the blaster- “at him?”

“Look-” you purse your lips, taking on a defensive stance. You didn’t trust this man to not do something stupid like rip the blaster from your grip, getting all of you killed. You step forward again, and he steps back, pressed up against the wall like a cornered womp-rat.

“Listen,” you hiss, using your authoritative voice again, “long story short, we’re being held hostage here-”

“By the Mandalorian? He took children? That dirty-”

“Just stop!” you groan, rolling your eyes. “And just listen. No, he’s a… a good man-”

“I beg to differ, ma’am.” He lifts an eyebrow, motioning wildly at the melted carbonite block from which he emerged.

“Really? You’re one to talk.” You snort and knock your hat back, shooting him an incredulous glare. “And why exactly is there a bounty on your head? I’m sure you’re just so innocent, such a good man.”

You inwardly cringe. You really are the last person in the galaxy that should be mocking a man fleeing a bounty hunter, all things considered…

“I’ll have you know I am innocent.” He crosses his arms.

“Really.”

“Yes, really.”

He shoots a glance at the children, all three of whom are watching him with intense fascination. Birdie looks like he’s found a new hero- a bit concerning, to be honest.

“Kids, cover your ears.”

“Aw,” Birdie whines, but they obey the demand once again.

“Tighter, kid…. No sneaking a listen…” He shifts back around to face you. “Ah-” the man slips you a wink- “let’s just say I had no idea the heiress was still married.”

“Oh stars.”

“But her partner sure informed me!”

“Dank farrick,” you groan, “you really are a banthabrain.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Enough of this.” You meet the children’s eyes. There’s no use forcing them to cover their ears at this point. They’ve overheard enough drama in just the past few hours to write an entire holodrama. You have to instead focus- focus on getting them out. If this man can be useful towards that goal, then he had better start talking- and talking fast.

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” You smile, crossing your arms but keeping the blaster pointed at his head.

“I’d focus better without that blaster- hey! That’s mine!”

“Two Nar Shaddaa syndicate members are up in the cockpit.” Your lopsided smile drops. “They are holding us to get something they want from the Mandalorian. And if they find you, they will kill you. Catch my drift?”

“Kark. I didn’t ask to be unfrozen and dragged into this!”

“Then get in the freezing bay!”

“Now wait-”

“Are you afraid?” Birdie chirps, rushing over to grab the man’s hand.

“Birdie!” you hiss, jerking forward to snatch him back.

“Kid, to put it simply and in as few words as possible-” he drops down to Birdie’s eye level- “yes.”

Winta races over and grabs his other arm. “We can help!”

“Kids, you’re killing me here,” you groan as you snatch up the baby with your free hand before he can waddle over to join Winta and Birdie. “Look here, uh-”

“Pablo.” He smiles at you, sticking both hands out towards Winta and Birdie to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

They giggle as they take his hands. You lean all your weight to one foot, jutting your hip out. “Carbonite man, Pablo, whatever-” you purse your lips- “whether you want to or not, you’re stuck in the middle of this. You have three options.”

“One-” with the hand grasping the blaster, you lift a finger up- “help us, and I will have the Mandalorian release you.” Second finger. “I can refreeze you. Or three-” you smirk- “you get shot.”

“Dank farrick.”

“Well?”

Pablo turns his head, raising an eyebrow at Winta and Birdie. “Guess I’ll hedge my bets on the Mandalorian’s kindness.”

You release a long breath. Maker, you hadn’t realized how tense you’d been…

“Good. Well then-” you let a smile tickle the corner of your mouth- “got any ideas?”

-------

“No, that’s too dangerous. It’s a stupid plan.”

“Got anything better, little miss genius?” Pablo grumbles.

“Oh, and you’re a genius?” It takes all of your inner strength to keep your voice below a whisper. You feel your face warm with seething anger. “You’re the one who got caught by a bounty hunter!”

“And you’re the one who got kidnapped.”

“Stars!” you growl, shifting further away from Pablo, sliding across the Mandalorian’s bed. “Honestly? I hope they do kill you.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time.”

You hand is raised in the air, prepared to shove him off the bed when Winta bursts through the doorway of the sleeping quarters.

“Someone’s coming!”

“Kriff!” you hiss, flying to your feet.

“Hey, hey, wait, where the hell-”

“Under the bed!” You slap a hand on the top of his head, shoving it down with force. “Go!”

“I can barely fit,” he growls. “I think I’m stuck- HEY NOW.”

“Move!” you hiss through your teeth, pushing on his ass with both hands.

A few more panicked wiggles, and he slips underneath.

“Here.” You slip him his blaster back. “Don’t make me regret this.”

He peaks up at you with a lopsided smile. “Never, sweetheart.”

You barely make it back into the hull before the female Nar Shaddaa operative steps down from the last rung of the ladder.

“We’ve finalized the last details of the rendezvous with the Mandalorian.” She throws both hands on her hips, rolling her shoulders forward, taking on a much more intimidating presence. “We should be arriving within fifteen minutes.”

Stars! Fifteen minutes… Within fifteen minutes…

Oh Maker…

Swallowing back your anxiety, you stroll over to where the children sit in the bunk compartment, climbing up and joining them. You take the baby up, setting him down in your lap. He stares up at the woman and coos as the other children tuck behind your back.

“And?” You are trying your hardest to use your professional, almost bored tone of voice, the one you used when discussing “business” on Nar Shaddaa.

“I’m just reiterating my earlier point-” she smiles- “that one wrong move, play heroics, and you know how this will end.”

You blink, keeping the mask on your face. “Good, well, thanks for the update.” If you stay calm… the kids will stay calm… If you stay calm… the kids will stay calm…

The woman huffs and does a quick visual sweep of the hull before spinning around, climbing right straight up the ladder again.

Hell.

The unfrozen carbonite block. Tucked away in the back.

The kriff. She didn’t see it. Bloody hells!

You’ll just have to blame Pablo for that one.

You groan, letting your head flop forward against the baby’s head. He coos against the touch, reaching up and clasping both of his hands against your cheeks.

“Baby, I know you miss your daddy,” you sigh heavily, rubbing his ear with affection. “I think you all need naps.”

“You need a nap.”

You twist to frown at Winta. She just shrugs.

Well, she might have a point. After a long day of plot twist after plot twist, well…

You can’t take many more of them.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

Your eyes shoot up, your mouth plummeting to the floor.

“What the kriff are you doing?”

Pablo keeps his blaster trained on you, shrugging at your question. “Sorry, but I intend to do this my way, whether you like it or not.”

You grit your teeth, rage boiling in your stomach- only the fear of alerting the cockpit keeping it from spilling over and consuming Pablo alive.

“I- you- how dare-”

“Save it.” His face falls into the most serious expression you’ve seen from him thus far. He swoops along the wall, angling his head cautiously, peering up the ladder.

“The door’s closed. Stay quiet. Climb.”

“Are you crazy?!” You leap to your feet, marching over with little regard for the blaster trained on your head.

“Get back,” he spits, holding a hand up in warning.

“No,” you growl, ripping your hat off your head and slamming it against the floor. “Shoot me. You won’t! Shoot me, you kriffing coward!”

His hand launches forward, twisting around your upper arm. His fingers dig into the soft flesh beneath the sleeve as he yanks you forward to hiss in your ear. “Don’t do this, not in front of the children.”

The children.

Stars.

You- you lost your temper in front of the children. You peak a reluctant glance over at the bunk, horrified to discover sheer terror etched in their expressions.

You want to throw up.

But your pride, your temper, still speak for you when your lips open. “In front of the children? Says the man pointing a blaster at me,” you say through clenched teeth.

His eyes grow hard, and he shakes his head vigorously. “You’ll thank me later.”

You have no idea what’s about to happen, but your priority is the children. Their safety. Their comfort. Their lives.

You will get them out of this, somehow. Somehow.

“I won’t forget this, Pablo.”

-------

It took Pablo less than thirty seconds to override the locks on the escape pod. Who knew that there was an emergency feature that allowed for it to be manually unlocked? Certainly would have been handy information to have that one time a Gungan was chasing you on his freighter…

“Come on, doll,” Pablo whispers, shoving Winta as tightly against your body as possible. She groans, wrapping both arms around your leg. “I’m tired.”

“I know, babydoll.”

“Ouch!”

“Shh!”

“Maker,” you mumble, barely audible. “Who designs a coffin escape pod that fits one person?” You squeeze the baby against your chest, praying there would be room enough to shut the door with all four of you stuffed inside. He releases a little whine, leaning into you as tightly as possible.

“Listen-” Pablo dips his head down within inches of your ear- “they won’t know you’ve launched. I froze the pod’s system computers from this panel, so you should be safe.”

“How do I know you didn’t screw the pod up?” you sneer.

He cocks his head, dipping in even closer to your ear. You feel his hot breath brush against your ear.

“Trust me.”

“Kriff. Off,” you mouth at him. He has the audacity to smirk.

“What in the Corellian hells are we supposed to do when we land?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Kriff, you want to smack that smirk right off his face…. You gasp when something cold presses into your one free hand.

“Take it.”

You look down, astonished to find his blaster in your grip. Your eyes shoot back up, honestly baffled by the gesture. This… this leaves him defenseless. “I could blast you right now.” A smirk tickles at the corner of your lips.

“Shoot me.” He grins, a bright, wide grin. “You won’t, you kriffing coward.”

And with one final chuckle, he seals the door shut, plastering the four of you tightly, but safely, within the confines of the escape pod.

“Here we go, kiddos,” you mumble, feeling light for the first time since this whole mess started. Yes. Finally… The kids will be out of danger… A thousand-pound weight lifts from your shoulders, and you sigh, letting your eyes fall shut.

“Let’s fly.”

With a jolt- a jerk, the pod releases, and you take over the controls, begging the force for a safe landing, if for any reason, for the children’s sake.

“He’s going to die, isn’t he?”

“Maybe not, Winta.”

Probably not.

-------

“I hate adventure.”

You reach down into the escape pod, pulling Birdie up to his feet. “Come on now, Birdie. You love adventure!”

“Not anymore!” Birdie screams at the top of his lungs. “It’s stinky!”

“I want to go home!” Winta cries, flopping down on the sand. The baby takes this as his emotional cue, dramatically flopping over into Winta’s lap and launching into high-pitched whining.

“Stars almighty!” You drop down to your knees and throw your hat off your head. “We’re safe! Look, don’t give up now!”

You know this isn’t a fair request. They’re children, for goodness sake. Tired, hungry, stressed children. But you have no clue, no clue, where you are on Arvala. No clue where Kuill’s is. No clue what direction to go or how long it will take. It’s hot, everyone’s hungry… And outside of one blaster pistol, defenseless.

You stare up into the sky, squinting against the blazing, unforgiving sun.

Sigh.

“Come on now.” You lumber back up to your feet, thrusting an arm out towards the horizon. “We’ll get home that way.”

Yes, the direction the Razor Crest was headed when you launched from it. Better than wandering around in circles.

You rest the baby against your hip, the other hand clenching the blaster with a steely grip. The children stumble into a line behind you, eyes drooping and shoulders low. You sigh.

“Let’s sing while we walk, how ‘bout?” you chirp.

They grumble an affirmative. You think so, anyway. Stars, you’re actually jealous of their freedom to show outwardly how they really feel, not have to worry about keeping up a tough face.

Being an adult, to quote Birdie, is stinky.

-------

Eh, everyone’s a critic. The children fall into a heavy silence after you finish the second song, so you give up on the singing. Well, maybe at this point, letting them process the day in silence would be better for them than anything else.

They need the- wait.

You freeze, dropping your body down to the dirt at the top of the hill. You jerk your arm in circles, and the children flop down beside you.

“The Razor Crest!” Winta gasps, eyes widening.

Resting a hand above your eyes, you squint against the sun’s rays, sweeping your eyes around the valley in which the ship is positioned. But what you find is… well.

Not good.

You see no one. Hear no one.

But the ramp is open, and there’s blaster bolt residue all along the sides of the rocks, the far cliff face, and even new marks on the Razor Crest itself. You bite your lower lip to stop it from trembling. At- at least you don’t see their bodies. That’s… good, right? Means they’re somewhere… fighting?

Oh, stars…

You shift back on your heel to stand, anxiously brushing your pants off. “Stay here. Do not move for any-” you point at them and raise your eyebrows- “and I mean any reason.” You are met by sharp nods of agreement.

You sigh, twisting around to slide down the hill towards the ship. Crouching down, you scramble from rock to rock, moving closer in towards the ship. You still hear nothing, not even from within the ship. You pause, frozen in place, for a good three, four minutes, just enough to make sure it was safe enough to approach closer.

If no one is in the ship, you can fly it off. Fly it to Kuill’s, get help, call the Mandalorian, anything.

You cautiously rest one foot at the bottom of the ramp, as if it was triggered with bombs just waiting to go off with one wrong step. You release a puff of air, standing completely motionless as the Arvala wind whips your clothes around. You shake your head, taking several more steps.

All seems good, so now you can-

“WATCH OUT!”

You leap back several feet, clumsily falling off the edge of the ramp with an oof. You don’t allow yourself time to feel pain. You clutch at the arm you landed on, gritting your teeth. Stumbling up, you slip on loose rocks as you race towards cover. Panting heavily, you jerk your head around in circles. You reach down to your waistband, grasping for Pablo’s blaster.

Wait- no, no! The blaster- Pablo’s blaster! You- you must have lost it by the ramp in your panic! Damn!

“LOOK!”

Your eyes tear up to where Winta stands at the top of the hill. She and Birdie are leaping up and down, motioning wildly towards the opposite side of the Crest where you sit. You spin around, expecting the worst.

And finding it.

Seven Corellian hells.

The Nar Shaddaa woman, dusted up and bloodied, is racing towards the Crest.

And she’ll have to pass you to get to it.

“Watch out!”

BLAST.

The kids shriek as the blaster bolts sail over their heads. “DROP!” you howl, leaping up from your position. “DROP DOWN- ARH!” You grasp your left arm, grinding your teeth as the blood begins to pool on the fabric, warm and sticky against your hand.

You spin around, tears dripping from the pain. She’s lifting it again. Aiming.

You dive, screaming as your bad arm crashes into the dirt. No, no. The world falls dark for only a second. But now you’re stuck- stuck behind a rock. She’s coming- coming closer. You can hear her boots, crunching against the rocks and pebbles. Crunching crunching.

Kriff.

You- you can’t breathe. The smell of burned flesh- your flesh- turns your stomach inside out.

No.

This can’t- this won’t be your end.

Tears of terror and pain and resolve flood your cheeks.

You have one option. One chance.

You will get to the Razor Crest first.

One deep breath. Stumbling over pebbles, you push for the ramp. Your eyes are fixed forward. Tuning out any other thought besides-

run.

A bolt whizzes past your right ear. You instinctively jerk left, falling over from the burst of pain blasting from your arm straight to your head.

No, no. You can’t- You have to get up. The children…

Rage seethes in your chest. Damn her. Damn this galaxy.

You belly crawl to the nearest rock, pressing up against it. What can you do? Oh, Maker, what can you do?

You peak your head up. She’s so close. Closer. Lifts the gleaming silver. Aim-

Wait, what?

You gasp, slapping your good hand across your mouth.

You- your eyes… is this real? It can’t… You blink. No, it’s real.

The woman is floating in the air.

“What the hell,” you hiss under your breath. “What th- OH!”

The woman goes blasting off, crashing against the Crest with an audible crunch. Winta screams. You rip your eyes away, staring up at the hill, just in time to watch the baby fall into Winta’s lap.

Oh.

Oh no. No. No.

The baby- the baby used the force.

Complicated. How do things keep getting more and more complicated?

Movement pulls your attention away. The woman is getting up- clutching her side in pain. She releases a guttural scream, eyes flashing flames at you.

Right between you. In the middle. The blaster.

Like a match being lit, you burst forward. The pounding in your ears is like the hum of machinery, pushing you on like you had no say in the matter.

But then she falls, tumbles over her own feet, and you grasp the blaster from the dirt. But she’s on you. A snap against your fingers, and you cry out as the weapon launches from your hand. She kicked it.

She wraps an arm around your neck, but you pull her down with every bit of your body weight- both of you screaming against your injuries and wounds, but neither giving in.

Side leap- roll. You launch at her legs, taking her down. She throws you off- climbing astride. You grab her wrists, tears bubbling in your eyes as the pain in your arm blackens the edges of your eyesight.

You freeze.

You don’t- you don’t feel pain.

It’s cold. Just feels… cold.

With shaking, trembling hands, your clutch the handle of the vibroblade- your vibroblade- jutting from your side.

She jumps up off you, twisting around on her heel. You kn-know… she’s… the children. The children. You think you can… faintly hear them.

It wasn’t smart. But you have to… Gritting your teeth, you yank the knife from your side. Flopping over as you wail, the pain held back like a dam releases all at once.

Face kissed with tears, you wobble up to your feet, swaying against the darkness encroaching your vision.

May the force guide your hand.

You swing back. The knife flies, slips right out of your fingers. Slices through the air.

The Nar Shaddaa operative collapses, the handle of your knife glowing golden in the sun’s rays.

This will be your legacy.

Not your arrests, rebellion, schemes, failures, betrayals.

No.

When you die, your legacy will be the golden knife shining from their back. Your legacy will be the three children that will live on another day.

You’re selfish. You’ve lived a selfish life. But somehow, you think, with the last three minutes of your breath, maybe, just maybe, you have wiped that slate clean.

“Valera,” you mumble. Stars, you see her face. That’s all you want. Yes, to hell with this life. Valera… Bright eyes giggle above your face.

Maker…. You’re hallucinating… You’re… you’re actually dying. Years of close calls, and now you’re dying.

“V-Va-Valera.”

You reach up. But it is not softness nor warmth you feel.

Cold.

Hard.

“She’s going into shock.”

Din.

His voice is a thousand miles away. You are buried a hundred miles below the surface of an ocean. You are only vaguely aware of arms sliding underneath you, lifting you.

You feel no pain. Only a dark light, hovering at the edge, consuming more and more of the bright light. A battle, life and death. And you are stuck between them.

You comprehend a few things. The soft hug of blankets beneath your body. The gentle give of a mattress. A deep voice, muffled above the water’s surface. Soft, affectionate fingers tracing your jaw, cupping your cheek.

You hear your name, clear through the fog, a desperate, pleading voice.

It calls out. You want to answer.

But the darkness wins.

-------

You don’t remember the first time you awaken. Or the second. Nor the third. But the fourth time-

You pry open heavy eyelids, as if the lashes were tied to lead strands. You groan- you feel so heavy, like there’s a pressure boring down on you from some invisible source. You wiggle against the weight; the soreness shoots up your side; your arm-

Oh!

Your eyes shatter the lead weights into a thousand crystal shards, blasting wide open when everything hits your mind at once.

Hell! What- are the kids…? Where are- wait!

You lean forward, lifting up from the bed like some rakghoul emerging from its grave. A mistake. You moan against the ache that quivers up your spine.

“Easy.”

Catching the movement of silver, your eyes tear over to the opposite side of the room... Din’s room. You’re on the Razor Crest.

“Din,” you breathe, groaning as you place your good hand on your forehead. “What- what happened?”

He tilts his head. “You were stabbed.”

“I- I think I figured that part out,” you grumble as you stare down at your body, laying back against the pillows.

He remains silent, moving across the room to stand at your side. He doesn’t go to sit or even speak; he just… stares down at you.

“What?” you grumble, perhaps a bit heavy on the aggression. But hey, you’ve just been stabbed and shot. You imagine you have the right to be grumpy for at least a week or two. Maybe three, if you push it.

“I’m trying to determine-” he reaches down, dusting your forehead with the hint of leather- “if it’s you or the drugs speaking right now.”

“Drugs?” A teasing smile blooms at the corner of your mouth. “Hey, what kind of drugs are we talking about here?”

He lowers down into the chair positioned beside your bed with a grunt.

“It’s you.”

You chuckle even through your aching exhaustion.

“I…” you drop the humor, voice lowering to a mere whisper. “What happened? I don’t remember…”

Din twists his head away from you. You fear he might not answer; you begin panicking, wondering if something horrible happened and-

“When we arrived,” he sighs, heavy, tired, “they refused to show us you and the children. Next thing I know-” he tilts his head- “a man emerged from the ramp saying you were safe and to shoot them.”

Pablo. Some plan! You roll your eyes, perhaps with a smidge of affection in your heart, if you searched very, very hard. Very hard.

“Then we found you,” he whispers, barely audible through the vocoder. He leans forward, resting both elbows against his knees and shaking his head.

“Ka’r’ika, you… ” He reaches out again, dusting of leather against your cheek. “I- you died.”

“I… I did?” Your eyes widen. “I- it’s… really?” You blink, humor taking over for your lack of words. You force a grin. “Damn, that’s… hardcore.”

Din does not attempt to mask the aggression in his tone.

“They died too quickly.” He leans against the mattress, voice dropping in volume. “They deserved to have it dragged out.”

Shivers spike up your spine at his words. Sometimes you forget he’s a hunter, running with his own, perhaps sometimes cruel, set of rules and codes. But quickly… was it quickly? You let your eyes slide shut, trying your hardest to forget to stench of raw, burnt flesh, the children wailing…

You launch forward with a gasp. “The kids! Are they-”

He pushes you back with a firm grip on your shoulder.

“Time has helped.” He leans forward. “Every time they tell the story, the details grow a bit more elaborate. A good sign.”

“Heh, no surprise there- wait a minute, how much time are we talking about here?”

“Three days.” He angles his head at you. “Been taking turns watching you.”

“Stars! Three days!” You blink, biting you lip. “I, uh, I’m sorry. I can go to my, um, own bunk now. I feel better…” You begin shifting, but a firm, yet gentle, hand presses you back down, fingers lingering a few seconds longer than necessary.

You sigh, letting your good arm flop down on your chest.

“Ka’r’ika…��

You turn your head to watch him; he taps his fingers rapidly against his thigh.

“You did well.”

A small smile peaks through your lips, and you slide your hand along the edge of the bed, seeking his. You grasp the cool leather, pleased when he returns the grip.

“We can’t seem to stay out of trouble-” you toss him a lopsided smile- “can we?”

“No,” he rasps. You are happy to hear amusement has returned to his voice. “You can’t.”

“Mando-” you scrunch your nose- “you can kriff right off.”

He laughs… stars, even more beautiful than the first time you heard it. Best watch out, Mando, now you will do everything in your power to pry open that tin can heart of his and pull that laugh out.

Your mood turns, your face dropping.

The baby.

Hell, he… he used the force. Surely the Mandalorian knew, right? How- how could he not? Do you bring it up? Ask? You twist your head, avoiding meeting the dark depths of his visor.

You will wait. You will wait and see if he brings it up.

After all, the children saw it too. They must have told him what they saw…

“What’s wrong?”

You blink rapidly, breath catching in your throat. “Oh, ah, nothing.” Biting your lip, you take a deep breathe of air. “I guess, I just wonder, you know, this is my fault. I should have- could have… I don’t know.” You will not cry you will not cry. “I’m a karking coward.” You bury your face in your hand.

“You’re a lot of things-” you rip your hand away, staring at him as he speaks- “but a coward is not one of them.”

You blink as he continues.

“You protected our children. Killed to do so.” He angles his helmet. “Didn’t run, stayed with me to take a Bateran down.” He blows a huff of air through the vocoder. “And a coward wouldn’t have risked their life for those women on Taek.”

“That was just a gut reaction,” you grumble, feeling your cheeks burn at the Mandalorian’s praise.

“Bravery as an instinct is stronger than a deliberate choice. It means it’s in your nature.” He shifts to stand, hovering over your body before stepping back. “This is the way.”

“Um, oh. Ok-ay.”

Pride, there was pride in his voice.

“Well-” you stop him before he can move further away from you- “what now for you, Mandalorian?”

“Delivering the chip to the client.” He steps over a pile of clothing to stare up at some piping running through the walls. “That should take care of any future issues, for both of us.” He hooks his fingers in his belt, stepping back away from the bed. “I redirected their beacon. Made it look like they were in a completely different sector. Kuill should be safe, protected.”

Your eye twitches, afraid to ask your next question.

“So, where is this chip to be delivered?”

“Nar Shaddaa.”

Oh.

Oh, hell no no nonono.

You didn’t spend months of blood, sweat, and tears running to get away from there only to go back now. No, no. You’re going with Cara. You’re going to Keolith.

Movement from the corner of your eye breaks apart your panicked thoughts.

Din, stepping over another pile of junk, stoops down to pick some of it up.

“It- I…” he pauses, several quiet, long seconds. “I could keep you safe- if you were to stay with me.”

You blink, thinking you hear a light strangle of air slipping under his helm.

“…Until things with Taek are cleared,” he swiftly adds, stuffing some shirts into a drawer.

“Din,” your voice is soft, barely audible. He drops everything to turn and stare at you.

“I’ve been lying to you.”

Silence.

“I- I can’t stay here- not with you, your son, these people.” Your voice grows louder with every word. “It’s too dangerous. And- and I can’t go back to Nar Shaddaa. I had to flee the planet with only the clothes on my back. I’m in a big, hot mess.”

You vigorously shake your head, avoiding looking in his direction. “If there isn’t already, soon there will be a price on my head. It doesn’t matter why. And- shit- I… it’s bad, really bad.” The words spill faster and faster.

“And I don’t mean cheap hunters!” You throw your good hand in the air. “We’re talking private, high-level hunters!” You slap your face into your hand, yanking on your hair as you groan.

“Hell, on Taek- I stalked you. I heard stories of the Mandalorian hunters. Expensive, efficient. I thought you were there for me.” Gulping back against your dry throat, you force yourself to turn and face him.

He stands motionless, watching you. His visor, that damn visor, bores into you like it could dig secrets from your soul.

Oh no.

A hunter. He is, first and foremost, a hunter.

You-you messed up. He wouldn’t- maybe you overestimated… He’s going to turn you in, collect-

“I know.” His voice is soft, gentle.

Your lips part, confusion etched in your furrowed brows.

“I knew you were watching me, trailing me to the cantina.”

Your eyes widen.

“I followed you to the courtyard that night,” he rasps, crossing his arms. “To observe. Maybe question you.”

“Poodoo,” you breathe, eyes wide open in disbelief. “And there I was the whole time thinking I was being sneaky.”

A small gasp escapes your lips when he suddenly steps to the side. He sweeps around the bed, stomping right over the clothes you had tossed on the floor only a few days prior. You startle, digging back against the pillows, holding your breath until he pauses right beside you.

“You’re staying with me.”

“W-what? Didn’t you just hear what I said?” You start to sit up, but his firm grip on your shoulder pushes you back, holding you there as he resumes speaking.

“I’m not letting you leave until it’s safe and this situation is cleared up.”

You know you can’t argue when he uses that tone of voice, but you can try. “But the hunters!”

“Will not hurt or find us. I will- I swear-” he rips his hand away from your shoulder, dropping down into the chair. “You will be kept safe. And- after that… I will return you to Keolith, or whatever you wish.” His voice drifts, softening towards the end.

Tears threaten to spill from your eyes.

But no, you will not cry.

You grab his hand with yours, ignoring the sharp exhale of breath that slips beneath his helm. You desperately wish you could feel, squeeze, the soft flesh hidden away in leather. You want to touch the man inside.

But that thought scares you. It scares you because, you have a feeling, if you were to ask, he would do it for you.

You- you don’t want that kind of power. You can’t handle that kind of power.

“Interrupting anything?”

You rip your hand away, tucking it beneath the blankets.

“Cara!” you laugh, brushing off your discomfort.

“So, you live!”

“It appears so.”

“Feeling okay?” Her voice softens, dropping the jestering tone.

“Yeah,” you sigh.

“Good.” That mischievous glint returns to her eye. “Well, aren’t we going to be just one cozy little group, all together in the Razor Crest.”

“E-excuse me?” You raise an eyebrow.

A new person entering the room rips your attention towards the door.

“It’ll be a tight squeeze, but-” Pablo takes another bite of his apple- “hey! That bed could fit three, easily. Who wants to spoon me?”

“You!” you growl, wincing as you lift up off the bed. “You’re not spooning anyone tonight! How about we just freeze you back!”

Pablo throws his hands in the air, giving you a raised eyebrow.

“Hold the spunk, sweetheart.” He takes another bite of the apple, casually walking closer to you. “I’m a free man. Kids vouched for me. They love me.”

Din releases the heaviest, most long-suffering sigh you have ever heard from him.

Apparently, three days with Pablo hasn’t exactly made the Mandalorian a fan either.

“In exchange for his assistance, I messaged and had Greef wipe his Guild bounty, listed as dead,” Cara chuckles.

“Yeah, saving Mando’s girl got me on the buddy list. And Mando, you wouldn’t have caught me the first time if I wasn’t taken off guard.” He points a finger at Din. “Lemme know when you want a rematch.”

“I-I’m not his girl,” you mumble, heart beating faster at the insinuation. Oh stars… You dare not steal a glance at the Mandalorian.

“Oh good, I was worried,” Pablo sighs. “Didn’t want Mando to find out that you grabbed this tight ass when we were alone in here.”

“Pablo!” you yelp, growling through clenched teeth. Stars, you’ve had enough. “Remember our previous conversation? I’m going to bloody kill you!” You launch a pillow at him with your one good arm that he easily dodges. “Get over here, you coward!”

He flops on the other side of the bed, yelling and covering his face as you smack him repeatedly with a pillow.

“Damn- HEY- wa- ouch!”

“Blast-” smack- “you-” smack- “banthabrain!”

“Stop.” A strong grip pulls your arm back. “You’ll agitate your injuries.”

“I will not travel with him in the same ship!”

“I’m not too excited about it either, sister!”

“Go with Cara then!”

“About that-” Cara taps her chin- “my little craft might have been destroyed in the scuffle with the Nar Shaddaa creeps.”

“Oh.” You blink. “I’m-I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Wasn’t my ship,” she chuckles.

“We’re dropping them off,” Din sighs, rolling his head back as if to say, “how did I get into this mess?”

“If you can’t handle each other’s presence,” he grumbles, crossing his arms. “I can freeze you both.”

“Grumpy old man,” you snort.

You turn towards Pablo, sticking a tongue out at him. He returns the gesture.

Cara grabs the back of Pablo’s collar. “Come on, let’s let her get some rest.” Cara swoops her hand towards the door. “Din, go get some sleep. I’ll stay and listen for her.” She leans in close to you, raising her hand to cover her mouth. “He wouldn’t leave your side.”

You feel your cheeks burst into flames, and you wish you could bury your head under the covers like the children.

“Fine.” Pablo spins around in the doorframe, tossing you a quick wink. “Later, sweetheart.”

Cara chuckles. “You too, Din.”

Letting his shoulders fall, he shuffles over towards the door, pausing just before the frame.

“Ka’r’ika, wait.”

You lift your eyes. “What is that?”

Your mouth falls open, the familiar golden gleam finally registering in your head.

Your knife.

“You should wield this with honor, Ka’r’ika,” Din rumbles.

You hesitantly reach out, taking it with a trembling hand.

“You earned the honor.”

You raise your head, a small smile on your lips.

“Teach me sometime?”

His hand lifts your chin. Skin, not leather, strokes just below your lip.

“As you please.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

masterlist / previous chapter / next chapter

taglist: (in the comments)

a/n: I know this chapter is incredibly long, so I really appreciate it if you made it this far! :D No, seriously, I really do! I write mostly for my own pleasure. I mean, that’s the “correct” answer to give, right? But I will be the first to admit I also write because I want my readers to feel what I feel- a shared experience. So, if my writing has in any way affected you- made you feel something- feel free to let me know in a comment! :D Think of your comments as the gasoline that fuels the writing lol! Comments here or Ao3 are always loved. 💜

See you next chapter! Where do we go from here, hmm? ;)

And I went ahead and bumped the story up to an “M” rating on Ao3, mostly for the language and violence. Just to be safe. Each chapter will include detailed warnings so you can make the decision on whether to read it or not.

Feel free to check out my bio for links to my masterlist, Ao3 account, and taglist!

#din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x oc #the mandalorian x oc #star wars fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #in fields of white #willezarr #wille writes

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pettyprocrastination · 4 years

Text

Dinner for Three

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x Valerie Lord x Black!Fem!Reader

OneShot: This is just a non-canon fic! This is basically placed AFTER the timelines of this fic, just a fun little side ficlet surrounding you and the lords after yall get together in celebration of Valentines day!

*If you want to read the rest of the fic so far here's a link to my masterlist where you can find Rip Out Our Seams & Stitch Us Together*

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: profanity, some groping going on and kissing. That's about it! Fluff and talking of self-worth.

Summary: It's Valentine's Day, you decide to treat Valerie to a nice homecooked dinner, Maxwell joins you when he returns home from work.

If the formatting is fucked im sorry tumblr fucked this like three times today im just trying to get it POSTED for you all.

Tag List: @captainsamwlsn @themarcusmoreno @cinewhore @thesadvampire @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @readsalot73 @holographic-carmen @honestlystop @thecrimsonsquire @phoenixhalliwell @that-chick212 @phantomnae @goldafterglow

If I forgot to tag you I'm so sorry please let me know!

Notes: BIG thank you to @ficsilike-reblogged who bought me a kofi! I know i was meant to do asomething shorter but i couldn't help myself! Also my usual big thanks for the ever lovely @teaofpeach for editing for me you are an absolute treat my dear ily <3

(i coudn't find any good lasagna gifs the TRAGEDY)

“What in God’s name are you wearing?”

You turned around at the shocked voice to see Valerie standing in the kitchen doorway, red painted lips dropped open.

You grinned and planted your hands on your hips with pride. “My Valentine’s Day outfit! You don’t like it?”

Her face fell flat as she looked you up and down; the main culprit of her disdain was the shirt you wore, buttoned neatly and covered in hearts. “Hon, you look like a cartoon character.”

You wiggled your brows. “A sexy cartoon character?”

“Remind me again why I love you?”

Hearing the word ‘love’ from Valerie Lord would never not send your heart into a frenzy. It had been months since the gala, since they had told you about their feelings with courage brought on my champagne and their own confessions to one another.

They finally had each other, why couldn't they have you as well?

Of course, that didn’t mean there wasn’t a… learning curve. When it came to the relationship, Valerie was bad at sharing her feelings. Sure, she’d say when she didn’t like somebody, or when she thought certain food tasted bad or when Maxwell’s new cologne smelled like rat shit. But she wouldn’t tell you when she was sad, insecure or felt like she wasn’t enough for the both of you.

Maxwell was too concerned with the outer view of the relationship, as he had been with Valerie since they got married. It was suspicious of course, for him to be seen leaving with a “mystery woman” without his wife around, so he took certain precautions. When out and about, he would take too much time fretting over the cameras and questions than you.

These precautions nearly cost them your relationship, their sweet girl who brought them together and showed them love and care and made them realize while they couldn't live without each other, they couldn’t live without you as well.

But now, they knew this. That you weren’t a fling who could be replaced. Your nimble fingers had stitched their beating hearts back together with a golden thread they wouldn’t dare untie from your own.

You turned away from the heiress and back to the stove as you stirred the red sauce in front of you.

“As abhorrent as that shirt is-” Her voice purred in your ear as her arms slid around your waist and pulled your back flush against her- “I love you in those jeans.”

You chuckled and kept your eyes on the task at hand as you slowly stirred. “As much of a compliment that is, Mrs. Lord, why don’t you keep those hands to yourself until I put this on the stove, alright?”

She hummed, contemplative before pressing her lips to the crook of your neck. “So mean to me baby.”

Her hands toyed with your belt loop, a painted nail hooking your shirt and slowly sliding it out from where it was tucked.

You sucked in a sharp breath. “Valerie.”

“What? Can’t I show my pretty baby some love on Valentines day?”

“Not while I’m cooking on a hot stove, little-miss-gropey.” A quick slap to her wrist with the wooden spoon made her yelp and yank her hands away from you.

“Bitch!”

You turned and pursed your lips. “Aww, poor baby, want me to kiss it better?”

She grumbled under her breath, taking in the splattered food on her wrist from the spoon before swiping her finger through it and bringing it to her mouth.

“Maybe you can kiss my ass instea- Oh, damn that’s good.”

Her eyes widened and you couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of such a high and mighty woman licking the back of her hand.

“Is that-”

“Basil?” She hummed at the taste. “I’m glad you enjoy it. It’s my father’s recipe.”

Valerie watched you as you cooked. Methodically adding each ingredient while humming along to the radio and swaying from side to side.

“You don’t talk about him much.”

Valerie knew you were different than her and Maxwell. Your childhood wasn’t full of flashing cameras, propping questions, and hiding tears behind fake smiles to reporters. When your father was brought up in conversation, you didn’t bristle or change the subject. You would smile.

She wasn’t jealous of that joy. That love you had from your family. She’s grateful for it, that amongst the struggles you had, there was also support and happiness.

“He doesn’t come up in conversation often.” Valerie’s hands once more wrapped around your waist, but simply settled at your hips. Her body was flush with your own and she let her head rest on your shoulder, gently swaying with you as you continued to cook.

“Tell me about him.”

She saw the small smile that graced your lips, mourning and grateful all at once as you spoke of him.

“He used to say that as people, we’re a collection of those around us. The ones we’ve loved. All their little mannerisms and tics become a part of who we are. And that we do the same for other people who love us.”

As you slowly set the pasta onto the bottom of the pan and began to layer the sauce, she wondered who you were an amalgamation of. Was the way you tilted your head back as you laughed from an old flame?

Was the way you sang and shook your hips from a best friend when you were young, who you wished had been more?

Were the soft kisses you press to the tip of their noses something given to you? Or an act of love learned by watching your parents?

Did you have anything of hers? Of Max’s?

Did they have anything of yours?

“I see it in you and Max, yanno.” You stepped back to open the oven and settle the pan on the top rack before shutting it. “You both do a lil’ nose scrunch when you get angry.”

“What?” She drew back from your body, unintentionally wrinkling her nose in the process. “We do not.”

You pulled her close to your body again. Your arms settled around her waist as you slowly moved side to side. You hummed along to the smooth voice of Grover Washington Jr. that danced from the radio and filled the large kitchen, empty except for the two of you.

“Sure do. You're also both very boujee-”

“Hey.”

“A touch temperamental-”

“I’ll give you that one but-"

“As well as emotionally constipated-”

“Excuse me?”

“And yet-” You hummed, letting your head drop forward to rest against hers, nose bumping against hers in a gentle caress- “I can’t help but love you both every damn day.”

Her blue eyes widened, before she groaned and shoved her face into your shirt.

“You fucking sap.” She lifted her head to yours and kissed you. The melody curled around you as she wrapped her arms around your neck and tugged you flush against her. A soft moan broke from her lips as you ran your hands over the plush skin of her ass.

You pulled away long enough to press a kiss to the tip of her nose, giggling when her face scrunched up in response. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Val."

Valerie Lord never thought she’d have this. This love and security. The ability to smile and kiss and dance on a Sunday night in the arms of a lover. She didn’t think she’d ever have a day where she felt love, a love she wasn’t afraid to admit.

Especially to two people.

The pair of you danced in silence, listening to the lyrics that serenaded the way you spun her and the laugh that bubbled up her chest her perfect, pinned, blonde curls came loose.

And darling when the morning comes

And I see the morning sun

I wanna be the one with you.

When Maxwell came home, he noticed how quiet the house was. No chatter or footsteps along the hardwood floors. He knew what day it was, of course he did. He wasn’t an idiot. Valentine’s Day wasn’t a special day with the Lords. It never had been.

But of course, that was before they met you.

Maxwell never saw that love with his parents. His mother was cold and cruel, and while his father was a good man, he knew he didn’t love her. He didn’t blame him for it. But now he felt it. The way his heart would hammer against his ribs so hard he wondered if you could hear him. The way all his stress and anger would melt away the moment Valerie’s hands held his face in a grasp like that used to carry a bird with a broken wing.

He didn’t think it was possible to love. To desire and need somebody as much as he did you two. Now he did, and he wouldn’t go back to a life without it for all the money and power in the world.

The sound of smooth sax caught his attention. Slowly, he set down his briefcase and followed the music until he found himself in front of the kitchen.

This. Maxwell thought as he watched the two of you, your eyes shut as you held one another in a close embrace as swayed. This is why he did it all.

The long hours, the greuling work and idiotic employees. If he could come home to this everyday, it’d all be worth it.

He leaned against the doorway, watching you two until your own eyes opened and met his.

“Happy to finally have you with us monopoly-man.”

He snorted at your lovingly crude nickname. “It was a long day at work.” Gone was the fake ‘apple-pie-and-picket-fence’ accent he forced himself to use at work when he spoke and you loved it. To see the real Maxwell was a privilege, one you would never take for granted.

“Every day at work is a long day for you.”

Before he could retort, his wife unwrapped her arms from you and walked over to her husband. Valerie cupped his face in her hand and led him to her lips with a soft moan. Maxwell melted into the kiss with ease, all thoughts of work and conference calls vanished into thin air as his wife’s fingers carded through his hair. She pulled away with a wet pop and ran a thumb over the smudged lipstick on his face.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, dear.”

Maxwell let his hand run over her bottom lip with a lazy smile. She was magnificent like this. Not preened or pinned or posed. She was messy and unkempt and happy. She never looked more breathtaking than in those moments.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, honey.”

Her eyes flicked over his crisp suit and her sweet smile was replaced with a groan.

“Son of a bitch you fuckers are matching!”

You shrieked with laughter while Valerie pointed an accusatory finger at the heart-covered tie that lay on her husband’s chest.

“You tacky traitor!”

You leaned over and pressed your lips to his cheek, his hand coming to rest at the small of your back.

“Aw don’t worry, Max. She’s just jealous she isn't matching with us.”

Valerie reared back. “I’ll be caught dead before I ever-”

“Alastair sent them to us.”

A moment of silence passed before she spoke again, more offended than annoyed.

“And he didn’t send one for me?”

Maxwell smirked at his wife, fishing out a small white box and presenting it to her.

“Our son knows his mother wouldn’t be caught dead in anything with gaudy patterns.” He opened the box and she took in the red heart earrings with a smile.

Which was ultimately ruined by you.

“Aw, he boujee just like his mama!”

Before either one could snap back at you, a small ding sounded through the kitchen and you moved quickly over to the oven.

“You know-” Maxwell spoke as he put the earrings on his wife with gentle hands- “We have a chef for a reason.”

You brought out the pan and set it onto the stove, taking in the savory smell with a proud smile.

“Well, fine then. Go get your cook to make you dinner if you want to complain.”

“Wait. Wait, no that not- that’s not what I meant- I’m starving, please.”

Valerie moved around her husband, taking a bottle of red wine and bumping his hip with hers. “Just set the table Maxwell, we both know how you can make it up to her later. It’s a special day after it all.”

Her husband loosened his tie and grinned at you in a way that made you think he wanted to eat you for dinner instead of the meal you prepared.

“Lovely idea, darling.”

#maxwell lord #maxwell lord x oc #maxwell lord x reader #maxwell lord x you #valerie lord x reader #maxwell lord x valerie lord x reader #ROOSASUT #ww1984 #wonder women 1984 #fanfiction #max lord #maxwell lorenzano #tell me if i missed any tags lmao

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im-thinking-arson · 3 years

Text

Hi wow depression is a hell of a thing.

I'm sorry for the relative silence here, considering everything that has been going on in the last (roughly) year and a half it has been really hard to focus on any creative outlets. Everything has felt pretty heavy as I have been piecing together what exactly happened to myself and the people I used to share a community with.

Although my former FC is basically non-existent at this point, I feel it is appropriate to say that I no longer associate with its' leader @morganaux (sernoudenet on Twitter and formerly here) and to clarify why.

I have been struggling with what to even say about the situation. There are so many layers that I don't honestly know if any single cross-section could explain all there is to unpack. When it takes multiple people six months to explore everything they know as fact... I think that shows its not so much of a 'he said, they said' scenario as the few people who still support Morgy have tried to claim.

I feel guilty not speaking up sooner, considering this person is a member of the FFXIV community who I'm fairly sure some of my mutuals follow. Its so hard to speak out when he publicly acts innocent, like he has quietly moved on and refuses to acknowledge what he's done.

The reality feels so cold in contrast, with the knowledge I have- that he has done this multiple times before, burning down or wearing down those he has hurt with false sincerity; claiming innocence, claiming people misunderstand the significance of the intentions behind the knives in their backs, claiming he is the truest victim of the mess wrought of his own actions.

He quietly retweets fan art, cute animals, head canons, and all kinds of fandom things- but also others' tweets to identify with their own traumas- the same traumatic thoughts and feelings he incites in others through a mixture of gaslighting, lashing out, and playing the victim. He tweets passive aggressively about people he feels the victim of, (justified or not) even amid posts about his dearly beloved OC.

At this point I should just block him and try to scrape all memory of what I went through from my mind, but un-fucking-fortunately I know him too well to believe it's over when it's over. He still makes passive aggressive tweets about people he hasn't talked to in one, two, ?? years, a person who was a good friend to him for 10 years before he scapegoated them to maintain his own sense of righteousness.

Seeing as I witnessed him maintain not one, not two, not three- FOUR venting channels in his own discord, including at one point one specifically made for sh*tting on a single person, defending it's use and encouraging others to participate saying 'this is how victims cope'...

I know it's not over, and if he had a single shred of...anything... He could leverage against me he would have already tried to 'cancel' me. I'm not turning my back again to see if he decides to throw another knife.

For a long time I wanted to believe I had simply misunderstood the situation, that his intentions weren't so self-serving. The more I saw, the more I heard testimony from others that matched my own, the more I began to un-repress and process my own memories and connect the dots... And the less sense his own account made.

While I tried to maintain my friendship with him I ignored all the red flags, my own rise in anxiety, the isolation I felt. I felt so much pressure to fit into his equation, to be a supportive friend, to keep track of how he was feeling that I stopped taking care of my own mental health.

All the while he got angry for people not checking on him when he asked for space, threw a fit when anyone failed to accommodate his whims, and even accused his three closest friends of purposefully excluding him by taking screenshots without him in them or even hanging out together when he was offline..

And he would have people believe that most of the issues he was involved in centered on his friends not communicating with him. But in my case at least, nothing could be further from the truth.

I told him I felt uncomfortable with the fact his (at the time) friend had publicly lashed out at me in his discord server for stating my opinion. He suggested I work harder to befriend this person, that he couldn't and wouldn't approach his friend about it because he wasn't a FC member and only there as a friend of himself and his two closest friends.

He lashed out at a former friend (and FC mate) of mine -on my behalf- because they wouldn't stop messaging me while I was at work... And when this person subsequently put me on blast thinking I had put him up to it I mentioned considering posting my side of the story- to initially be shamed (by the person mentioned above) for suggesting I protect myself, stating it could make things worse for the people who had already publicly attacked this person...

I approached him about another former friend of his angrily ranting about a character I had though at the time they knew I was planning to RP (I had spoken about it both in-game and in a discord we all shared) because I didn't know them well enough to feel comfortable saying that made me feel uncomfortable and unwelcome in the space. I approached my former friend because I knew from experience he took things like this seriously and he was the one who had invited this character TO role play in the first place.

He reacted by telling this person he had no idea why I was upset, asked them to address an issue they had no context for - prompting them to write an apology, and then reinforced their worry that I hated them by saying I "probably disliked them since [I] hadn't written them an apology" in return. I had thought they both wanted to drop the subject because he stopped responding about the situation.

He decided the situation was resolved and kept inviting us around one another for at least four months while keeping up the illusion that I disliked this person despite me trying to remain friendly- and said nothing about the situation until AFTER he had nuked his FC and almost everyone was done with his bullshit. I had asked him to be honest about the situation and finally got "[name] thinks you dislike him" ???

(I might add more details about these situations because it's honestly much more of a mess than it might seem, but I'd probably have to write a fucking book to explain everything well in-sequence of events.)

But those examples aside, I told him up front that the favoritism he showed and my concerns being glossed over was messing with my head, that I didn't know if I felt safe in his FC, that the whole situation was making me feel like I was losing my grip on reality, that at one point feeling like I was being discouraged from defending myself was beginning to make me feel su*cidal. These are things he knew.

He reacted to this ignoring both cause and effect, ignoring me unless I reached out first or it concerned RP, continually inviting me to hang out with people he knew I felt uncomfortable with (or vice versa) and normally turning down anything I invited him to do otherwise- including several times that I offered to help him with Eden or dungeons he wanted to farm when he previously said he was free to do so. A couple of times he declined saying he was waiting to see if he could convince another friend... and then threw a fit about 'no one wanting to help him' despite declining my offer and not reaching out to me after his other friend declined (I was still online but he decided to vent on discord instead).

Behind my back he talked shit about me, enough that someone who had known him 10 years and was familiar with his behavioral patterns qualified it 'constant' bashing, whenever I came up in conversation. And even included confronting me about the three situations I mentioned above in a plan he was working on to 'fix' his FC, as if he thought I was reaching out to him to stir up drama.

Eventually it came out that the friend I mentioned in the first example was emotionally abusing his friends (and I found out later told him two of them were talking shit about him- prompting HIM to lash out at them). One of them mentioned that person had still been talking shit about me 6 months later on a private account and when I got upset that THREE people I had thought were my friends didn't tell me, I made a few jokes in poor taste (that I do now regret) about the situation to try and prevent myself from having a mental break down.

The person he led to believe I hated left the discord server at that point and he decided to divert some of the blame for (in his words) 'being worried for this person's life' -whom he had attacked over the situation- to me... blaming them leaving and him having trouble contacting them on me.

I told him if this former friend was indeed attacking people and he was so worried we needed to talk about the situation, since in other situations his response was to ignore the hurt caused. He blew up about me messaging him at work, he blamed me for every situation I had brought to his attention. He went to his mods to rant about me and sent one of them to scope out the situation in hopes they could shut me up.

This is the friend of 10 years, who quickly became concerned and not for the reasons he had hoped. They shared a few screenshots of things said to gaslight me behind my back as the conversation progressed. Eventually the other mod jumped in and, knowingly or not proceeded to gaslight me FOR him, based on what they were told. By him.

They reinforced everything he was saying in guise of a neutral perspective and my efforts to prevent a full-scale breakdown failed. I lost all grip on reality for several days- in which at some point I wrote an apology to him for accusing him of several things that were later proven true- and one thing he, himself, proved he'd lied about to the other person involved.

I spent almost two weeks in a self-imposed social break to sort everything out and attempt to cope with what I was told was reality. I fell into the deepest depression I've been in since I had to run away from home, and honestly if it wasn't for my wonderful SO and our house mates, I might have really hurt myself.

It turns out another situation had been brewing parallel to my own. People had been coming to the social mod, the friend of 10 years, with their own worries about him. Almost every. Single. Member. Including at least four people who came forward with fears that if they did a single thing that he interpreted as an insult or threat they would find themselves exiled, called out, and ranted about in a jumbled mix of truth and fictional-malice until their own friends turned on them to support his victim complex.

These four people came forward on the condition that their names be kept anonymous to protect their identity. He didn't take kindly to this, quickly demanding names so they (his mod team) could handle the situation. The mod refused, knowing he has a history of lashing out at any criticism against him and to protect those who were already afraid of bringing the problems up to Morgy.

He reacted by lashing out at this person, claiming they ruined his life, and attempting to weed out those who had spoken out against him by kicking anyone he didn't feel 'safe' being around from his FC. He posted a message in his FC discord about resuming his 'reign of terror'... Which, even if it was a joke, was in in poor taste after pruning his FC of anyone he didn't think could be convinced of his 'good intentions.'

I missed this first culling of his FC members, I assume, because I had apologized and at the time submitted to his version of events. He approached me soon after I noticed the changes in the discord and FC roster; claiming he really wanted to work things out and remain friends- going as far as to say he was so nervous about my reaction that he was shaking.

I wanted to take him at face value despite everything that happened because yeah, I did want to believe he was sincere, that he was a good friend, and that all of it had been an unfortunate misunderstanding. And at first I did until I started talking to other people who knew him and getting their side of the story. Nothing he said added up. Between first-hand testimony and over a hundred screenshots from multiple people the ONLY things that were clear and consistent were that he lied and fit his narrative to whatever he wanted to achieve.

He tried to reduce conflict by omitting information, he controlled people's perception of one another by how he spoke about them and how close he let them to himself and others, he built a support group by polarizing his friends against his 'enemies' and if anyone had a problem with him... They were wrong, and got added to the pile of 'aggressors' he had accumulated over the years, to be bashed and spit on for years to come.

He may have sensed my change in opinion when I directly asked him to help me reach out to the person who thought I disliked them- managed to come to an understanding and we mutually apologized for the situation... Without his meddling. Or maybe when he realized I was still on talking terms with the people he had lashed out at and directly asked him why he had kicked people who did absolutely nothing to him... Or it could be that I kept in contact with the person who 'ruined his life' by trying to protect his friends from him. I don't know.

While we were still talking he tried to identify with me and bond over the feeling of loosing the FC, a group of people that despite the anxiety, and pain I had felt in the environment he'd built I did deeply respect and care about... Despite the dissolution of that group and the abuse I suffered being -at the core- his own fault. He even went as far as to say my description of the PTSD and fear I was experiencing described exactly how he was feeling, too.

As our conversations further weighed on my mental health I had to take a break from interacting with him. I was honest again, with what I was told, what I knew, and asked him for honesty about the situation... What he had said about me behind my back and why because I wanted to hear it from him. I wanted to see if he would acknowledge the harm he caused both to me and the rest of the (former) FC.

He never did, and probably won't. He asked for some time to tend to his own stress levels and mental health and then blocked me on all social media and discord, and kicked me from his FC without ever making an effort to reach out.

Of the few people who are still close to him, one of them suggested that "maybe he just decided he didn't want to be friends anymore." But after him begging to have a conversation to iron out all the facts, claiming to be so anxious about such a conversation going well that he was 'shaking', admitting that what he did hurt people and that my being wary of him was understandable, asking me -directly- to let him know if he did anything 'shady', and stressing he REALLY wanted this conversation to take place when we were both able to handle it because of how important he felt it was...

I feel like its fair to say that him suddenly cutting off all contact isn't quite so simple. He could have done that at any point. Before pointedly ignoring my concerns, before gaslighting me, before blaming me for the results of his own actions, before accepting an apology for accusing him of things he did legitimately do, and certainly before directly telling me had no real problems with me, that he it was super important to him that we remain friends, and that I deserved his honesty.

I'm not going to try and tell anyone who they should be friends with or not. Frankly, people can change and in a lot of cases experiences with individuals will be different.

But on that same note, if I had known then what I know now I might have saved myself from roughly two years of anxiety and avoided the state of dissonance I now find myself in. I still have moments where I want to doubt the things I experienced first hand. My mind is still trying to repress my own memories to cope.

A part of me still cares about him despite everything because as far as I knew, he was my friend and I am still trying to reconcile what I found to be true.

At this point I feel like I should say please don't harass Morgy if you read this, but honestly? If you have any reason to hold him accountable go for it. He needs it. And if you have any gut feelings about him or anyone in his circle please listen to it. The few supporters he still has are willing to ignore anything he has done previous to the fall of his FC and have shown they are willing to debate and accuse people who speak out about legitimate concerns involving him.

If anyone has any questions I am willing to answer them and share the proof I have.

And in the off chance anyone wants to (further) argue with me about my experiences or whether or not I suffered enough to be considered a victim, please Google some images of a hand giving the middle finger. But if after that you still really want to play stupid games? I can find you some stupid prizes.

I don't owe him my silence. Or peace of mind. The only thing I owe him is to be as entirely, brutally, honest as possible given the information I have. I think it's a fair offer considering the mind-numbing volume of honesty he -still- owes all of us.

- - - - -

I may add more onto this. Unfortunately the entire situation is a lot more complex, but I wanted to get the backbone of my own experiences out there and there is so much bullshit it can't all be seen from any one direction. A lot of the circumstantial evidence loops back into other situations and makes it hard to comprehensively represent everything on any sort of singular timeline. As I said in the beginning there is a reason it took a small group 6 months to piece it together.

I am far from the only person hurt, and the entire situation was a mess with people feeling unnerved or pressured into going along with his agenda. For the most part now that I have more context I don't blame most of the people involved for their own actions. I fully support those who can't or won't come forward about the situation whether they just want out of his drama, or are afraid to come forward.

#ffxiv community #ffxiv rp #Morganaux #Morgy #Ser Noudenet #ffxiv twitter

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flourchildwrites · 3 years

Text

It’s an ordinary Tuesday for most of the hospital occupants as well as the passersby scurrying on the street below. As Rei ends her call with a reputable cab company, she gazes out the window to watch their comings and goings one last time. From the comfort of her windowsill, she likes to imagine the colorful lives they lead in contrast to the hospital's endless reserve of rooms drenched in muted earth tones. The exception is, as always, a vibrant arrangement of Japanese gentians that sits in her windowsill, sticking out like a sore thumb.

But this Tuesday is different. Her doctors say that this day marks a milestone in her recovery. For what it’s worth, Rei is inclined to agree. She’s packing her bags to leave the hospital. Unlikely though it once seemed, Mrs. Todoroki is going home.

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Relationships & Characters: Todoroki Rei/Todoroki Enji, Himura Family, Todoroki Family, Todoroki Shouto

Genre: Flashbacks, Parent-Child Dynamics, Healing, Hopeful Ending

Trigger Warnings: Implied/Referenced Canonical Child and Spousal Abuse

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 2,993 words (Complete)

A/N: I'm so excited to share the fic I wrote for @todofamzine! I would like to thank the Winter Dawn mod team for being the best damn moderators I have ever worked with and @robinoxel for collabing with me and creating art of Rei to go along with the fic which you can find here. This fic was written before the recent chapters featuring the Todoroki family were published. I did my best to imagine what might have happened during Rei and Enji's past, and any canonical divergence you see is just that: canonical divergence coming from a simpler time. Flashbacks are in italics. I hope you enjoy this fic!

Home is a curious concept for Rei Todoroki. For the better part of a decade, she’s passed her time in a series of well-furnished hospital rooms with bland walls and bleached sheets. Her accommodations are not so cold as to be unwelcoming: extra blankets and plush pillows are a perk of her long penance, not to be taken for granted in spaces like these. But the walls are nearly bare, every wire is tethered taut, and someone somewhere is always—always—watching.

Oddly enough, she’s going to miss that.

What she will find waiting on the other side of the recovery divide is still a mystery.

Rei folds her life into two suitcases. One shirt and a pair of pants lay neatly on top of the open case, but beneath the surface, she allows some disorder. The hairbrush she used this morning is stuffed in the middle. Prescription bottles with rattling pills hide between layers of cloth, and there are deep wrinkles in the fabric below, not unlike the tired lines etched under her middle-aged eyes. She’s almost finished, almost ready to relegate the sterile smell of the hospital to nothing more than a memory, but there’s one last thing to pack.

Some of her photographs are framed; others are faded. A few photos are torn, and still, there’s the odd bit of charring on the edges of one or two pictures, courtesy of young Touya’s wild ways. Rei can’t help but smile at her collection of fond memories.

Her eyes flit to an old, framed newspaper clipping, and echoes of Rei’s glory days wrap around her like a favorite cardigan. In the picture, her stance is commanding; her arms are outstretched. A sheet of ice streams from her fingertips as her pale hair fans out from the force of the chilly blast. The sidekick Frostbyte is strong and vivacious, a match for any villain she might encounter in the small locality she protects. The headline beneath her picture speaks volumes: New Sidekick Frostbyte Freezes Crime Rates!

It’s a warm memory, something Rei wants to tuck in her chest and carry with her wherever she roams. She picks up the frame and places it safely in the top compartment of her baggage. Another image, a picture already tucked in her suitcase, draws her attention.

Rei doesn’t know why she keeps the picture. She isn’t sure why Fuyumi pulled the image from the family albums for her in the first place. Perhaps both Todoroki women are sentimental for what was and what might have been. Looking at the staged photograph now, Rei sees hope in the lineless eyes of her younger self, a blushing, traditional bride in a pure white shiromuku. And there’s Enji by her side, a tall, prideful hero made uncomfortable by the humble formality of the Shinto shrine.

The smile fades from Rei’s face; it is replaced by well-earned worry lines as she glances sideways at the blue flowers on her windowsill. She’ll never know how Frostbyte appeared on Enji’s bride-to-be radar. Neither will she ever be certain if her family, eager to capitalize on her early success as a sidekick and drowning in debt, put her profile into the matchmaker’s hands. Either way, the request was made and answered before the young woman could give her blessing.

Looking back, it feels like their first meeting happened lifetimes ago, as if the entire event is witnessed through a pane of frosted glass. But Rei remembers every detail, down to the tea stains on her mother’s best table cloth and the nervous buzz in the pit of her stomach. The scene plays out as though she is on the outside looking in, forever separated from the optimistic young woman she used to be.

...

The Todoroki family seems pleased.

In between courses, Rei’s mother hisses this sentiment in her daughter’s ear. Her father sits politely through dinner, speaking when spoken to and wearing his deference on his sleeve. Enji appears to be nice, though fixated on his work and the pro hero rankings. His mother and father are cordial, especially considering their lofty status; however, their impeccable etiquette is not important. The Todoroki family fortune is the reason her mother and father agreed to this meeting.

The older couples beam at their children when, somehow, dinner devolves into dessert. Their eager matchmaker announces that Rei and Enji should spend a few moments alone to speak candidly about dating with marriage (and children) in mind. Rei, for one, isn’t sure how to feel. She cannot know how a conversation of this nature is supposed to go.

Nevertheless, she stays the course and flashes Enji an accommodating smile as they take a seat on the bench in her family’s small garden. The summer heat does not agree with Rei, but her favorite flowers, bell-shaped blossoms the color of sapphires, are in bloom. They bring her comfort, and Rei doesn’t hesitate to tell Enji that these are her favorite to jumpstart the obligatory small talk.

He doesn’t respond in kind.

“I saw your rescue in Hasetsu,” the young man observes, changing the topic. “The way you fortified the building with your ice quirk was impressive, and I understand there were no casualties.”

Rei does not reply. She merely nods in assent, wondering if he really wants to talk about the ins and outs of their careers when marriage is on the table. For the first time, she glances upward and looks at Enji Todoroki. Impressive height, flaming hair, and cerulean eyes speak for themselves, but there’s also a hint of something sweet and smoldering in the night air that’s coming from him. There’s no denying that the rising pro hero is, as the tabloid papers are fond of saying, a hot commodity.

But the blush that dusts Rei’s cheeks isn’t only from physical attraction, nerves, or the thick material of her best dress. There are worries and concerns, curiosities that Rei thinks should be sated. Her thoughts spill from her lips before she can catch them.

“Why me?” she asks, bolder because of the plum wine passed around the dinner table. “You’re Endeavor. Surely, you have people lining up to-”

“Did no one speak to you about this before our meeting?” Enji interrupts.

The grin wilts from Rei’s face. “What do you mean?”

Enji sighs. He stands and steps forward; his figure illuminates, outshining the moon. His glow erupts into a burst of hellfire, and Enji’s arms are engulfed. The sleeves of his fine suit are ruined, but he doesn’t appear to care. Rei is startled, yet she only feels a gentle heat radiating from the star before her. Enji’s command of his quirk is incredible.

“Power like this comes with a cost,” he remarks bluntly.

He turns to face Rei, and the blaze surrounding his arms contracts, burning brighter. When Enji grimaces, her eyes widen with the realization that he is overheating.

Rei can relate.

“With a quirk like this, my body can only withstand the heat for so long. I assume that it is the same for you and your ice.”

The puzzle pieces connect as reality settles on her shoulders. Their pairing isn’t about temperament so much as temperature; their powers are polar opposites that cancel and complement. Enji reaches out to take Rei’s hand, and instinctively, she drops her body temperature to combat his blaze. Frost meets hellfire, steam rises, and the garden is flooded with fury. When the cloud clears, Rei and Enji remain hand-in-hand. No burns. No ice.

But it is neither luck nor good fortune. It is calculated equilibrium, a quirk marriage through and through.

...

She remembers that there were three dates, three opportunities to be seen and photographed at hotspots near his agency and hers. Matching stories were crafted for the hows and whens of their contrived romance. While they dated, the Todoroki family lawyers drafted an airtight prenuptial agreement.

The contract arrived on a Friday evening, Rei recalls, along with a small package that contained an engagement ring worth more than six months of her salary. The advice from her mother was particularly memorable.

...

“Answer him,” her mother’s voice pleads. “The sooner, the better. Remember your family is counting on y-”

Rei stops the answering machine. She doesn’t need to hear the rest. The older woman’s lecturing tone grates on Rei’s nerves. The pressure from her father is more subtle, but it’s still there. She isn’t sure where the family debt came from; however, she doubts that the schools she attended were inexpensive. Plus, her mother never hesitates to tell her that she should give them more of her paycheck, though the salary of a sidekick is barely enough.

She rolls her weary eyes and tosses the package on the low table of her small living space. Paperwork spills across the surface; the ring box nearly falls to the floor. Rei wants nothing more than to sink into her futon until her next shift rolls around. But Endeavor is not a patient person.

Rei runs through her internal debate once more.

True enough, Enji will be hard-pressed to find a better match than Rei, not for the ends he has in mind—a child with a combination of their quirks. Likewise, Rei knows that she will never rise as high as him on the hero billboard chart. It’s not that she doesn’t want to make a difference, but her countenance is naturally understated. Rei would like to live a quiet life, helping others and supporting her family.

And someday, she’d like to have children too.

Yet, the possibility of a loveless marriage is a difficult pill to swallow, especially since the concept of romance is nebulous in Rei’s mind. Her parents swear that love can take root and grow with time, and Enji is nothing if not dedicated to his goals. Moreover, Rei is not so naive as to pretend that a comfortable life with a steady income isn’t attractive in and of itself.

One last glance at his profile cements her answer. She doesn’t revel in bargaining for a better future as she slips on the engagement ring and signs her name on the dotted line of the prenuptial agreement. Rei calls her parents to share the news and phones Enji to tell him she’s accepted.

As she lies down on her futon to rest, Rei swears that she will plant a garden at their first home, filled with flowers to admire and founded on promises worth keeping. She imagines pretty blooms decorating a harmonious house alongside the pitter-patter of little feet which grow into the large shoes Enji wants filled. Rei consoles herself: if she does a good job of bringing up the next generation of Todorokis, her children will have the luxury of choosing love instead of a contract.

...

Rei admits that hanging up her hero costume was an easy thing to do after the marriage. It was even easier to watch her hardened muscles soften into feminine curves as life took root in her belly. Her parents were proud; Enji was satisfied. Any lingering doubts were pushed aside by the demands of motherhood.

And when Touya’s quirk proved disappointing, Rei tried harder to fulfill her side of the bargain. She can scarcely remember a time in her twenties when she was not waiting for her child’s quirk to manifest or swallowing prenatal vitamins over an anxious lump in her throat.

Fuyumi was born on a crisp December morning eleven months after Enji declared Touya unsuitable for further training. Like clockwork, Natsuo was on the way after their sweet daughter failed to manifest a fire quirk before she turned four. Then, Rei cannot forget how Enji became impatient. Natsuo had not reached his second birthday when her husband decided that he was also a failure. As Rei thinks back on the arrival of her last child, hindsight’s perfect vision highlights chilling insight.

...

“It’s a boy!”

Strong cries rebound off the walls of the delivery room. Rei breathes a sigh of relief as her body shudders from the efforts of her labor. At the end of her bed, the hospital staff congratulate her on another healthy baby as they pass the newborn to his mother. The comforting feeling of an infant pressed against Rei’s chest will never grow old, and she savors this moment with Shouto, mumbling words of love as she holds him. Deep down, Rei realizes that her fourth pregnancy was hard, and secretly, she dreads what her husband will think if this child also has a head full of snow-white hair.

Enji often tells her that he knew the other children were failures the moment he laid eyes on them. On this subject, husband and wife will never agree, but Rei is content that he leaves their upbringing to her. She’s done her best to temper Touya’s attitude, bolster Fuyumi’s confidence, and keep Natsuo laughing.

Rei glances down at the fresh face of her newborn son and is perplexed by the contradiction she sees between his halves. Trembling fingers weave through his hair. Fine white and crimson strands part down the middle. Yet, Shouto’s hair is not his most striking feature. A pair of mismatched eyes blink up at Rei. One is bright turquoise, and the other is a somber gray.

The contrast is uncanny.

“Heterochromia iridum,” the doctor pronounces as if on cue. “That explains his eyes. Usually, it’s a benign condition, nothing to worry about. Considering his hair, I’d say it’s all genetic, possibly related to his quirk.”

Through a blissful haze of oxytocin, Rei registers Enji’s hand on her shoulder. He laughs in an abrasive chuckle that overtakes Shouto’s cries.

“Finally,” he exclaims, “a masterpiece.”

If the doctor and nurses think Enji’s behavior is untoward, they keep the observation to themselves. Rei is too exhausted to fight the relief she feels. She allows her husband to take the newborn baby from her arms instead of insisting that she nurse Shouto straight away as she did with her other children.

“You did well this time,” he mutters.

Rei smiles wearily at the compliment, but it does not sit as well as she believed it would.

...

In retrospect, Rei understands that there was no singular moment that caused the trouble which followed. Rather, it was a collection of compromises that seemed, at the time, to be for the best. Rei gathers the rest of her photographs. Carefully, she thumbs through the small stack and is reminded of all the seeds she and Enji planted in their garden.

Undoubtedly, her children are her greatest love, and she tucks the loose photos in her purse for safekeeping, holding their cheerful likenesses close and the good memories closer. Looking around, Rei realizes that she’s finished packing—all except the vase of Japanese gentians sitting on the windowsill.

Rei prepared for this. She spoke at length with her therapist about the baggage she intends to take into the next phase of her life. Some of it is essential. Never again will she let herself slip so far as to harm someone she cherishes. No more will she suffer the company of people more concerned with ends than means. But when it comes to Enji, Rei is of two minds, torn between the past and the present. Scarred and repentant, he is not the person he once was.

Neither is she.

A brisk knock on the door stirs Rei from her reverie. She turns to address the nurse and is happy to find a familiar face.

“Your discharge papers are ready, and your cab is here, Mrs. Todoroki,” he says cheerfully, already taking her bags. “Are you sure you don’t want your family to escort you home?”

Rei shakes her head.

“They offered, but I want to do this by myself.”

“Fair enough.” The nurse shrugs.

He takes a step toward the windowsill and reaches to collect the flowers when Rei makes her decision. With a gentle expression but a firm palm tilted upward, she halts his kind gesture.

“The flowers stay,” Rei says confidently. “I don’t have room for them anymore.”

It’s a short walk from her old room to the hospital’s front door, but the journey took Rei over a decade to complete. She slips into the back of the cab and passes the driver a slip of paper with the name and address of her new accommodations—a small, refurbished apartment with a low table, comfortable futon, and no answering machine. It's a perfect place for someone starting over.

Rei knows that if she turns around for a last look, she will see Japanese gentians standing guard on the windowsill, but she lets this opportunity pass. As the cab speeds away, Rei commits herself to the good habit of not looking back.

“That’s a nice address, Miss. Where are you headed to?” the driver asks.

It’s been a long time since Rei was called anything other than Mrs. Todoroki. Caught in the small thrill, she doesn’t correct him. She’s grateful for the crowded city’s veil of anonymity and, within it, her second chance.

“Home,” she answers honestly, feeling freer than she has in decades.

#bnha #todoroki rei #todoroki enji #endeavor #todoroki shouto #todoroki family #todofamzine #trigger warning for implied/referenced canonical child and spousal abuse

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dokoni-mo · 4 years

Text

Far Away, Together || Darth Vader x Reader (Chapter 7)

(A/N: this was origninally supposed to go up tomorrow, but it was another one of those cases where i was writing at night and this bad boy basically completed itself. Im very proud of this chapter and I hope yall like it just as much as I do!! It was really fun imagining all of the things and writing them down :))) as always, feel free to ask to be added to the taglist :)) and feel free to send me any asks of anything you wanna say/know. All previous chapters have been liked below :)) )

(P.S: i got kinda misty-eyed while writing this so be warned)

Chapter One: [x]

Chapter Two: [x]

Chapter Three: [x]

Chapter Four: [x]

Chapter Five: [x]

Chapter Five and a Half: [x]

Chapter Six: [x]

WARNINGS: canon typical voilence, usage of weapons, cursing, mentions of being in the hospital, some angst, mentions of death, otherwise none!!

Key: (F/N) = first name, (L/N) = last name.

Word Count: ~7900

~~~

The force that surrounded the room had told him that something here was undeniably wrong. It frustrated him that he couldn’t yet piece it together, and frustrated him further that the force wouldn’t tell him the answer.

The look in your eyes when he accepted the king’s offer only fueled his sense of self-doubt and second-guessing. Even if you didn’t know it, your eyes told him that you had felt a sense of unease in the room as well, but weren’t able to pick up on it's source. Perhaps it was just your nerves. Perhaps it was just the nerves that he had left.

Watching you be whisked away by those guards was one of the hardest sights he had to bear, but he had no idea as to why. He had wanted very desperately for you to stay by his side during that meeting, but the sense of your boredom was plaguing his mind, distracting him. He hated that he had put you in such a situation, and thought that it might be nice for you to be entertained for a short while.

But, the force told a much different story.

He pretended that the last glance you gave him over his shoulder didn’t shake him to his core and made his fists ball. His thoughts of worry were consuming him whole. He would never admit it to anyone, let alone himself, but deep down inside of him, he was scared. Scared that look was the last one he would ever get from you. Scared that look you gave him was the last time he would ever be able to see the life in your eyes. His fists were shaking in the sheer amount of strength he gripped them with. Self-loathing and worry filled his mind.

He had lost so many in his life.

Yet, for some odd reason that he could not place…

He did not want to lose you too.

In fact, deep, deep down inside of him…

He knew that losing you would finally destroy him.

It would shatter any semblance of humanity he had within him.

Despite feeling this so strongly, he still had no idea why.

You were just a mechanic from Endor…

Why did he feel the need to see you every day? To speak to you every day? To keep you by his side? To protect you?

He couldn’t begin to know.

Once you were ushered out of the room and the doors closed behind you, the only noise that filled the space was the sound of his respirator, working to a T just like it always did. Almost too quickly, he reached out with the force, searching for the feeling of you.

Sure enough, you were still there. Still alive and unharmed. Big shocker, since you had literally just left, but…

He was… relieved.

“Now, my Lord,” the King spoke, that idiotic smirk plasterd on his face, “where were we?”

“We were discussing the terms of agreement to join the Empire.” Lord Vader spoke flatly, his mind still somewhere else.

“Ah! Yes, of course!” the king responded. His voice was cheery.

Too cheery.

It was disgusting. Revolting. Yet Lord Vader had to push on, by order of his master.

Lord Vader sensed more guards enter the room without even having to turn his head. The muscles of his shoulders tensed as he felt their presence, causing his adrenaline to stir.

Something was definitely off. But, he decided to ignore it. Surely they wouldn’t try anything. These creatures didn’t seem that idiotic as to try and go toe-to-toe with him. Yet still… his mind seemed to wander again and again to the thought of you. The thought of you somehow being in some sort of danger. Trying his best to attend to the matter at hand, he told himself that you were in good hands with the guards. But, why did it feel like a lie? Why did it feel wrong? He decided to explain these questions with only his nerves acting up, and nothing more.

“So what exactly will be the, erm… benefits that my planet receives from the Empire, my Lord?” The king asked. Lord Vader barely even realized that he had said anything.

“Your planet will become a base of empirical troops. They will replace your guards and police systems if you wish. Otherwise, they will be serving there strictly for the Empire. You will also be financially compensated for all the resources you give the Empire.”

Maker, did Lord Vader hate conversing with potential allies like this.

“Splendid!” the king exclaimed, clapping his clammy, wrinkled hands together. If Lord Vader hadn’t been wearing a mask, he would have rolled his eyes.

The king then started to babble on and on about how he was so pleased with Lord Vader’s visit to his planet and how honored he was to be joining the Empire and blah blah blah blah blah. A wash of anger overcame Lord Vader as he was forced to listen to the old man blubber on and on and on. This is the part that he especially hated when mingling with potential Empire recruits. They always felt the need to suck up to him and to the Empire. Lord Vader wished that they would just cut to the chase and tell him how they really felt.

Just like you did. All the time.

Zoning out from the king’s still-ongoing rambles, Lord Vader’s mind began to drift again. His sense of worry was overtaking him once more, swallowing him whole. If he were not in that infernal, hellish suit that kept him alive, everyone would be able to see clear as day that he was not okay; that he was worried sick, that he was scared. However, the hard shell of his exterior, coupled with his large frame and tough aura made everyone think that there was no human within those layers of buttons, leather, and metal. There was no one capable of emotion or feeling within the depths of steel that covered the thing within. Granted, he was to appear this way to everyone by order of his master, and Lord Vader did obey his master’s command. However, deep down inside of him, for a very long amount of time, he hoped that someone could look at him and see a person, and not just the Empire’s most feared weapon.

You had done that.

And fuck was he worried about you.

He couldn’t bear it any longer. He had to know that you were okay. That you were safe.

Droning out the king’s still ongoing blubbering, Lord Vader focused all his attention on manipulating and bending the force around him. Focusing on your life force, he felt his shoulders tense as every fluid in his metal-clad body that was still left run cold.

Your life force had diminished significantly. And, you were fading still.

His breathing hitched in his respirator. His fists were shaking in a flurry of passionate emotion.

No.

He would not allow this.

Not caring at all about what the king had to say, Lord Vader cut him off mid-speech.

“I wish for my mechanic to return to me at once.”

The king looked at Lord Vader like the sith had grown a second head as his majesty was silenced. The king swallowed thickly as he leaned his body to the other end of his hair, his hand wrapping around his chin as he rubbed it gingerly.

There was no mistaking the emotion that glossed over his blue eyes. Lord Vader had seen it countless times before.

Fear.

Lord Vader’s anger was reaching a boiling point.

“M-My Lord! But she has only just left! Surely you could allow her more time to-” the king tried to reason, only to be cut off again.

“I want her here now. Do not make me ask again.”

No one made even the slightest movement after Lord Vader spoke. The air was silent except for the mechanical breathing coming from Lord Vader’s person. The aura that emanated from the room was crisp, full of anticipation. If one were to listen hard enough, one would potentially be able to hear the sweat dripping down the guard’s foreheads as they gripped their blasters tighter. A thick, yet undetectable to the untrained scent filled the air. Lord Vader knew the scent all too well. He had smelled it so often throughout the years. There was no mistaking it.

Fear.

Lord Vader’s anger filled every atom within his person.

The king was the one to break the tension, clearing his throat.

His tone was much lower than normal. Serious.

“I’m… I’m afraid I can not do that-”

Everything that happened next was so fast that everyone present had barely had any time to process it. Faster than lightning, Lord Vader had risen from his seated position, his chair launching back faster than a speeding blaster shot. Sensing the rage coming off of him, the guards in the room pointed their blasters at the sith lord and fired, the blue streaks of light illuminating the room in quick, pulsive flashes. Using the force to deflect away the bolts, Lord Vader took his saber off of his belt, igniting it in his grip.

Lord Vader deflected the bolts off of his lightsaber that continued to barrage him, sending them off in wild directions, striking a few guards and making them drop dead to the floor. White-hot, passionate rage burning inside him, Lord Vader swung his saber faster and stronger than he ever had before, the muscles in his arms rippling beneath his suit. A few other guards were caught in this flurry of anger and the brilliant crimson to match, their pieces now scattered on the floor.

Sensing one last guard left alive, Lord Vader hurled his saber to the other side of the room, cutting the guard clean in half as well as a few decorations in its path. Watching the guard’s body fall dead to the ground, he sensed one last man trying to escape his fury.

The king.

His saber returning to his right hand, Lord Vader reached out his left hand to the king who was halfway out the door, beckoning the force to do the same. Bending to Lord Vader’s will, the force wrapped an invisible, large, strong hand around the king’s throat, immediately making him gasp for air. Feeling his feet leave the ground, the king was quickly and violently pulled by the force into Lord Vader’s grasp, his robotic hand wrapping tightly around his majesty’s royal throat. Darth Vader loomed oh so ominously above the king as he was held tightly in his grasp, the dark lord’s saber humming forebodingly in his other hand. The king was gasping and choking for air at this point, his eyes wide and filled to the brim with fear.

The king had thought he was staring death right in the face.

And, he was.

Desperately trying to get away, the king tried fruitlessly to kick at the sith, the soles of his boots leaving skids on the metal that adorned the dark lord’s body. Lord Vader didn’t care in the slightest. The only reason why he didn’t immediately kill that old man because only he knew the answer to what Lord Vader did care to know.

The only thing that pumped through Lord Vader’s body at this point was burning, boiling, white-hot fury as he spoke to the king in his choke-hold, his voice oh so much more deep and constricting.

“Where is she?”

~~~

When you finally came-to, you instantly realized three things.

One: your wrists were tied together, and there was a chain around your ankle.

Opening your eyes and feeling your body again, you had barely been able to feel these restraints at first. But as you began to stir, they became far more apparent. Grogginess lacing your mind, you were confused at first on why you weren’t able to rub your eyes. Looking down at your hands, you finally noticed the pair of metal restraints that were bound around your wrists, making you unable to move your hands freely. You were terribly puzzled at first, but quickly remembered that the guards had assaulted you, locking you in this room. Trying to move your feet, you felt a pull at your right ankle as you shifted and twisted. Looking down, you noticed a similar restraint to the one on your wrist keeping you chained to the floor, the chain only about one and a half foot long.

Two: there was a pounding in your head.

You were less challenged by coming up with an explanation to this one. Remembering the events prior to you blacking out, you figured that your pounding head was from when the guard struck you with the butt of his rifle. The aching feeling was in the same spot. Honing in on the sensation a moment longer, you noticed that it felt as if something was caked onto that side of your head. Your lips tightened into a line as you deduced what it was.

Blood.

Great.

Three: you weren’t alone in that room anymore.

Focusing your eyes to train on what was in front of your vision, you noticed three pairs of feet standing about five feet away from you, all adorned with pairs of boots. Recognizing them as no where near empirical standards, your brow furrowed. The symbol of the rebellion you saw…

These were rebels.

Not wanting to lie down on the cold ground any longer, you shifted your body so that you could roll onto your butt, and eventually sit on your knees. Your body sore from lying on that cold, hard ground for an unknown amount of time, you shot a glare upwards, hoping that it landed upon your rebel captors.

Sure enough, it did, and you were greeted with two familiar faces, and one unknown one. The two you recognized were the guards who had brought you to this room. The one you didn’t know was smirking devilishly down at you, her hands on her hips as she looked at you like you were living filth. You were almost offended, but you remembered who exactly you worked for. You supposed that made her opinion more justifiable, since she was indeed a rebel. However, this did not stop you from glaring daggers right into her eyes, your lips in a slight scowl.

“Well, look who finally decided to join the party!” the rebel woman said, crossing her arms over her chest. She was a bit of a more mature woman (about early to mid thirties), and had the medals on her coat to match her experience. You had no idea what rank she was. It was almost impossible to tell with rebel uniforms, since, well, they didn’t really have uniforms. You envied them for that.

“It's not like I wanted to be here in the first place…” you mumbled out, your gaze dropping to the floor for a moment.

Your quip must have angered the female rebel. She spoke through her teeth as she responded to you, her brow furrowing in frustration.

“What did you say to me, empirical scum?”

It was your turn to make your brow furrow, your wrists straining against the restraints.

“What does it matter to you?! Let me go!” you bellowed, although you were almost certain that your demands were not going to be met.

Your confirmation came seconds later after the woman let out a laugh.

“No way, missy! We are nowhere near done with you yet.”

You sighed quickly to yourself at this, your brow still furrowed in anger and frustration.

“I don’t know how many times you’ve heard this before, but I won't tell you anything.” you retorted back, a smirk tugging at your lips at your not-so-subtle teasing. Although you didn’t exactly classify yourself as loyal to the Empire, you were still no fool as to get you on it's bad side. Furthermore, it was moreso him you were loyal to…

Him.

Lord Vader.

The thought of his name made your mind start to spiral. Did he know you were there? Where was he? Would he come for you? Would he even bother to even ask where you were? Would he care if you were captured by this lady and held as a prisoner for the rest of your years? The times you remembered sharing with him on that damned planet said yes… But you were still worried nonetheless. Still scared. Perhaps it was just you being scared of being taken prisoner, but your mind started to feel with fears and doubts the longer you sat there on the floor. Unable to hide your worry, your eyes kept darting to and from the door, hoping to see a familiar sith-lord standing in it's frame.

Noticing your wandering eyes, the rebel woman reached out and gripped the back of your hair, forcing you to look up at her as you winced.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, her voice feigning concern, “Hoping that monster will come and save you? Don’t be fucking ridiculous.” The woman spat at you, violently letting go of your hair as she re-crossed her arms.

“He’s… y-you’ll never get away with this.” you panted out, your voice stammering. Your mind still racing, you could barely hide any of your fear.

The rebel woman tsked as she rolled her eyes.

“Psh. Please. We’ve already got half the job done. We got Vader alone with our finest, and there’s no way he could take them all on at once-”

You breathed out a laugh before she could finish.

“Maker, you really are that dumb…”

Scowling down at you, the woman cleared her throat as she continued.

“We didn’t expect Vader to bring someone like you along with him. We expected some pilot or officer that we could just kill off. That was the original plan for you, missy…”

You kept your gaze trained straight in front of you as the woman started to pace around you.

“And by all accounts, it still is. Unless, you give us what we want.”

You pursed your lips before speaking, “Which is?”

“Information,” the woman hissed, leaning down to get in your ear, “We know who you are, (F/N) (L/N). You’re his mechanic. You know things.”

You let out a scoff, “Look, as you said, I’m just a mechanic, lady. It’s not like I’m going to know valuable secrets to the Empire. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

The woman looked up at the guards and nodded to them at your answer. Quickly, the same guard who had knocked you unconscious moved his arms, revealing to you a long, silver stick with a ring of electricity around one end, filing the room with it's sound. You licked your lips at the sight of this, your eyes darting to the door again.

Please… don’t leave me behind, you thought to yourself as sweat started to form on your brow.

“Does that jog your memory, mechanic?” the woman hissed.

“No, not really. Because I don’t know-”

You were cut off by your own loud groan of pain as the guard pressed the electrical end of the stick to your shoulder, sending volts of electricity through your veins and nerves. It was agony. You now understood why stormtroopers who patrolled the prison blocks said they still heard the screams at night.

Removing the stick from your shoulder, you let your head dangle down as you closed your eyes, your brow still furrowed. You refused to show these people just how terrified you were.

“How about now? How about you try telling us the plans for that super-weapon we’ve been hearing rumors about, hm?” the rebel woman asked, staring down at you with unforgiving eyes.

“I already told you no.” you hissed back at her. Passionate rage flooding through you, you glared back up at the woman, daggers in your eyes as you spoke with your teeth bared. How dare they do this to you. How dare they chain you up like some animal. How dare they knock you out then shock you. How dare they speak to you in such a way.

But, most of all…

How dare they trick you into leaving his side.

Your voice cracked as your words flew from your lips, your eyes threading to spill over in tears of frustration.

You were done.

You didn’t realize how crazy you were going from your worrisome thoughts and anxieties of no one coming to save you as the words spewed from your mouth with absolutely no filter.

“Is this how you expect to get anything out of anyone? Shock me to death?! Yeah, sure, that’ll make ANYONE wanna talk. Look, I’m not lying to you. I really don’t know any fucking secrets that the Empire has. I just fucking work there. You really think that all of this is gonna work? Think again, bitch. You put all your “finest” in that room with Lord Vader to DIE. They’re all going to DIE. And for what? For you to die too? To bully around some mechanic for a few minutes? You’re rebels, right? Is this really the example you wanna set? Chaining up some fucking mechanic who’s just here on this NOWHERE planet as a representative? GROW THE FUCK UP! All of you are so stupid- DO YOU NOT SEE WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN?! LORD VADER WILL COME HERE ANY MINUTE NOW AND KILL YOU ALL. HE WILL, I KNOW HE WILL. H-HE’S GOING TO COME FOR ME! I KNOW HE WILL! I-”

You didn’t even feel the hot tears running down your furiously contorted face as you screamed at the woman. You didn’t even realize how crazy you must have sounded. You didn’t even realize that they were telling you to shut up until you felt the electricity shoot though your veins again, making you yelp in agony.

You didn’t even realize you were blacked out again until you hit the floor.

~~~

As much as Lord Vader detested the king of that damn planet, he did have to give him credit for his resilience.

No matter how much the dark lord demanded that the king fork over the information of your whereabouts, he wouldn’t do it. In fact, he didn’t really say anything. Lord Vader would choke the king in his grasp until his majesty was almost dead. Then, releasing the force around the king, Lord Vader would allow his majesty to drop to the floor for a brief moment to cough and choke at the dark lord’s feet, the king’s old, wrinkled hand clutching his throat. Once Lord Vader decided that he took in enough air, the sith would lift up the king and choke him once more. This continued on for a large amount of time. Lord Vader only grew more and more violent with each new choke hold. Every succeeding choke would be more tight and constricting than the last, and each succeeding throw to the ground would be rougher and rougher than the last.

Throwing the king to the ground for what felt like the millionth time, Lord Vader was unable to hide his anger as he spoke, his voice as deep and menacing as the devil’s.

“Your suffering could end very quickly, your majesty,” the dark lord rumbled, his grip upon his ignited saber growing tighter and tighter, “If you tell me the information I wish to know.”

The king was coughing and wheezing at Lord Vader’s feet, his hand trying to massage his aching throat. His majesty could barely keep himself up upon his hand and knees as he looked up at the sith lord, his body weak and desperate for air. The king’s face was significantly reddened and his eyes were full of tears as he gazed upon the sith.

He felt as if he were looking at the devil himself.

“N…” the King began to rasp out, his throat dry and aching with the fury of the sith, “Over… my dead… body..!”

Lord Vader tilted his head to the side inquisitively at this. The sith could definitely see that this cretin was willing to die for his worthless cause.

Pitiful.

Disgusting.

Repulsive.

It only added flame to the fire of Lord Vader’s fury.

How dare this thing keep him from you.

Lord Vader would not allow it.

“Fortuneatly, your majesty…” Lord Vader began to say.

A bright flash of crimson filled the king’s gaze, followed by an excruciating pain. The king tried to scream, but his throat was so hoarse and broken that all that left it was a loud, strong rasp as he fell to the floor, rolling on his back to present himself to the heavens above, begging his maker above to save him.

But no one came.

Not even the maker himself would dare to oppose Lord Vader in that moment.

After a moment of the king groaning in pain, Lord Vader finished his sentence.

“You do not need all of your limbs to survive.”

Opening his eyes and looking to the floor, the king confirmed his suspicions. There lied the king’s severed hand, cut off right in the middle of his forearm.

It was horrific.

But he had to endure.

“I...I am-” the king stammered out, interrupted by his own coughs, “I am the king of this planet. I am king Chad Lothario Junichiro The Fifth. I will not be slighted by these attempts to-”

The king was cut off again, but this time by another brilliant flash of crimson. With another twirl of his saber, Lord Vader severed the rest of his majesty’s arm, just below the dip of his shoulder. This earned another rasp of pain from the king, his face contorting as he saw the pieces of his arm littering the floor.

“Does that change your mind?” Lord Vader asked, feigning a sense of calm in his tone, masking out the boiling amount of rage that pounded through his body, making the sith lord see red.

The king panted and gasped for a long moment before wheezing out his answer.

“I… Y-Yes… just… no more, please…”

Lord Vader felt a twang of satisfaction course through him, interrupting the currents of fury that crashed inside him. Deigniting his saber, he continued to bore his gaze down upon the king, unfazed by the pain he was in.

He deserved it.

He put you in harms way.

Lord Vader would not allow it.

“Good.” Lord Vader rumbled out with feigned pleasure, “Now speak. If you tell the truth, I will contemplate allowing you to keep the rest of your limbs.”

The king nodded his head at a feverish pace, swallowing his saliva before speaking.

“I-I had my guards take her down the hallway… the last room at the end…”

Lord Vader looked at the king for a long while. He could not sense any form of deceit coming from the king, so he trusted his intuition that the creature must be telling the truth. The dark’s lords fists balled once more as he thought of you in that room. Reaching out with the force, he honed in on your life force again. You were still alive, but not in good shape. Lord Vader’s breathing hitched as he pictured what could possibly be happening to you.

You were alone.

Scared.

Helpless.

In pain.

Everything Lord Vader wanted to shield you from.

He was failing to do so.

Lord Vader would not fail.

Clipping his saber back onto his belt, the sith lord quickly turned on his heel and began to exit the room, his cape fluttering behind him from the speed. Reaching out with the force, Lord Vader hurled the doors open, startling the stormtroopers that were waiting outside. Poor boys.

Reaching out once more with the force, Lord Vader manipulated it to latch an invisible hand upon the king’s ankle, the dark lord dragging his majesty behind him as he marched.

Rumbling out a quick follow me, Lord Vader commanded the group of stromtroopers to follow beind him. Obeying his order, the men in white marched behind the sith, their blasters clutched tightly in their gloves. A few of them began to whisper amongst themselves, their blasters and helmets motioning to Lord Vader and the man he was dragging behind him. Ordinarily, the dark lord would have warned them off the consequences of not maintaining proper contact.

But in that moment, he couldn’t care in the slightest.

The only thing in the galaxy that Lord Vader cared about…

The only thing in the universe that Lord Vader wished to pursue…

Was to get you safe.

To return your small, fragile body to his side. To take you away from this awful place. To make sure you were safe. To take you back to his Star Destroyer. To return you to your station where you would never be harmed again. Where he could see you every day. Where he could speak to you every day. Where he could constantly know that you were safe. Where he could see you smile. Where he could hear you laugh. Where he could hold you in his arms without prying eyes…

How he longed to deliver you to this fate.

Looking at the door that obscured the sight of you from him, he was filled with an unprecedented, uncanny, unfathomable amount of rage, anger, and hate.

How dare they keep you from him.

They would be destroyed, just like every person who tried to stop him.

~~~

You didn’t stay blacked out for very long before you awoke again, the pain in your shoulder still throbbing.

You slowly began to sit back up again as you heard the rebel woman’s voice again, causing you to frown.

“Done with your nap, scum?”

You scoffed, “Yes. Very refreshing.”

The woman scowled and crossed her arms again, meeting your gaze as she looked down upon you.

“Shut up. Now, are you gonna talk? Or do we have to encourage you some more?”

You sighed, your brow furrowing, “I already told you, lady, I don’t-”

“LIAR.” the woman bellowed, cutting you off. She nodded to the guard with the shocker stick again, “Give her some more motivation.”

You bit your lip and closed your eyes as you saw him draw closer, not wanting to give the rebels any satisfaction of seeing the fear on your face again. You felt your shoulders tense and your wrists strain against the bindings as you heard the shocker ignite.

Was this it?

Is this the final curtain? Your finishing bow.

You didn’t know.

You didn’t want it to be. It was funny for you to admit it now, but there was still so much you wanted to do. You had never thought that you would think such a thing after joining the Empire, but so much had changed. You were happy. You were excited to greet each day. You were thrilled to fix things. You were overjoyed to repair broken TIE Advanced x1s. You were over the moon that you put on your uniform each day. Such a stark contrast to what life had been like before.

He had changed that.

You were oh so happy when it was you and him. You were finally able to truly connect with another soul. You were finally able to admit your deepest and darkest regrets and tell your oldest stories. You were finally able to converse with another human. You were finally happy. You were finally able to smile. You were finally able to laugh.

All because of him.

And now… you were scared.

You were oh so frightened that you would never be able to experience anything with him ever gain. That you would never speak to him again. That you would never look at him again. That you would never be able to laugh with him again. That you would never be able to share a dance with him again. That you would never be able to tell stories with him again.

That you would never be able to tell him…

You felt a lump in your throat as the guard’s boots stomped closer to you, making you tighten your lips into a line.

Your mind filled with images of him and nothing but him.

Vader… you thought to yourself.

You could feel the electricity emanating off of the stick.

I hope…

You think of me…

When you fly again.

I’ll be one of the stars.

Please…

Wave hi if you see me.

A hot tear ran down your cheek, dampening the surface.

I’m sure you’ll know which one I am.

Bracing for impact, you tensed your shoulders as you squinted your eyes shut.

Instead of being greeted with the sound of electricity being forced into your body, you were greeted by a much more startling one; one that made you shoot your eyes open and whip your head up to look at the door.

Or, what used to be the door. It was now in wadded clumps on the floor.

In the door’s place was a large plume of smoke. The smoke was quickly illuminated with thin streams of red.

Blaster bolts.

Were you dreaming?

The bolts scattered themselves across the room, ending their path in the walls around it. A few lucky bolts met their end in the chests of the two guards that had locked you in that room, making them drop dead to the floor.

If they hadn’t taken you against your will, you would have been horrified.

As the smoke settled, you were able to make out what was behind it.

A quite large battalion of stromtroopers, their blasters aimed and hot from their recent barrage.

And in the middle of them all, looming oh so much taller than the rest.

Lord Vader.

Your savior.

You felt your heart swell with every emotion known to man as your eyes widened.

You flexed your muscles as you began the motion to call to him and run to his side, forgetting you were chained to the floor. Thinking it over a moment longer, you decided to stay put. The symbol of the rebellion was now plastered so that Lord Vader could see it.

You thought it best to let him deal with them on his own. At least for now.

Somehow, the rebel woman had survived the onterouge of blaster bolts with only a hit to her shoulder, her hand now clutching the wound as she extended her free one to Lord Vader, a pistol within her grip and finger laced around the trigger. She glared right into Lord Vader’s mask as she tried to put on a brave face, but the panting in her breath revealed her true emotions.

It was her who broke the tension.

“Give me…” she said in between pants, “one good reason… as to not pull the trigger.”

Lord Vader tilted his head to the side at this, saying nothing. He must have been amused.

“I believe I have someone of importance to you, rebel.” Lord Vader eventually said, the sound of his voice like music to your ears. You could almost cry. You were so relieved that you were able to hear it again.

The woman raised a brow in confusion. As if it were on cue, a stormtrooper with something in his grip stepped forward. Without any sense of care, he threw the object in his grasp down at the floor to the woman’s feet. Following it's path, your eyes widened as you were able to process what exactly it was.

A severed hand, along with about half a forearm.

Looking back up at the woman, you noticed how her glare had fallen off of her face, one of fear replacing it as her brown eyes widened.

“Th… that’s…”

“His majesty’s hand.” Lord Vader finished for the rebel woman, his voice flat. “If you wish for the rest of him to return to you, I suggest you return my mechanic to me at once. I assure you that your king is still alive.”

The woman’s face contorted into a glare again, her pistol still pointed at the dark lord.

“How do I know this isn’t a trick? How do I know?”

Lord Vader paused a moment before speaking again.

“You don’t.”

The woman’s lips pursed as she contimplarted the deal, her pistol now shaking in her grasp. The tension in that room was so thick you could cut it with a knife. It was almost suffocating. You could barely breathe.

After a long pause, the woman lowered her blaster as she spoke.

“Okay… I accept.”

Lord Vader tilted his head again at this.

“Good. Now, give her back to me. Now.”

The woman’s face contorting into a scowl and your cheeks staining pink, she kept her eyes on Lord Vader as long as possible as she knelt down to you, breaking you out of your bonds. Instantly, a pair of stormtroopers stepped forward and helped you to your feet, your body weak from the shocks. Wrapping your arms around the men’s shoulders, you looked to Lord Vader as they helped you limp over to their side. Flashing him a warm smile of thank you, I knew you would come, you noticed as his gaze followed you until he saw that you were right next to him again.

Where you should always be.

“Now, give me back Jun- I-I mean- give me back his majesty…” the woman demanded, pointing her blaster back to the dark lord.

After a momentary pause of gazing at you, Lord Vader turned to another trooper, giving the nod of approval. The trooper nodding back, he signaled his other troops the okay. Within moments, a pair of other troopers drug in a barely conscious king into the room by his collar, throwing him down to the woman’s feet. Instantly, she knelt down and cradled the king in her arms, mumbling to him how she was sorry and such.

“We are done here now, rebel.” Lord Vader spoke after a moment, forcing the reunion to a halt. Turning on his heel, Lord Vader walked close to the two stormtroopers who were helping you to stand as he exited the room.

He did so, however, not before giving his troops one last command.

“Kill them.”

The sound of the barrage of blaster bullets that filled the room behind you was oddly comforting.

~~~

His return to the Super Star Destroyer was not at all what he had imagined it to be. Nor was it what he wanted it to be.

The shock stick that those filthy rebels used on you must have been extra strength. It was taking you a much longer time to recover as compared to other shock victims. You were barely able to stand on your own without wobbling and getting off balance. This was all not to mention the deep gash that had carved itself into your forehead.

Lord Vader made the executive decision for you to spend at least two nights in the medical bay.

I just need to sleep it off, you had tried to protest, I’m fine.

He would not have it.

It was odd to see Lord Vader inside of the normal medical bay used for troopers and officers. Of course, he had his own medical bay that he would waltz in to and out of as he pleased. This was mostly due to the sheer complexity and amount of medical procedures that he needed to maintain homeostasis with his suit.

It was also due to him keeping his pride in tact by only letting as few people as possible know he was even capable of being injured.

So, it was no shock that the nurse Lord Vader talked to was practically shaking in her boots.

“I wish to see Miss (F/N) (L/N).” he said flatly to the nurse, paying no mind to how close she looked to shitting a brick right then and right there for everyone to see.

“Y...Y-Yes, my Lord. R-Right this way…” she stammered out, gulping silently as she led the Dark Lord down the halls of the medical bay. She only stopped her scurrying once she led him to a door marked (L/N), (F/N). Pleased with her, Lord Vader dismissed her to carry on with her work, to which she practically ran back to her station. If he were anyone else in the galaxy, Lord Vader would have been offended.

Reaching out his large hand to the panel adjacent to the doorframe, he pressed the glowing white button in the center. The door to your room then slid into the wall that encompassed it, allowing him in.

The sound of his respirator was much louder inside of the tiny room, the noise able to echo off the walls much faster. The room was very plain, with only the necessary equipment inside of it. The only other noise that emanated in the room was the occasional beep of the machine that was hooked up to you, signalling that you, indeed, still had a heartbeat.

Lord Vader had hoped to converse with you upon his arrival. He was almost saddened to find out that he couldn’t. You were currently asleep upon the small bed in the center of the room, your lips parted slightly and your eyes closed. There was a bachata patch secured around the spot on your head where the gash had lain itself, as well as one on your shoulder where the shock stick had been pressed into you. Additionally, there were a plethora of sensors strapped to the flesh that ran up and down your arms.

Lord Vader wanted to wake you. He wanted to coax you out of your sleep so that he could see your eyes, so that he could hear you talk. But, he knew better. He was to let you rest if you were to return to proper health.

Yet, he was… disheartened. A phantom pain clenched his heart for a brief moment.

Overtaken by the feeling, Lord Vader stepped closer to your bedside, his mask pointed right at your face as he watched you in your sleep. You looked so peaceful. He was grateful you had finally been able to rest. Reaching out his leather-bound hand, Lord Vader brushed a lock of hair out of your face as gently as he could, careful with the amount of force he used. Continuing the motion, the dark lord brushed the back of his mid-finger knuckles against the surface of your cheek, taking his time with trailing them down the surface.

Maker above…

You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

But yet…

Seeing you there in that cold, hard bed, with all the patches and wires coming off of your frame.... Hearing the beep of the machine behind him signal your heartbeat… Feeling how small your life force had been…

It allowed an old friend to visit Lord Vader.

Regret.

If only he hadn’t brought you to that planet, none of this would’ve happened. Sure, you would be by yourself for a few days, but you would still be healthy. You would still be able to work. You would still be able to talk to him. You would still be able to smile. But no. He made you go on this trip. He made you attend those meetings and gatherings. He was the one who allowed you to slip into the hands of those rebels.

Clenching his fist, another friend came to visit Lord Vader.

Self-loathing.

What in the galaxy was he thinking? He should have never taken you to that planet. All he wanted to do was to bring you someplace just as beautiful as you were. He wanted to see the look in your eyes and your smile as you got to see green for the first time in who-knows-how-long.

That’s all he wanted.

But not at all what he got.

Lord Vader was speechless. He wanted to say something to your sleeping form, but couldn’t even begin to formulate the words of what he wanted to say. There were so many things he wanted to say to you, but every attempt he made to string them together seemed more idiotic than the last. So many feelings were bubbling inside of the sith lord, many of which he coudln’t describe.

He didn’t know how to tell you about any of them.

Yet…

Watching your chest rise and fall…

Watching your eyelashes flutter in your sleep…

Watching your fingertips twitch…

He knew one thing.

And oh how it pained him.

He knew what he must do…

To keep you safe.

~~~

The nurses had said that you were asleep for about 18 hours when you finally woke up.

You were surprised, you didn’t think that it was possible to sleep that long of a time. Yet, there you were, doing the impossible. If it were under different circumstances, you would have almost been impressed.

The nurses had removed the sensors from your arms as you sat up that afternoon, allowing you to move more freely as you ate the meal they gave you. Of course, it was rations. But, after being on that damned planet for so long and eating their food, rations had suddenly seemed to be the finest cuisine in the galaxy.

You were watching a holovid of a news briefing when a knock came to your door, your cheeks puffed from your freshly taken bite. Hearing the door woosh open, you quickly chewed and swallowed the food so that you could talk to whoever had just entered without being rude.

To say the absolute least, you were surprised to see a familiar face standing before you, datapad in hand just like before.

The officer who gave you the assignment of Lord Vader’s mechanic.

Was he a messenger for Lord Vader now? You were puzzled.

“I am glad to see that you are finally awake, Miss (L/N).” the officer spoke, his eyes darting between you and the datapad.

“Thank you, sir…” you mumbled back out in response.

You paused a moment in contemplation before you continued on.

“Sir,” you said, “If you don’t mind… could you please tell Lord Vader of my condition? I will be able to return to my station very soon, and-”

“I’m afraid that will not be necessary, Miss (L/N).” the officer said, cutting you off.

Your brow furrowed in confusion.

“What? Sir, I… I don’t understand.”

The old officer poked his datapad a few times before folding his hands behind his back, speaking out his response to you.

You had thought that you were dreaming or hallucinating at the officer’s explanation. Your blood was cold, and your heart had felt like it stopped beating.

It had to be a lie.

“I’m afraid your time serving as Lord Vader’s mechanic is over, Miss (L/N). He has reassigned you. He has stated that you have completed your work on his TIE, and is no longer in need of your service. You are to return to Endor to your original station the day after tomorrow. I must say that I am impressed, Miss (L/N). I have never heard of someone completing such a task in such a short amount of time. I am certain that Endor will be quite pleased to have you return. You will be granted a small amount of severance for your time here, and will be respected immensely upon your arrival to Endor. I am certain your life there will be far better than the one you have experienced here on the Super Star Destroyer.”

~~~

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#darth vader #darth vader x reader #fanfiction #anakin x you #anakin skywalker #anakin x reader #star wars fanfiction #star wars #star wars x reader #star wars x you #star wars fanfic

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statichvm · 4 years

Text

hell followed with her

some more nicole for @theknifegame. 💜

word count: 2.5k

warnings: canon typical violence, some brief language.

summary: deputy nicole gerber assists in an arrest that may bring her closer to her goal — and to her sister.

Nicole was tired.

It was a bone deep exhaustion, one that hadn’t quite been swept away by the espresso she’d downed before they left the station. When she heard they were moving on a warrant in the middle of the night, she’d been sure it was a joke. Eden’s Gate was eccentric, and it wasn’t a secret that they needed to do something about them soon. But at this hour?

The Marshal had to be fucking with them.

They’d all piled into the helicopter; her, Pratt, Hudson, Whitehorse, even the Marshal himself. She hadn’t spoken much to the Marshal - Burke? - before they left, and despite his position directly across from her in the chopper, he didn’t seem too keen to strike up conversation with her either. She didn’t mind. Burke had made it plenty clear he was there to do his job, something she couldn’t fault him for. She was too.

Instead, Nicole turned her attention to the phone in her hands. The video playing had come in a week prior, shaking up the already complicated investigation into Joseph Seed and his family. The accusations had been flowing in steadier and steadier these days, ranging from harassment to straight up kidnapping. One week ago, the word “murder” came up for the first time, and judging from the contents of the accompanying video, Nicole didn’t doubt it.

It was shaky footage, clearly recorded in secret. The first half was nothing too sinister, apart from the alarming amount of weaponry in the hands of what they now were almost entirely sure were violent extremists. The Hope County Sheriff’s Department had tried and failed multiple times to disarm them over the previous months. Every time they were met with air tight permits, or a last minute legal loophole from a representative of the group that forced them to drop charges. Nicole was no stranger to heavy weaponry, though her experience came from the strict military training she’d received back home in Israel rather than civilians gathered in ramshackle churches with LMGs.

The second half of the video is where concern really started to set in, prompting a call to the powers that be requesting an immediate warrant. Joseph Seed stood at the front of the church, his practiced words ringing through the pews. He spoke of blindness, casting his gaze across his congregation before shifting to another topic, the reason they were all really gathered there.

Betrayal.

His tone turned hard, taking on a sinister edge that was a far cry from the gentle, soothing lilt he’d possessed before. He turned his attention to the man in front of him, hands bound behind his back as he struggled from his knees. Joseph gazed down at him, cupping his cheeks almost lovingly before pressing his thumbs into the sockets of the man’s eyes. He was almost too calm, too serene as the man’s screams intensified, climbing higher and higher until Nicole had to turn away. She’d never finished the video herself, but she didn’t need to. She knew how it ended. Her eyes flitted back to the screen, narrowing when she saw the words “SERVICE LOST” displayed in black and white.

Whitehorse leaned forward, nudging the phone still clutched in her hand.

“You’re wastin’ your time. There’s no signal out here.”

Nicole nodded, tucking her phone away into her pocket. She’d gathered as much. Hope County was a notorious dead zone. Hell, sometimes they even struggled with the walkie talkies.

“Crossin’ over the Henbane now,” Pratt’s voice drifted over the airwaves, drawing her attention to the world below. Nicole grimaced as she peered into the fog. A statue stood perched on the top of the hill. Joseph’s Word, as the cultists liked to call it. She wasn’t quite sure how they’d managed to obtain the permits to build the fucking thing, but once again, they’d been able to do it completely by the book.

From the front of the chopper, Hudson shook her head.

“Oh, fuck. There he is,” she murmured. Nicole snorted, her hand flying up to conceal the grin curling her lips. Hudson wasn’t fond of the man, and she’d made it no secret that she’d delight in seeing him rot in prison the moment they could nab him.

Across from Nicole, Burke and Whitehorse had started to argue, though their tones remained carefully neutral. The Sheriff didn’t want to be out here any more than the rest of them. Back at the station, he’d let it slip that he wasn’t sure this arrest was a good idea, something he seemed to be trying to explain to the Marshal now.

“You want me to ignore a federal warrant, Sheriff?” Burke spat, gesturing towards Whitehorse with the warrant in his hand.

“No sir,” Whitehorse replied. “I want you to understand the reality of this situation. Joseph Seed? He’s not a man to be fucked with. We’ve had run-ins with him before, and they haven’t always gone our way. Just sometimes... sometimes it’s best to leave well enough alone.”

Nicole frowned. This arrest felt sloppy, ill advised even. She had her reservations about confronting the man in the midst of his congregation, sure. But to suggest they leave it alone? It didn’t sit quite right.

“Yeah, well...” Burke paused, nodding to himself as he adjusted the warrants in his hands. “We have laws for a reason, Sheriff. Joseph Seed’s gonna learn that.”

Nicole found herself nodding, restless hands clenching and unclenching in her lap. He was right. The Seed family had gone far enough. It was time to end this before it got even more out of hand. Whitehorse sighed, turning his head to glance towards the front of the chopper.

“Pratt, open a call with dispatch.”

“Ten-four.”

Static crackled over the radio as the connection secured.

“Whitehorse to dispatch, over,” he said. Nicole could hear the unease in his voice, tinged with what sounded to her like a bit of annoyance. He was unsure about this entire operation, something she hadn’t expected from him.

Nancy’s voice came over the line, muffled and a bit distorted. Nicole found herself tuning out their rapport, focusing instead on the county below. Hope County was beautiful, she thought. In any other circumstances, it’d be an ideal place to live, to start and raise a family. Eden’s Gate had changed that, sewing seeds of unease and distrust as they dug themselves further and further into the county.

Nicole realized with a start they were descending, barely hovering over the front entrance of the compound before the chopper finally touched down with a gentle jolt.

“Now listen up,” Whitehorse started. “Three rules. Stick close, keep your guns in your holsters, and let me do the talking. Got it?”

A chorus of murmured agreement echoed through the chopper, with Nicole adding her own nod. She’d waited this long to get to the heart of Eden’s Gate. She wasn’t about to blow this chance. They piled out of the chopper, leaving only Pratt behind and forming a loose posse on the side nearest the compound. Whitehorse glanced around, sizing up their surroundings with wary eyes.

“He’ll be in the church. Stick close.”

The walk through the compound itself was uneasy, and Nicole found her hand drifting towards the pistol holstered firmly at her side. Whitehorse had been explicit in his request for them to keep their weapons holstered, but as a cultist leered at her from the shadows, Nicole wasn’t quite sure that was going to be possible. She’d seen this play out before, knew these kinds of extremists weren’t too keen on outsiders disrupting their way of life. Fire barrels lit the compound, their dull, orange light flickering across the faces of curious cultists gathered around to peer at the trespassers.

Nicole drew closer to Hudson, frowning as she took in the large metal arch they passed under. Rusted metal covered in peeling white paint encompassed the makeshift alleyway, turning the space between two housing structures into a literal gate preceding the church.

“A bit literal, hm?” Nicole mused, the corner of her lips quirking up at the sound of Hudson’s muffled snort.

As they passed under the arch, a particularly large cultist stepped towards Hudson, a shotgun clutched in his hands.

“Sheriff, I don’t like this,” she murmured.

“Everything’s fine, Hudson,” he assured. “Everything’s just fine.”

Beside them, Burke scoffed.

“Jesus Christ, you’re wearing badges, aren’t you?”

Nicole found herself rolling her eyes. A badge didn’t mean a damn thing to the people out here. They respected one authority, and that was Joseph Seed himself.

“Yeah, they don’t respect badges much out here,” Joey affirmed.

“They’ll respect a nine millimeter.”

This time, Nicole couldn’t hold back her own scoff. The Marshals could have sent someone a bit more levelheaded for such a delicate operation, but that would imply the US government cared much about safety over results.

“Not every problem can be solved with a bullet, Marshal,” Whitehorse chastised.

The group fell silent as they continued onward. It didn’t take long for them to reach the church itself, an imposing structure that looked almost eerie in the darkness. They paused at the doors, regrouping before entering.

The church itself was dimly lit, draping the far corners in shadows so thick it was nearly impossible to make out much more than vague shapes. Despite the pews being packed and seemingly well used, a thin layer of dust coated nearly everything inside, leaving a near constant tickle in the back of Nicole’s throat.

Eden’s Gate could use a maid, she thought. Or a damn feather duster.

She could hear the low sound of Joseph’s preaching droning in the background, but she had other priorities. Her eyes scanned the pews, searching the darkness for a flash of red hair. Nearly a year’s worth of searching for Ivanka had yielded no results, but this was the first time she’d walked into the belly of the beast. Seeing how they lived was sobering, and the thought of her sister being subjected to these conditions? Worse still. Ivanka was strong, she reasoned. They’d been through worse than this and survived. She’d find her.

As they reached the front of the pews, Nicole felt her heart sinking. She’d walked right into their base and still no sign of her sister. As Burke finally presented the arrest warrant, she finally caught a flash of red hair off in the corner. It didn’t take long to realize this redhead was male, taller than average, and draped in a camouflage jacket that screamed ex-military.

Jacob, she realized. The eldest brother.

She’d read the files, familiarized herself with the family as best she could. Three brothers, one “sister”. The female was interchangeable, it seemed — a figurehead that was disposed of at the first sign of disobedience. The current Faith — Rachel Jessop, according to her file —had the most lasting power, holding the name longer than any of her predecessors. As if the mere thought was enough to summon her, Nicole caught a flash of white lace in her peripheral, revealing the young woman drawing closer and closer.

That just left—

John.

The youngest, and from what she could tell, the funds backing the entire cult. The Sheriff’s Department had a whole file on John Seed, who had spent much of his youth and young adulthood as John Duncan. Rumors of child abuse and even more rumors of addiction and hedonism surrounded the man, enough to pique Nicole’s curiosity. She’d spent extra time on his file, unable to shake the familiarity of his childhood compared to her own turbulent upbringing. She couldn’t help but harbor some contempt for the man. There’s no changing one’s past, but to use it as a shield, a justification for violence? It made her sick.

Right on cue, the man himself stepped out of the shadows. He was smaller than his brothers, though his posture radiated the aura of a man trying to project importance. Tension was growing between Joseph and Burke mere feet away, but Nicole found herself unable to look away from the youngest Seed. He was handsome, undeniably so. His slicked back hair and perfectly pressed clothing screamed money, pride even. She wondered what big brother had to say about that.

As if he could sense her attention, John shifted his gaze towards her, locking eyes without so much as a flinch. Something churned low in Nicole’s gut, something that skirted much too close to excitement for her taste. Beauty could mask all manners of evil, and she’d heard enough about John’s particular brand of evil to know that was a road she shouldn’t go down.

The sudden realization that all eyes were on her tore her from her moral dilemma.

“Rookie, cuff this son of a bitch,” Burke ordered, jerking his head towards Joseph. Nicole’s eyebrows shot up as she realized the cult leader stood directly in front of her, arms outstretched in surrender. Surely it wouldn’t be that easy, she thought. There had to be a catch.

Slowly but firmly, she stepped forward, slapping the cuffs on the man’s wrists. He went easily, willingly as she placed a hand on his bare shoulder and started to guide him towards the exit. As she started walking him forward, she couldn’t help but take one last glance back at the siblings. At John.

He stood just as still, his features carefully arranged into a mask of serenity. He looked too calm for a man whose brother was being arrested on a federal warrant, and for what seemed like the millionth time that night, Nicole felt a bolt of uneasiness course down her spine. This wasn’t right, something isn’t right—

The doors to the church swung upon, revealing a nervous looking Hudson and countless more cultists than before. In the time it’d taken to serve the warrant, they’d descended upon the compound, gathering outside the church in droves. As they led Joseph back towards the chopper, Nicole could hear them crying out, begging her to unhand Joseph. Their anguish only fueled her anger towards the man, tightening her grip on his shoulder till she was sure it’d bruise. It was unprofessional, but men like Joseph Seed didn’t deserve her professionalism.

They’d nearly reached the chopper when it happened.

A stray rock soared through the air, colliding with Burke’s temple. Whitehorse barely had time to protest before the Marshal drew his pistol, firing into the air. The moment the shot was fired, hell broke loose. Cultists clamored for Joseph, surging forward to grab at him as Nicole hurried him to the chopper. Hands grabbed at her legs, snatching and clawing at her pant leg even as they began to ascend. Nicole watched in horror as a woman climbed the railings, barely taking a moment to breath before throwing herself into the blades.

The result was instantaneous, sending them careening sideways as Pratt scrambled to regain control. Across from her, Joseph remained serene, his low singing almost eerie when faced with the reality of the situation. He seemed unbothered in the face of mortality, unaware of the fact they were going down. His face was the last thing Nicole saw before bracing herself for impact.

With a symphony of crumpling steel and shattering glass, Nicole’s world went black.

#far cry 5 #fc5 #other peoples ocs #deputy nicole gerber #my writing

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